In Discomfort
Oh, how prominent the body
when it does but hurt.
When it works,
it’s the slovenly servant
(each not as pretty or clever
or fast
as others in its class.)
But when it pains,
the servant reigns.
We supplicate, cajole,
pretend to ignore,
pray for, hold
(in its arms), pledge allegiance to
(hoping for a truce.)
It is not amused; it is not
amused.
More poetry! Or draft poetry! Whatever you want to call it. I think it’s a little difficult to consider a poem finished on the day it’s first written. (The initial draft of this was actually written on the subway yesterday, but still to say it’s “finished” may be a bit premature.)
The Conversation
He, who has not always been
kind, but wants to be,
told me of a dream.
“I was crying,” he said,
“as I looked at you,”
and that it had to do, he thought,
with something painful that
I had once refused to disclose,
he’d forgotten what.
I knew the conversation,
but also could not remember
exactly what I’d not said–there is so much
I would not tell him–only
that it was suddenly more painful than ever
it might have been
in the reflection of that girl,
the girl in his dream, enough so that
when he looked at me, I felt small
cracks at the backs
of my eyes and, for a moment,
could not speak again.
“Well?” he asked, and I said,
“anything else?”
Self-appointed Tasks
Invent duties in order to feel dutiful.
Propose purposes.
Appoint tasks.
Why? you ask.
To crowd out the required,
that, we are mired in,
what makes us cry uncle
but from which we can’t bunk off.
Cast them onto a list
where they can almost be forgotten
till ticked off,
one being to die,
another, surely, to live.
Please, love
Please, love, summon some zing.
Famished for faith; belief in self
would fill that belly.
So I think.
But in the meantime, head teams,
heart empties, pen rambles, the part moon
fails to inspire.
Please love, summon some hope.
We enter this life for a purpose, rarely met.
In the meantime, life force puddles.
Please sweet, summon treasure
from this mean time.
Make it worthwhile in the having and
not simply in its loss;
please, love.
All rights reserved. Karin Gustafson
ManicDDaily 
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