I Write Her

Richie

Diseases clambered onto injuries onto genetics.
The recovery waves receding a little each time
until the swells of ailments brought him aground.
In time those close gathered to remember him,
not as much for his many achievements,
as for where he had nestled in their lives.

During the teary, half-smiling sharings,
and during his gently reflective observance,
his image was sharpened and brightened
with memories of love, affection, and wit
that the living will continue to hold close.

The Gathering

In time, all that is gathered in is lost.
Persons beloved, enjoyed, or tolerated
move or fade or die away.
Beliefs defended with vehemence 
dry rot into irrelevance.
Things ostentatious and idiosyncratic
outlast posturings and purposes
but toward the end are disposed of.
In time, there is only memory of gathering.

Blissful Squalor

It was, I think, in Holland that I first noticed
picture windows showing lit-up living rooms
without curtains or concealment, displaying
staged presentations of ordered domestic bliss.
But I was raised in shrouded concealment,
with the incoming light bound and blinkered
so only birds could peek inside and see
the relative dishevelment of my existence.
A hermetic messiness usually only sorted
when others were allowed inside the curtains.

The Grip

His fingers were always half cupped
the nails dirty, horny, and split,
the knuckles over large and gnarled.
He perched his hands in his lap,
as if lifting them was a chore.
Those hands were the sigil of his life,
abused by weather and rough work.

But then he stood up in the boat,
picked up his fly rod and cast,
line undulating like a dancer,
his callused palm and fingers
caressing the weathered cork,
and I understood that this 
at least was still his to enjoy,
hands whole enough for grace.

In My Image

There are perhaps a dozen men
with whom I share unspoken bond,
our foibles snugging up so tight
that we can laugh in unison
at one another’s feeble try
at status-seeking posturing
and smile together when we fail
to gild an image thick with rust.

Hateful Comfort

There is perverse placidity
in our turmoil and tension.
No need to struggle to discern
shades of meaning and intent.
Just simply categorize and 
then also ostracize by label.
Hate is akin to lust in that
the emotions are compulsive,
engorging, and uncomplicated.

Trestles

It is the quiet ones who are most sturdy
not the flicker-changing charismatics
not bargainers who give themselves away
not the opinionated who suffer wrong
not the flabby-minded who only consume
it is those who wear themselves in silence
that are the rarely noted support beams.

Patches of Snow

Snow in early spring lingers in scabby patches
on the blacks and browns of streets and lawns,
the last overstaying guests to leave a party,
disheveled, and stained with the crusts and spills
of an innately sloppy season.

~~~

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