writing is not for the stable or sane

Once,

a man said to me,

“when you are happy,

and stable,

you will you be able to write.”

That’s not,

unfortunately,

how it works.

Writing is not for the stable

(or sane)

if evidence is to be gathered from

any other poet that has ever written.

Poets traffic on the bridges

between good and evil

love and loss

pain and healing

I walk

over one bridge,

back again.

But to stop traveling? 

no, no

we're like those fish

that die if they stop swimming.

stability, and sanity, will kill
(our creativity)

Our job is one of reconciliation -

somehow

we must find a way to speak

to the love

and pain

inside of us. 

and to figure out

(if we can)

some way to live with both.

self-sufficient

i was taking a beach day 

but he borrowed my water bottle
"i need him to bring that back," 
i thought. 

i had resigned myself to dehydration, 

when i found a spare i had forgotten

tucked above the fridge

where is that book? i wonder. 

he was reading it, he had said. 
"i need him to bring that back,"

i thought. 

disappointed at my loss, i turned around

to a stack of unfinished books

laying on my coffee table.

walking out the door, i realized 

i had given him my mask, so he would be safe. 

"i need him to bring that back,"

i thought. 

loading up the car i found  

a spare i had been given, 

sitting on the backseat.

all these things i thought i needed

for a day at the beach. 

i guess i don't. 

missing

I miss
the sweetness of his notes.

The innocence
The ridiculous extravagance
Dinosaurs
and
More Dinosaurs
on my shopping lists.

"Beautiful"
on the backside of
a bill we did not
even open.
In such a deliberate,
careful script.

Even his notes to me
should look fine.

I found one today,
in a book -
I had forgotten it was there

I savor
(even now)
the soft lines,
the most honest kind of affection
anyone could ever give me.

I am so sorry.
I did not know how
to appreciate the perfect,
complete gift
of such plain expressions
of love.

manic-depressive

It would be better
I think
to be buried alive
than fall to your death.

That exact moment when your stomach drops
and you give in to the weightless
feeling of flight -
Your last breath
joining the wind rushing past your ears
must be
so
pleasant.

At least the damp earth is honest
when it enters your lungs.

Nana

My grandmother is Forgetting.
She is old.
Holes in her brain are becoming
holes in her memories.

I am crying.

I remember walking
across the street to see her
every morning
before school.
Sometimes there were pancakes.

I don't want her to die.

We played card games at camp
and I begged her
for quarters
to play at the arcade
and slept next to her
And I remember the sounds
her big belly made.

She deserves all the beauty she never got.

I remember when she forgot
her fudge recipe.
And when she asked me
if that beautiful boy in there
was my son.

I think I will die
if she ever forgets
me.

A Gloss on Fred Astaire

Despite what is clearly
a preference for
escaping scrutiny -
I cannot help but
pay too much attention
to the curls in your hair
the light in your beard
and the cut of your jaw
which are so
lovely to look at. 

I have also found
(after much study, which I beg you to forgive)
a cleverness which
when paired with a silly premise
and such grounded stillness
makes you
delightful to know. 

And,
if you can pardon the intrusion
into very personal territory
I will request further investigation
into the scent of you.
Tied ever close to the sense of taste,
evoking memories of such
soft lips -
heaven to kiss. 

Please accept this poem as an apology
for any unwelcome intrusions.
I have a problem with
Impulse Control
and it is so difficult
to resist
a combination like this. 

voice

I have always struggled with my relationship
with my own voice.

It is loud and deeper than other,
more feminine,
voices.

I have a tendency to talk,
let's say,
'alongside'
someone.
(when I talk at all, that is)

I have been told for years
that I needed to wait in line to speak.
and I get frustrated with myself
that somehow
I cannot.

And I am always acting like I am fighting to be heard -
I should feel guilt about that.

I do.

But does he?
Him?
What about the man that interrupted you, yesterday?
Did they realize that there was a thought,
there, in your mouth,
when they opened theirs?

I don't want to feel guilt, anymore,
about inserting myself over
(alongside)
people who feel no guilt about asserting themselves
over me.