She Folds My Clothes

       1

She folds my clothes,
the tailored rags
once piled in the dirt and
smell of days,
      which is to say
      she picks them up
      and separates them, cleans
      them, load by load,



these that I call
my own, not of
my soul, but nearly so:
my second skin,
      my shield from sin,
      my covering
      and saving from
      all elements and eyes,

weekly redeemed
by this routine
of flattening and
giving shape to what
      was without form
      and would remain,
      if not for this,
      a wrinkled pile of rags,

if not for one
who takes the task
of caring for me, more
than I deserve
      who tells me so,
      but knows that talk
      is cheap and love’s a chore.
      She folds my clothes.


         2

She folds my clothes.
I give her all
my threadbare socks and
dirty underwear,
      which is to say
      I leave them on
      the floor of lower standards,
      and forget

they are my own,
my stains, my sweat
and toil, my respons-
ibility,
      and I should be
      ashamed of der-
      ilictions, but I play
      the fool instead,

weekly relieved
of turning life
around, restoring order
to a world
      that needs reform,
      and even in
      the time it takes to write
      this silly poem,

she is the one
who does it all,
and I’m the one who
doesn’t tell her so;
      my love is cheap,
      and finding words
      is work.  And while I write,
      she folds my clothes.


from Calendrums

To You

I wrote a poem
and left your name out
and there it hangs
a gilded frame
without a face
a pretty background
without a story.




I spent some time
thinking of rhythm
and balance
and measured out
its perfect place
upon my wall
and there it hangs.

You are the frame
you are the measure
and every time
I read my poem
I see your face
and let it hold me
a little longer

But you remain
an unspoken name
lost in a story
made of dreams
your lovely face
a figment of
a wishful song.


from Calendrums

Every Rhythm

One 
from 
itself 
is 
none, 
the self 
defying 
gravity...




Every rhythm in my living soul,

Ever since I first became aware

Of rhythm resonating in the air

Around me, beats the passions that I feel

For you, and I am moved beyond control.

Everything I sing the wind will carry,

Every rhythm resonates to where

You are, and I begin to feel your soul

In harmony with mine, as from the start,

As all that is about to happen has

Forever been: two lovers meet in time

And find they share a purpose, find their hearts

In synchronicity and find their rhyme,

As poetry precedes the poem, as....

   There was a song before this song

   Was sung. There was a rhyme

   Before these words were ever heard.

   There was a place and time

   Before we found our here and now,

   And there was poetry

   Before we wrote our poem down.


from Walled Gardens

Echoes

The cadence 
...echoes across 
the lonely 
marching field

   “Across resounding fields of poetry

   I call your name. Across resounding fields

   I will declare the love I have for you.

   I will pronounce this love to all the world

   And I will hear your name return to me.”

   “Across resounding fields of poetry

   I will pronounce this love to all the world.

   I will declare the love I have for you.

   I call your name across resounding fields

   And I will hear your name return to me.”

   “My love, you are the reason I can sing

   At all; you are the song within my heart;

   You are the beat by which I am alive

   and every rhythm in my living soul.”

   "My love, you are the reason I can sing;

   You are the beat by which I am alive

   At all; you are the song within my heart

   And every rhythm in my living soul...”

   “My love, you are the reason I can sing...”

   “Across resounding fields of poetry...”

   “...At all; you are the song within my heart,...”

   “...The love I will pronounce to all the world;..”

   “...You are the beat by which I am alive,...”

   “...I call your name across resounding fields,...”

   “...That I would hear your name return to me...”

   “...With every rhythm in my living soul....”

from Walled Gardens

Cadences of One

One 
added to 
one more 
is two, 
a plain 
duality...

The cadence of one who dreams of breaking free,

Stringing her notes together to complete

The measures of her heart’s determined beat

Of human bonding, singing that she may be

Heard by another heart’s humanity,

Echoes across the lonely marching field.

The cadence of one with passions unrevealed,

Finding the mystic chords of memory

Deep in his soldier’s soul so long concealed

And camouflaged, singing that he may be

More than one sounding off and keeping time,

Echoes across the lonely marching field,

Each lonely heartbeat, looking for its rhyme

Across resounding fields of poetry....

from Walled Gardens

Rules of Individuality

One 
unexpressed, 
no more, 
no less 
than one,

will always be 
itself...

