Should've asked first...

We were connected
to each others gaze
and more
deeply, once
we wished would last for-
ever.

Remember
with me
conversations, deeply
endless opportunity
being
together only-
beginnings.

I know
that was then,
but I do not know
when this
is-
more endings.

True, I only speak
most
honestly in poetry.
Saying more
than I could other-
wise.

I only ask
now, how we changed
focus-frequently
away...

Don't answer,
I won't repeat.

The blue-lit face,
red cheeks, empty windows
and presence-
elsewhere, I try to focus
on something
as intangible and
deeply infinite,
as sky only to resist
the falling atmosphere.

It is my fault.
I should've asked
you if you think
we get what we deserve
always?



Painting by Philip Hermogenes Calderon (1833-1898), 'Her eyes are with her heart' c. 1881, in Pubic Domain. 

In our places

In winter it is warmest
in the pale sun
and under your light,
even behind the dark glasses

your eyes smile bright
while we talk softly,
without effort
the breeziness knows

understanding the sky
without words
needing to hold us up
against our own presence.

Placed here, like so,
sharing tastes and sounds,
noting the harmony
we share by proximity

and savoring alike. I know
you know, it takes two
to not let go
with one glance,

promise me
one day-
seasons will allow
a change-

when we lift our eyes
holding out hope
over all others
like this

there was no need to explain
how a line catches
all it can tether
together in one sky.



Painting by Johan Christian Dahl, 'Winter at the Sognefjord, February 1827 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Things were going along swell
rolling back and forth,
forth and back...
All is stimulating, titillating, and conversating
smoothly sailing the syllabic sea,
until suddenly-
I am slapped across the face (!)
with an open backhand,
knuckled under the weight of the word-
As though fired from an ex-husband,
who knows me better than me-
says he. Like a master I've never served,
who insists on digging up old dilemmas
from dank old trunks,
prying through and poking around
for the finest, sharpest, loftiest bone to pick.
Tossing ancient history at me like china darts
through fragile names like
-Racism and Sexism-
pointed accusations
hurled only by
an immaculate him,
who wants to deflect, deter, stall, divert, and exert
his preeminent preferences of him-
self-
less
threats to masculinity.
Never to be
for-
given
for-
peace
sake.



Image of Betty Ford's travel trunk, By n/a (Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.