Peekingthru sigh-lensesblurs edgesconvexes centerslike funhouse mirrorsbloated without contextIt would be kindertaking the long viewbelongingas youphotogenicallydespite protestations doMaybe trya wide angle lens
Child:Chilly,I pulled onyour blue sweatshirt.Zipped up, it fit well!I wish I could captureforever your reaction,beaming at me, recognizingyourself in grown-up me,your motherbeaming back at you,wishing this would last.
All day Facebook admonished me to help celebrate my friend Robert Lipton’s birthday, so I share this poem written in his memory. It was published in Silkworm, the annual review of Florence Poets Society, last year.
Sharing this makes me think about a lot of things, including (1) I wrote a poem with a word I can barely pronounce (paean) in Bob's honor (guffaw), (2) I hear his words in my head "Death, the great poetry prompt" as I listen to this, and (3) I miss Bob.
I pulled this fortunethe day you died:What is the distancebetween the eyes and the soul?You know the answer.How did you learn to pronouncethe hard words, which goddessesare whom, the rhythm of line breaks?We all listened. Did you know?Your paean to women made me wishsuch words were strung togetherand hung on my limbs.Now you travel that distance,somehow we expect you to report back.We will miss your soul, your lip.
When a space opensin your heartmyriad soul-squattersrush to occupySorrow’s muse deploysa kitten-topped roombaspreading distractionto every cornerNo room for reflectingwhen every imaginingis an exercisein deft deflectionHiding in shadowsreal memories hole upjoined by assessmentsin emotional siegeIt’s no wonderyou are easily convincedof an alternate worldwith dusk-brimmed battleswaged behind your eyes
Bluelooks goodon summerunplanned sorrowtwining like garlandround the solidest pinedeciduously backwardengorged with acid-twinkly lightwhitewashed birdbath needs little waterin end times no one sings Christmas carols
