We’d Like
We’d like to just sleep.
We’d like to just eat.
We’d like the stars to just
shine down on us—
we’d like it all
to be simple.
We do sleep, eat.
The stars do shine down on us,
but it rarely feels simple.
We can try to look away
but that won’t cut that connection
that binds each to all,
all of us under those stars,
wanting to eat,
sleep,
shine.
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Another little poem for April. Have a good day! Thanks as always for your time and kindness.
April in North County
It’s still too cold to rush
into the dawn, the clear blue cold too old
for me to want a fresh experience of it.
Though I know it is a different clear blue cold
than March’s, or February’s, or early
December’s, still,
I’ll let it sit over there
on the other side
of the window, while I sit here
beneath a blanket, waiting
for Spring.
Yes, I’d probably find it faster
on foot; it’s my guess that Spring anoints the shivering
more briskly than those under blankets;
imbues the bold
with a fresh and lively damp,
but I’ll just camp here
for the moment.
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Little poem for April 11. The above is a picture from one of my favorite children’s books, Snail Taxi. (I’m not sure that Snail Taxi takes place in April but I like the pic.) Snail Taxi is not yet on Amazon, but is available on Blurb here. Check it out—it is a very sweet little book (and I think it’s on sale right now!)
Have a good day!
Caress
When my mother was very old she would push back her hair
from her forehead.
Actually, the white hair, ascending from a widow’s peak, was already trained
back.
But she would pass one hand over it again
and again,
talking of how she loved her mother to do that
when she was small, and how comforting it was (she had recently realized)
to rub the hair back herself.
I find my hand at my forehead in the pre-dawn darkness,
reaching for a pass over my hair, but I do not find
it comforting—
though I too loved my mother caressing my forehead
when I was little, loved laying my head upon her lap.
This was usually in the car—we did not have car seats then,
and it was a time
when she was still.
Even just thinking of it, I can remember
the cool warmth of her hands, her lap—
that’s how it was, cooling and warming at once
as we hovered above the roll
of wheels and road.
But this morning the feel of my hand at my forehead
freaks me out; I cannot be so like my old mother
not now, not yet.
I pull the hand back beneath the covers and even when I tell myself
to just try it, try it again, I cannot make myself lift my arm.
Give it twenty years,
(if lucky.)
*********************************
Another draft poem for April. Not sure about these things. Sometimes I cut them in ways that they are probably not comprehensible to others and that’s terrible; other times I feel like I go on too long, and lose clarity in too much explication. Agh!
Take care. (As always, pic/poem are mine; all rights reserved.)
What Makes One
what makes one begin
after a battle
begin again
after a war
after whatever
razes all
to the ground–
maybe it’s hunger,
or maybe the need to breathe,
to get out, get away,
get the bodies out
of the way–
maybe something in the cells
cries out for water
says get water
guard water
find what water
can be guarded–
or, maybe its the hearing of cries
for water
the not wanting to hear
such cries–
********************
For my own prompt on Real Toads about rebirthing,, rebooting– The pic is mine; all rights reserved.
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