Privilege

"The light
That shines
Is bright"
He whines
While those
Less lit
Suppose
That it
Must be
A ball
To see
At all:
"Please dim"
For him.

Applause

I learned some ways to tell someone "well done"--
A "brava" here; perhaps a well-placed clap,
A gracious smile, or judicious snap,
If silence was required; or if one
Wished to bro it up, a finger-gun,
A chest-bump, or a hug and triple-slap.
I now believe those methods were a trap,
Designed to steal the spotlight and the sun.
The best acknowledgement I am now convinced
Is deep attention that does not distract
And simple plain expression of the same.
This shows, not tells, the feelings thus evinced,
Subsuming declaration in the act
And giving it reality, not name.

Dwindling

The days unmarked flow by, the nights forgot;
The rhythm only of the world remains.
I do what I have done. It's not a lot.
The season does not call for many brains,
So mine just disengages as we slide
Slowly out of December. Snow piles high.
And we beneath it simply must abide
Waiting for some cessation in the sky.
The clouds roll by uncaring of below
The sun shines down, but does not warm the day
Which oozes itself out, viscously slow
In shades of white, offwhite, and almost-gray.
Each moment blends together, and each year
Why one should end, one start, is still unclear.

Global Warming

The cold wet season comes around again
And I am tired. All of us are tired.
The only thought in all our minds is when
The snow will melt. So ardently desired
Is this far moment, you would think the heat
Of all that longing would have brought it on.
But all our wishes cannot yet unseat
The winter from its place. Yet it will be gone.
And since we hate the snow, we find it hard
To realize how awful it would be
If we up north could tend a green, clear yard
All winter long. That possibility
Seems wonderful, until our minds recall
The horror of hot summer, spring, and fall.

Daily

The sight of her still makes me weak inside
Even though I see her everyday;
She walks right in and I am butterflied
And even more so that she comes to stay.
I love to see her sitting in a chair
Her forehead wrinkled up in concentration
Or watch her lie upon the couch and stare
Into the distance with deep fascination
For when she does I see in her bright face
The same intensity I've always seen
The brilliance no exhaustion can erase
The wisdom that is somehow evergreen.
Our hours together linger in my soul
And by her presence my heart is made whole.

Clarifications

There is a woman somewhere that I love
(Right now I think she's upstairs in the shower);
If I am Noah, she must be the dove
Flying on back to me by her own power
(The olive branch she bears is simply her,
The only thing I've searched for all this while).
Her voice is hardly music, but entrances
(She'd laugh at me if I admitted this);
There's subtle beauty in her angry glances
(At least the kind that stop with just a kiss).
I love to look at her and sometimes stare
(She grumbles at me when she catches me);
I cannot help but wish that she were there
Whenever I'm in different company
(Which is not often, as I much prefer).
In short, there is a woman. I love her.

Therapeutic

There are some feelings that I cannot say,
But in the moment maybe I can write.
They're mostly bad. They hurt. But in a way
That's what makes their writing seem so right.
They're distant on the page, no part of me
Although I know of course I wrote them there;
That makes it possible for me to see
Their truth, but lack the full weight of my care.
A death, a sorrow, a departure seem
More manageable down there on the page;
Not half-forgotten like the morning's dream,
But neither full of all-remembered rage
And tears. So I must set my sorrows here
That I may take them back without my fear.

-een

The darkened evening spreads against the sky
But not enough to make the little lights
Sufficient in defiance of the night's
Clouded and moonless vision. This is why
We fear the twilight, why we always fly
From day to night, abolishing dusk's rights,
Pretending not to see the eerie sights
The half-light shows. But every by-and-by
We have to venture out just as the sun
Slips out of view, before the night is here,
And feel the danger pulsing in the air;
When something neither ended nor begun
Lies heavy on the world. Then we must fear
What would would swear both is and is not there.

Type

The very tinkling of her typing keys
Reminds me of the days we were apart
When I was still uncertain we would start
To love each other; when I still would freeze
With fear that I would somehow her displease
And she would just log off. My aching heart
Could not then have endured that sudden smart
Although it could stand worse pains by degrees.
But though I am reminded of those days
I find that I no longer fear their pain;
I know that I am hers, she mine always
To my heart's solace and my joyful gain.
So as she sets the keyboard all ablaze
I sit and listen while my old fears wane.

The Same, Continued

Had I the power to express your face
In colored lines unto my satisfaction
I would not bate a minute of my pace
To bring that claim into the name of action.
I would with practiced hand lay out each line
To make you see yourself as I perceive;
And in a later age each stroke of mine
Would make those who can never see you grieve.
But I cannot paint pictures to my sight
Or even with my words sufficiently.
It must suffice me to say "if I might"
And then regret my inability.
But know when I see life in art made true
I wish that I could do the same for you.