Rules of individuality:

  1. One marches to the rhythm of one’s heart.

2. One strikes out on one’s own without regard

for anything another has to say.

3. One finds one’s way. In time one will get by

without the other, and in time the hurt

will turn to numbness even as the heart

grows cold and indifferent. Inevitably

4. One beats a drum that’s distant and devoid

of poetry, and then eventually

the beating stops. Another heart is broken.

These are the rules that keep the self-employed

Indentured to themselves, sounding the token

Cadence of one who dreams of breaking free.

from Walled Gardens

Enchanted by the Music

There was a song 
before this song 
was sung...

This long traditioned bond, this poetry

Precedes us like the crown precedes the king

Who nods to everyone and everything

Before him. Higher than all royalty,

Positioned at the birth of history,

Before humanity began to sing

Of country and of social structuring,

God’s angels sang to us the poetry

Of lovers. Thus creation was for us

Created, as we’ve been, will ever be

Enchanted by the music of our making,

And thus we ever shall, indeed we must,

Sustain our beating hearts beyond the breaking

Rules of individuality.


from Walled Gardens

Of Love

Once one 
is one 
and 
only one: 
the perfect 
unity...

Of love, of mine for you and yours for me,

Of late I haven’t had too much to say

But I’ve been thinking lately, night and day,

Of how we fell in love; of the unity

Of falling; of the feeling constantly

Of love’s simplicity: once one is one;

Of our conviction to what we’d begun;

And of our hope for continuity.

We found the lesson of a braided cord

And tied the hasta milip to our vows;

We bought the most expensive diamond ring

That we and all our credit could afford,

And with a single mind did we espouse

This long traditioned bond, this poetry.


from Walled Gardens

Poetry Precedes the Poem

There was a song before this song

was sung. There was a rhyme

Before these words were ever heard.

There was a place and time

Before we found our here and now,

And there was poetry

Before we wrote our poem down.

Poetry precedes the poem, as

Creation beats within a mother’s heart

Before her child is born, as from the start

What is or is about to happen has

Forever been. Behold the poem of

A rising sun or of the world that turns

Towards its fire. Behold the fire that burns

In lovers long before they fall in love.

Behold the love. Behold the long before

And look for more. Look for the energy

Of dreamers who once flickered in the dark

Like pilots to the dawn. Keep looking for

The spirit pre-igniting every spark

Of love, of mine for you and yours for me.


from Walled Gardens

Moleskin 1.7

So now I have the groundwork, the riverbank work, for the first several chapters of my story: I was born, I am alive. I have an audience who shares my moment and a studio that gives me peace. And I have an opening prayer to accept what I've been given. After this may come those chapters on love and faith and health and pride and humility ---maybe, if I am drawn to write that far and if there is still ink in my pen. And if, of course, I am whimsically stirred to remember those big daunting subjects when the time comes and the blank pages are before me. Or maybe, on that whim, I will simply set the pen down then and there, and let the opening chapters speak for themselves, being the heart and soul of what I remember. Let it be, one way or the other. But let me begin.

Mathematics

1*1=1

Once one is one and only one:

the perfect unity;

one less than this is emptiness.

One finds one cannot be

without the other; none’s the lover

who can love alone,

but when two lovers come together

and become their own

identity they start to see

the journey they’ve begun,

their heart and mind as one combined: 

once one is one is one.

n/n=1

One unexpressed, no more, no less

than one, will always be

itself, the integer of

individuality

existing to exist. One who

insists without a sound

on keeping his position is

a shadow on the ground,

no more, no less than emptiness,

a countenance unknown,

a spirit unsuspected:

one unmoving, one alone.

1+1=2

One added to one more is two,

a plain duality

and nothing less than two, unless

each looks for unity

receptively. Two cannot see

as one as long as one

turns from the other; none’s the lover

who can love alone,

and lonely thus, there is no us

to see for “me” and “you”;

But if there’s “us,” there’s one. We must

adjust our point of view

Or be as lonely marchers, one

plus one forever two....

1-1=0

One from itself

is none, the self

defying gravity

to find the place

that has no place,

a new reality

of nothingness.

