A Drop in My Memory

5 June 2008, 8:17 AM

He balanced the orange mug
in one hand, then the other, never spilling
a drop in my memory.
He must have been magic,
maneuvering wheel, manual gearshift
and coffee with only two hands-
my dad could manage such things,
make them look easy, though
I knew from the look in his eye
it must require concentration. I understood
the image of a dance, the one he always
used to try to help us grasp the concept
of putting in the clutch to shift; releasing
the pressure slowly. Rising
from my memory, I see him again, an image
of control- no- stability I haven’t glimpsed
in over a decade. I hadn’t realized
how difficult it must have been
keeping life and grief balanced, never spilling
a drop. In my memory,
there is room for mercy if he missed me
in his trance, saw only
the task before him, the little girl
in awe of such a very big,
such a very magical man.

Slighted Lover

3 June 2008, 8:13 AM

There she stands
in the doorway. Light spills
into my mind as I turn, take
a moment to embrace
the Words, rediscover me.

I sit and search, scrawl the words
like prayer proffered in the private
hours of the morning, quietly
in secret places of the heart,
leading the Faithful further up,
further in. She comes and I
do not turn away. I understand
we are one, the Slighted Lover;
the Poet and myself. I had forgotten.

The Words

It's been a while since I was deliberate about my writing. The first year I wrote, I wrote roughly 600 pages worth of poetry. I guess you could say I uncorked, in the words of Stephen King. In the 5 months of 2008, I've not written 100 pages. I suppose there's a time to write and a time to adjust to life changes, a time to learn to keep a house, whereas for the last 5 years I've had a really good excuse to live in a pigsty. Those changes carry a lot of unintended consquences, and while I don't think they're permanent- I'm still painting, I still write now and again, and one of these days I'm going to play my guitar again- it still smarts to see the blank canvases on the floor in the living room, and to open Pages and realize how many experiences this year have gone by without my having marked them in the way to which I am accustomed. For no reason but my own hang ups about no longer being a wage-earner, and what it means to be a contributor to a household when this is the case, creativity often gets pushed to the back-burner. I shall attempt to take my Beloved's attitude toward and valuation of such things- he has only ever been 100% supportive and encouraging re: my artistic bent- and be more deliberate about setting aside time each day to write and create.

The Words
2 June 2008, 10:29 AM

When I fail to write, the words
withdraw like a slighted lover
watching from the door, waiting for him
to turn and take her in his arms
for one last kiss, a moment stolen
from a day of relentless demands,
all of which threaten to steal away
the vigilance which never lets me forget
what is needful, what is not. Eventually,
I fear she’ll fail to wait, I’ll fail to see, she
will fail to watch from the door, and I
will fail to be a poet.