ManicDDaily

Dove Morning

If sound were light, one
mourning dove
could bring the day,
its call a beacon beckoning dawn,
a sweet sun, not a blistering one,
a refuge from the night,
if sound were light.

If sound were water,
the interval of its call,
the rise and fall,
and the three tones after,
would float you in its lap,
a silky nap of lake or pond,
if sound were water.

But sound is sound,
and has gone to ground
just now, and how,
I wonder, the dove done,
the day already a hot one,
will I get through it—
keep true to those three
even tones that steady
that rise and fall, all the sounds
in the bird’s call—

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Another draft poem.  Have a good day. 

Very Human 

She calls everything, even parts
of her body, “he—“ the breast so heavy
with its hard mass, the small foot puffy
as risen bread, the line of sores that we put
the special powder on,
the light, the glass of water—“put him there—“
the pants, the wallet,
the edema sleeve we decide it’s fine to just
forego today—

the seatbelt, the foot (in its shoe now) which needs such heft
to lift, “okay, he’s in—“
the waiting
car door.

Of course not the nurses, who say the sores, side effects
of the chemo, are looking better, “keep up whatever
you’re doing—“

Is it something about her generation?  That so much of the “other”—what has
to be maneuvered, cajoled, placated—is male?

But I am also of that generation
and live in a world of “its.” 
“It’s got a bunion,” I complain or my own foot, or
“I like it here,” of a clock (whose tick
is always “its” tock), me who silently expresses preferences
for cold hard facts, and difficult acceptances. 

So I don’t think the “he’s” are generational, but arise simply
because she lives in such a lively world, even in the face
of disease. A world in which lamps
have personality, pets
are people, her feet companions (beings to be sometimes scolded, sometimes
soothed), bits of her body somebodies
who can be persuaded to hopefully
come around—
She works hard on such persuasion, and (for the most part) cheerfully,
as I with all my “its” realize
I have something to learn.  

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A draft poem of sorts.  Have a good day. 

The pic, one of mine, is imperfect for the poem, but I like it!  As always, all rights reserved to pic and poem.

Sherbet

We felt in the morning that we should try
for red, white and blue,
but more comfortable were our shorts the color
of sherbet, which we wore,
darting fast as fireflies, until
as twilight deepened,
the sparklers were passed
into our grip.

We did not need to be told
not to run with them—
awe and a little fear pulled our skin back
from our outstretched arms, which made their own
outer space, galaxies fountaining
at our fingertips.

Soon (as we felt control) neon squiggles grew
to loops then our
whole names—
you could see the haloed letters
if you looked—

Years later, I lay with my children
on a blanket in damp grass, scanning the dome of sky
for shooting stars.

Faster than fireflies—you had to keep your eyes open
not to miss them—
there….

There…..

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A belated poem for the 4th! The pic is from a new little book called Bug Cars. Right now it is only available on Blurb. (Sorry that I’ve been so absent–I’ve been working for days on a poem inspired by the Dobbs decision, but haven’t gotten it right–probably too much anger there.)

Take care!