It comes to this:

leave everything behind,

the ground you stand,

the world you wander,

every gravity

that spins you ‘round

and weighs you down;

believe that there can be

somewhere a love

that is enough,

a love that will allow

one to be none,

two to be one:

the perfect lovers' vow.

|1-(1+1)*1|=|(1-1)+(1*1)|=|1-1+1*1|=1!


from Walled Gardens

Braided Cord

We learned the lesson of the braided cord,
two strands strong, three unbreakable
according to scripture, the old testimonial
inspiration woven into our lives
     with romantic embellishment
     spun from a preacher’s words.




We kept an invitation from our wedding day
in a frame, hung it on our bedroom wall
as a daily reminder of the ongoing occasion,
which we enhanced with an inimitable piece
of that stranded cord not easily broken
     and lovingly spun: we invited, we wed,
     but it was you who framed, reminded, enhanced.

                                         We needed this cue
in our feeble youth, and in the sharpness of age
we need it still, something more to celebrate
than fading photographs and anniversaries
     and this is true: my need is yours,
     your need is ours, what time will never fade.

The snapshots are in boxes, the memories
are gathering dust, but the braided truth remains.


from Calendrums

Long Ago

Long ago

when it felt like
the day was young
every morning

the sun would rise
on a world of
possibilities



and I would wake up
smiling and you
would be there beside me

with an arm to keep
me there a little
longer.


from Calendrums

Motion Pictures

Some movies leave you feeling sad
worked up or happy, but they leave you there
retwisting scenes, revisiting the air
and sorting out the ugly good and bad.
They try to linger in your soul.





The best films take a hold and don’t let go:
they dare to move beyond the picture show,
they grip you past the credit roll
and draw you on the empty screen
the winner relishing the victory,
the tragic hero bearing the defeat,
the voyager letting where you’ve been
and what you’ve seen ultimately
define you far beyond your theater seat.

You will remember this.

                                Some shows
are only popcorn, local strangers all
faced in the same direction, a big wall
reflecting light-and-shadowed rows
of patronage, a flattening screen
that turns all living colors into grey.
The worst ones don’t have anything to say
but good flicks scream in every scene:
They sing and laugh and make you think
and turn you unexpectedly
into a kindred soul.  As light projects
on screen, as sound tracks into sync,
as motion makes its own reality,
you find your spirit in the cineplex.


from Calendrums

On a Park Bench

On a park bench on a city streetside,
Backwards to traffic, facing a storefront
On an overcast afternoon, between
The sun and rain, breezeless, pleasantly warm,
In this time of waiting, they take a chance
To stop and sit and simply talk awhile.
Pedestrians buzz by in ones and twos,
All to themselves, not really noticing



The soft spectacle of husband and wife
Or wife and husband, wed to each other,
Talking of children, thoughts of the future,
Where they are going and what’s for dinner.
Home is a dozen miles away.  Life is
Routine.   Love is here and time, for now, is kind.


from Thirty Birds

At the Bus Stop

At the bus stop, as the city flies by,
A local pair, a man and a woman,
In love without words, married I suppose,
Sit quietly, simply biding their time,
She with modest make-up and a wool-blend coat,
He with a two-tone polyester suit,
Each with the same haircut, close to the scalp,
Neither one concerned with the day ahead,
And every morning, never fail, they’re here,

As am I, but I’m just a passerby,
Rushing to my world an hour away
While they hold the moment: this is their pond;
I don’t really know them, barely see them,
But something tells me I would miss them
If ever they were gone.


poem and photo from Thirty Birds

Moleskin 1.6

That prayer continues, seeking courage and wisdom, but these too I'll save for the later chapters: perhaps I'll be bolder and smarter with experience and age, somewhere down the river a ways, past 50, 60, 70...  for now, though, it is enough to accept the things I cannot change, to let my fears be taken by the quiet current ---to simply be! Existing, persisting, maintaining, remaining: keeping my place in time, or the space, in any case, that I've been given for the moment. Here I stand. And if, for the moment, I let intellect distract me, to exist somewhere between Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, surely I would falter; likewise, if I let my blood boil within me, like a fanatic or a patriot, I might lose my place, this moment in which I find myself. It is not too deep to pray this prayer though, a singular pray in need of being prayed: Grant me, God, serenity.

