you're not my fairy god-mother
you're not even a fairy god-aunt
you are my fairy god-friend
and when i need it most
you bring me sunshine
the items you select
with their orange sticker
cause a flicker behind my lids
and i start to tamp it down but i can't
quite control the upwell
and so oh well
here it goes again
i fall into verklempt land
my uncle taught me all about the place
he goes there quite often too, he's a gentle soul
like me, we both like chocolate milk shakes
and a good talk late in the evening
at family holidays where
we tell each other
all the important
things and how
we dearly love
our family.
you, fairy god-friend,
are to me, chosen family
i didn't know that could
be such sweet respite
but now well now
i truly know
and it is so good
and you are so dear
to me, in my
sappy, sodden heart.
Monday, September 10, 2018
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
now forgotten
wrote a poem while driving to look at a piano yesterday
finished it driving home
sharp notes lingering round my ears and eyes and fingers
didn't write it down
cleaned, fretted, chopped an onion and lost it in the tangled
million eternal moments of an evening with friends
this morning a small fire burned in my chest
a glass of wine too many
perhaps
or is it that small poem, whose name I still can't remember?
the title lead in to the rest of the piece
I don't usually do them that way.
But this one was special.
If I sit quietly and wait long enough,
will you please visit me again?
finished it driving home
sharp notes lingering round my ears and eyes and fingers
didn't write it down
cleaned, fretted, chopped an onion and lost it in the tangled
million eternal moments of an evening with friends
this morning a small fire burned in my chest
a glass of wine too many
perhaps
or is it that small poem, whose name I still can't remember?
the title lead in to the rest of the piece
I don't usually do them that way.
But this one was special.
If I sit quietly and wait long enough,
will you please visit me again?
"Do you remember being little?"
He asked.
She curled her knees closer inside of her arms, one hand still holding a half empty glass of wine. The others had scurried to their cars parked on the street of by the new apartment, dripping with rain and leftover champagne.
She nodded.
"I remember my second grade teacher...I don't remember what, or why, exactly, but she was lovely. And I remember my third grade teacher. She loved the Iditerod Trail, she would look up the race stats every morning before school and move our figures on our wall so we would walk in each morning and know who's racer was in the lead, and whose racer had left the race. Every day, for the whole race."
They looked at each other in silence. He broke it off, he picked up his half of the loaf of bread.
"I remember nothing."
He asked.
She curled her knees closer inside of her arms, one hand still holding a half empty glass of wine. The others had scurried to their cars parked on the street of by the new apartment, dripping with rain and leftover champagne.
She nodded.
"I remember my second grade teacher...I don't remember what, or why, exactly, but she was lovely. And I remember my third grade teacher. She loved the Iditerod Trail, she would look up the race stats every morning before school and move our figures on our wall so we would walk in each morning and know who's racer was in the lead, and whose racer had left the race. Every day, for the whole race."
They looked at each other in silence. He broke it off, he picked up his half of the loaf of bread.
"I remember nothing."
Friday, July 27, 2018
penpals
the only kind
of love I ever want to
fall into is the kind of love that begins
slowly and creeps over you until you can't wait
to wake up in the morning to check the mail it used to come
in the hands of a mailperson & now it comes in my handular device
i don't even get out of bed & my dog wants to be let into the backyard
but i want to know if you were thinking about me when you woke up
if you told me something new about your childhood
abroad & which college you thought i went to
and i want to know if i'm allowed
to send you another
letter now
or not
of love I ever want to
fall into is the kind of love that begins
slowly and creeps over you until you can't wait
to wake up in the morning to check the mail it used to come
in the hands of a mailperson & now it comes in my handular device
i don't even get out of bed & my dog wants to be let into the backyard
but i want to know if you were thinking about me when you woke up
if you told me something new about your childhood
abroad & which college you thought i went to
and i want to know if i'm allowed
to send you another
letter now
or not
patience
waiting and waiting and waiting and wanting
not to be waiting
and wanting to be wanting
and waiting to not be wanting
and waiting for the wanting and the waiting to turn into
being
not to be waiting
and wanting to be wanting
and waiting to not be wanting
and waiting for the wanting and the waiting to turn into
being
Saturday, July 14, 2018
KD
july eleventh
today I'll plant lettuces
and a new round of dill
two kinds of peas, golden sweet and English wonder
some milkweed and purple annuals
laundry's put away,
sheets are in the dryer
dishes have all been stacked,
leftover pie crust baked
into small crescent moons
savory-- with mushrooms and thyme
I'll try not to wonder if you like mushrooms.
Later I could fold dish towels
and iron a few shirts
there's a pedagogy book to read
and stacks of music to practice
a candle to light, a prayer or two to send out
leftover pho for lunch
I'll do all this, and more too
to put off thinking about you
The Swedish sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns will take
ten or twelve hours-- that'll get me through
til tomorrow
unless
if I stop and remember this Christmas
when you told me about the design on my clogs
painted by hand by those damn Swedes
and how I found you so damn sweet
and you told me this spring how music was a reason to live
and I said, and so are clogs!
and you said, and so are mittens!
and oh, how I would make you so many pairs
of mittens
for your precious hands.
But I'm not thinking about this today,
or tomorrow, maybe not even until Saturday,
but it would be best to wait until Sunday.
yes, Sunday, I'll think about you then, perhaps.
today I'll plant lettuces
and a new round of dill
two kinds of peas, golden sweet and English wonder
some milkweed and purple annuals
laundry's put away,
sheets are in the dryer
dishes have all been stacked,
leftover pie crust baked
into small crescent moons
savory-- with mushrooms and thyme
I'll try not to wonder if you like mushrooms.
Later I could fold dish towels
and iron a few shirts
there's a pedagogy book to read
and stacks of music to practice
a candle to light, a prayer or two to send out
leftover pho for lunch
I'll do all this, and more too
to put off thinking about you
The Swedish sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns will take
ten or twelve hours-- that'll get me through
til tomorrow
unless
if I stop and remember this Christmas
when you told me about the design on my clogs
painted by hand by those damn Swedes
and how I found you so damn sweet
and you told me this spring how music was a reason to live
and I said, and so are clogs!
and you said, and so are mittens!
and oh, how I would make you so many pairs
of mittens
for your precious hands.
But I'm not thinking about this today,
or tomorrow, maybe not even until Saturday,
but it would be best to wait until Sunday.
yes, Sunday, I'll think about you then, perhaps.
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