Even Bob Dylan Reminds Me of You

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Even Bob Dylan Reminds Me Of You

I have a frayed quilt, folded
Age frays fiber like a document shredder frays secrets
It lays limp as a reminder
Of reconciliation
Anchored, the weight of redemption holds it
In place
Like black vinyl held his lines for years
Before Pandora gathered the whole collection in a mysterious cyber place

(You’ve never seen it, you loved quilts, but this one you would not)
The yellow squares are a billion one inch pieces
No one will count-check behind me
The yellow squares scream louder than a caution light
The shade is one off of gauche

But it’s the story that marries peace with threads
Storytellers know
Poets do too
Fraying helps the edginess

I love every square inch
Except the polyester fabric
Which is 100 percent of this masterpiece
Sewn by church ladies
Or a grieving widow or an Appalachian blue haired lady, retired from teaching
An educated guess at best

The giver is whom I love
I wish the quilt were cotton
Breathable
Some days the man-made fiber suffocates
But sentiment makes me hold on helpless
To surrender
Hope

I can’t get away from your dying
Even the everywhere’s I used to go
To hide and grieve
Have the hollow feel
Of bristling poly-fibers

Flammable, like my burning grief
It is early
The flame still burns
But I’ve got a head start
Preparing for good-bye
With the covers pulled up to my hairline

I sang Amazing Grace to you
And then I realized
If you could remember
If you could speak

You would have preferred Bob Dylan

The prophet, the poet, the Nobel Prize receiver
You saw his greatness before the committee

Knocking on heaven’s door
Simple twist of fate
I shall be released
The times they are a-changin
Just like a woman

You Are My Sunshine and Amazing Grace
Let’s pretend they were Dylan’s version

(We needed the words of a poet
We still do)
We both know Dylan could rock

You are my sunshine

 

 

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In The Middle Of Grief

In The Middle Of Grief

No start here’s demarcated for convenience, clearly
Black and white signage gone missing
Like a crucial stop sign stolen by the juvenile for wall art in their dorm

No lesson plan, well bullet-pointed, yellow Sharpie highlighted
Key points in bold to guide you
Clear as water, bought and paid for

No manual, though plenty of truisms
“Grief shared is grief diminished”
Comes to mind amid the grief

No terra firma
Safe harbors
Ports in the storm for the rocking boat

For the raw time being
In the beginning there is death, and we are parted
Dearly departed, we
Until the healing begins

And you begin to move through the arc of grief
Slow, not steady
Like an 8th grader, in Calculus class
Over their head, up to their mascara heavy, eye-shadow laden eyeballs
In deep

Walking to the grave helps
Just don’t watch me grieve
You told me all I need to know
I was loved
I loved
Well

There is no middle
There is no end
The circle is never broken

Ashes to ashes, dust to dusk
And then the bell rings
Time’s up, pencils down

It is well to remember
You were loved
You loved
Well

The circle of love is never broken, friend
Your bark has made it’s mark on me

 

 

 

 

Aged Love

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Aged Love

I do not need to call your name but I do
My being still
My still breathes
Still speak for me
These old bones settle into love
Like the boards nailed in love on our Mersea  last century
Sealing in the lifetimes of aging
Before we were
All day long they sigh, their age an exhale
A comfortable settling, seething with love
As we speak a language, signing with our sighs
Contented passion
Fueled by years of waiting
For
The just us and a quiet room
Filled
To the waterline of Hugo
With a rising tide
Of our new old love
The camelia
Knows but doesn’t say a word

For The Quiet Ones, The Tired Ones, The Hardworking Ones, The Aging Ones: Thank-You

Thank you for joining me as I write out my gratitude, framing it through the lens of poetry. Today is Day Three.
(Joining Tweetspeak Poetry for their poetry prompt this week: Whittles and Wood)

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Tired

Shavings
Sit piled at his weary feet
By his well worn boots that match his face
Leathery lines
Deep crevasses carved by time

No amount of Botox
Were he so inclined, would mend and fill
The valleys of his face
Fitting
As they mirror this, his art
He carves
Dying
Art form
Knives and men
Paired on benches
Fade into the once was

What is it
About carving something from nothing
Must be close to godliness
Bringing form from void
Something from nothing
Bit by bit
Boney fingers
Sweeping along the piece of Hickory
Cryptic
Curling crooked
Like a school boy practicing his cursive

Bit by bit
He whittles away, aiming not for perfection
But simply to pass the time

His shavings blow like thistle seeds, released
By the currents, backdraft
Of the 5:04

He’ll return
Find his place tomorrow, smooth impression
Of his own backside
Made by years of sitting here

Tired of his retirement
Weary from too much rest
Rocking forth and back
To the sounds of

Metal scraping down the tracks
Carrying the 9 to 5’ers home

He and his Hickory
Left to sit, count the minutes
Count the days
Whittle away
What remains

Memories, bit by bit
Fade in messy piles by his weary feet
His Hickory chips

And the tail lights of the 5:04
Dim

He’ll form something from the void
Aiming not for perfection, but simply to pass the time
And pray to God
To grant him rest

(He is so tired, he is so very tired)
Of whittling his life
Away