Warming Up

I don’t know when our world began
to melt away
                   but suddenly
we’re closer to each other than

we’ve ever been before.  




                                 I see
each day a little
                       differently,
a little clearer
                     knowing that

I’m here with you;
                         I want to see
tomorrow even more.
                            It matters
to me now.  It matters that

you’re here with me,
                             that we can feel
the fire of the same sun setting

on a distant shore,
                           that we’ll

have this,
              as days turn into years,
to share,
             as distance disappears.


from Calendrums

Carpodacus

The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter —and the Bird is on the Wing. — Omar Khayyam, tr. Edward Fitzgerald




Sometimes when winds of winter seem to linger
And providence forgets to fill the feeder
I feel the fundamental pangs of hunger
Making me curse the backyard life we lead here.
Our everyday to day existence hinges
On seeds and crumbs that others think to leave us;
I’m tired of living life out on the fringes
And waiting for the seasons to relieve us.
Yet daily I am saved from being bitter
By rays of sunshine breaking through the dinge:
I hear the sweetest music in your twitter
And see the rosy beauty of your tinge.
With you beside me, winter doesn’t matter
And I don't need the fates to make me fatter.


from Thirty Birds; photo (2005, house finch) from Thirty Birds

They (Bearing Roses), Revisited

In the beginning they (happy lovers) decided they (in love) would never fight.  Even romance knows the tinge of reality, though, and soon they (beautiful partnership) revised their love-based rule: they (the perfective pair) would still not allow fighting, but they (in each other’s arms) would be permitted to disagree —in prim fashion, of course: it was decided they (beyond the puppy stages) would be mature about their —dreams —differences and would discuss things rationally, always moving eagerly toward the beautiful ends of kissing, caressing, making up and making it better than before.


They were in love.  And they (a serious couple) eventually decided to be married.  The date was set for seven months in advance.

And they (reality-based) continued to disagree, here and there, but there was always a make-up, and they (pioneers of their own realm) continued to climb.  The way grew steeper, though: “here and there” became “here, here and here and there and there.”  They (trying their hardest) decided to re-revise the rules.
“We’re fighting,” he said.

“Yes, we are, aren’t we?” she agreed.

“But it doesn’t mean we’re in trouble, does it?”

“No,” she said, “but we’d better be careful.”

And they (a team) devised a clever set of brand new rules —of which they (man and woman, woman and man) would each try to claim exclusive credit —nevertheless, the rules seemed to be practicable and rational; they (the affianced pair) agreed that this would be a great foundation for their marriage.

The rules were as such: Whenever one or the other of them would disagree about something, they (together) would go into the kitchen; they (she and he) would clear the kitchen table and sit down facing each other with the table —across its shortest dimension —between them.  They (the two sides) would keep all four hands on the table where they (the hands) could be seen by all four eyes.  This table would be bare, except for one initial addition, the centerpiece of their list of rules, and a literal centerpiece, too: an arrangement of roses, over which they (the one-to-one) would have to carry out all their marital discussions and disagreements and fights.  The table was of a size that neither party was far from the other and both of their faces were practically forced to endure the flowers’ scents.

“We will not change this rule,” she exclaimed.

“No, we must not,” he agreed, and together they (the happy lovers) smiled.

And eventually they (living dreamers) were married.  The honeymoon came and went, and they (steadfast partners) remained in love.  Over the years dimensions were revised and definitions changed, but basically they (adherers to a promise) stuck surprisingly close to their rules of the kitchen table.  And long after the honeymoon, they (the desperate diplomats) were buying each other roses two or three times every week.

He sometimes thought that he couldn’t stand the smell any longer, and she sometimes wondered if it made any sense to pay good money for something that died after a few days, but the roses were continually replenished, and they (the hopeless lovers) remained in love.

from March to December

They, Bearing Roses

Rose: the loveless petals always fall
away like pages of a good book cheaply bound:
no matter how great the story, 
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but the bud— 


no matter what the story has to say
the crumbling glue of time ever puts the good book down
one spent page after another, until
nothing remains but a pile of petals
and the memory of a story.  But one day
we will know the plot of each good book by heart.


from March to December; photo (2007, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, Chicago Botanical Garden) not previously published