Free Verse

Everything now is sacred: Ambivalence;
A traveling troubadour troupe
Holding tongues of fire and gospels
Of white lilies in their hair;
The weathered logs of antiquity’s past,
Flowered over with rhinestone buttons
Of discolored saplings;
A shuffle of static rustle through the tree branches
As a visible treachery is shattered
And veritably missed;
An extremity newly cleansed with water
And wreaking of peppermint soap;
The sunset blooming like flower petals
Over the encroaching skyline of
Pizzerias and bank tellers;
The waves of laughter in quiet tones;
The flaming colors of blinded followers;
A hand to hold with trust down the hill.

A meandering grasp grabs, grapples through the darkness
Of trees surrounding and blinders secure.
A gentle hand to guide or beguile
Moves over the soft arms of questioning.
The squeals of tires and excitement
Fill the air with joy and odors of candor
As the blinds stay closed
On the trusting faces that entreat the silent darkness
For but a moment’s light.
They are entangled in an embrace
Of tree branches and shoulders and hair.
They are breathing the scent
Of insecurity and laughter,
And they stare blankly ahead with uncertainty,
Awaiting a quiet fate or a bang or whisper.

Everything now is clothed, bathed in poignancy.
Everything cries out its uncertain importance.
The noonday rises as the moon fades
And the knowing travelers welcome the uncertainty
With arms outstretched.
A fragment calls out from the edge of the wood
To remember the plucked lilies and peppermint
And the sensation of newly washed feet in the darkness.
May 10, 2007
I will grow old, and you’ll forget my name.
I will roll up my socks past my ankles.
I will cut my hair short like a lady.
I will wear my skirts much longer and thick.
I will wear pearls, perhaps, or maybe just skin.
I will have children.
They will spit their words and joy all over me,
And I will smile and feel well.
I will wake up every morning with the sun in my bed.
I will perhaps put on coffee, maybe tea,
Maybe boil water for my concentrated drinking
To avoid diseases and pain,
But maybe I will be accustomed when I am old,
But maybe it will not matter so much.
I will walk to the rooms, down the halls,
Call the names, smooth the hair, tie the shoes,
Clean the floors, paint the walls,
And feed the children their bountiful meals.
I will look at the sky and the sun will be warm.
Sometimes it will rain, but maybe it won’t.

Not much has been decided,
But you will forget.
I will forget.
I will remember these words,
And perhaps I will remember your name,
But perhaps it will no longer matter.
Perhaps you will be with the sun in my bed,
But maybe it’s only company will be
The shoeless, sockless feet of youth
Covered to her eyes with blankets,
Afraid of the wind on the shutters at night.
Perhaps, I will be lonely,
But mostly I will not.
I might remember your name,
But perhaps it will no longer matter,
And I will never be too lonely
With the sun and wind and youth.

July 15, 2007