Shelf Protection

The books are listing on the shelf.

Pock marks left, where authors, dead and alive,

moved over to my coffee table.

 

Then there are the bookmarks

tucked in many pages like floss

reminding me there’s something,

 

some thought waiting to get unstuck,

dredged up between ideas

old and new and from old.

 

“Can one, by thinking, add any height

to his stature?”

 

It’s time to shelve and disheveled,

Clear the queue.

Reset the open-faced bindings.

 

Mind the store,

store the minds,

and stand the titles at attention.

 

Once again, my books and poetry

protect me, slipping silently

back into place.

If Tears Were Race Horses

If I release tears like race horses

which one will fall into the lead?

 

The gate opens and they’re off!

Anger gets out at the jump,

with Dissappointment a nose back.

Loneliness makes a run for third,

edged out by Rejection.

Grief settles in between

Laughter and Loss,

While Joy brings up the rear.

The track of the tears

comes alive as dirt and dust

rise in and behind the pack.

They are neck in neck,

cheek to cheek

as the backstretch looms.

It’s any horse’s race but

Joy is on the move,

but not on the outside.

Joy is moving through

the thick of it, jockeying,

bumping bellies,

smelling sweat,

listening as the hoofs

displace earth while

muzzles move air.

The movement is hidden

within at first, but down

the wire Joy overcomes

by two lengths.

 

Mother Mary. A Mother’s Day Reflection

Mother’s Day…

Gerald the Writer

She pondered these things in her heart.

Mothers do that quite often.

She kept all these things.

My mother did too.

An angel told Mary.

The power of the Highest will.

An overshadowing of foreshadows.

“For with God nothing will be impossible.”

All mothers are infused with possibilities.

They lay down their self dreams

and rest folded hands upon

their distended bellies.

Mary carried wonder

full term and delivered hope.

There was blood and water and child.

All mothers hold pasty skin to chest with awe.

My mother held each of us close for a moment.

A snip of the umbilical and the separation

began a journey of contemplation.

What will? What if? Life.

Mary’s path was set.

From empty womb to empty tomb

the realities of motherhood were multiplied.

The gestation in her heart left stretch marks of spirit.

Near the end Mary drank of the cup no mother…

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Rain Mates

Let’s just skip the stones

and get dirty.

Mud pies in the face.

Bear disgrace.

Fall into place.

Wallow and weep

into each other’s eyes.

The river’s a half-peck

away from your cheek.

We’re weak,

let’s cinder sneak.

We know who we are

from where we were,

and now is now.

The Oh, Honestly

parts of us wait

in the rain,

the ripples

kissing each other

with grace.

Saving Place

Like a book mark,

a fallen tree.

I heard the echo threreof

and fell too,

marking the place in which

I left off

like so many other pages

cleft in the forest.

 

Tell me again

why these memories gather moss,

bear termite bits,

and sit like cairns in conversations.

Let me know

How to live

after I rise above the imprint

and gather its shadow

like a jacket.

 

How do I lumber along this path?

Seeing forward, glancing back,

giving ground behind and before,

I set my face like flint,

grateful for shafts of light

and the affect thereof.

Another fall into grace.

 

 

Mourning Joe

I poured clouds in my coffee,

Not to shade the cream,

But to brighten the cocoa.

 

The bitter bite of sips

edges shaved with cream,

Sweet swill of caffeine.

 

“Hey Joe, what you going to do

With that mug in your hand?”

“Just one shot of dairy.”

 

“That’s not the half-n-half of it.”