Scraps

Today I found a memory
written on a scrap of notepad paper
stuffed into a folder in a corner of my desk,
never quite forgotten but
never quite on the top of memory.

I've waxed long and wide over
nights on the beach, with moon high overhead
and stars shining down to create a warmth
where none otherwise exists;
I've been eloquent over overall-clad waiters
in country restaurants with the best
fried chicken, ever, the end.
But for the little scrap of memory,
tucked away and partly crumpled,
I've never spoken a single word.

It's not big; it's not pivotal
or bright or loud or shiny.
Just a scent of reflection
on an ordinary day
a scrap of thought passing through
recorded and then crowded out
by momentary worries
and monumental vices;
yet it's a nice little memory,
and the smile it gives me
is warm and cheery, if quiet.

I think I'll tuck back in where I found it
between the folder and the drawer wall;
maybe I'll pull it out again when--
Well, I don't know. When a little scrap
of something nice
but not too grand
is what I need,
which I suppose is most of the time,
so perhaps
only when my fingers find it
and remember for me
that quiet, warm, and cheery
is awfully nice.

Syrup fingers

We had maple syrup on our pancakes for breakfast.
Rich and thick and gooey, and we ate it with our fingers
because the fork-box got caught under the cleaning stuff
and the laundry detergent leaked through two boxes, and
we didn't really want to wait for the dishwasher to finish.

But the pots and pans and bowls were fine; we ran those
last night before crashing on the frame-less mattress
(and we'll keep it that way so the cats won't claw into
the box springs again, like they did last summer).

So with our two spoons too large for the silverware box
we made pancakes in a freshly-washed pan, and
sat on the floor beside the newly assembled table
for which we still don't have chairs, and ate
with our fingers syrupy pancakes, sticky and sweet.

I say I'm getting grimy and icky and you say it's nice;
my hair clumps and sticks to my face; I laugh, but you say,
"You're beautiful, always beautiful" and then you pause,
blush and say, "I know that's corny. But I mean it."

And you're looking at me like the cat does when she's
just knocked over my glass of water by accident (not
on purpose; she's never guilty then). And it's funny because
if you'd tried to say it I'd have rolled my eyes, thinking
it was corny and dumb and you were trying too hard.

But sometimes you forget that things like that have
been said before. And when you say it like it's brand new, or
it forces its way out like a hay-fever sneeze, it's wonderful; and
when you forget, I hear the voice of love, and fall for you again.

On falling rain

we are the flowers
blooming from the earth watered with the rain of tears
and the thunder of laughter, the lightning-strikes of love
adolescence's flashes fading into the after-storm of delight
young adulthood the crazy 1000 days of sun we never
quite think of as a drought, despite
every rainless storm of held-back tears, promising ourselves
that this time we won't cry, and laughter's thunder the shield
that holds us back from watering the sky.
Then comes maturity and the rains fall again; we admit
crying's not a sham or shame but a sign we're singing still.
The toys we set aside, we now hold up with joy
let the rain fall, for it makes us strong and helps us
bloom a second time, and every day after, as we fill our roots
with laughter, tears and love; the storms of youth that never
rained we now see built our souls, but the rain's what keeps us
strong.

In the charging storm, let it rain, let it thunder; bring on
the lightning. Because without the snows there are no
flowers.

Three thoughts, from the archives

#1
A cloudy morning
is coffee without scent,
chocolate without sugar,
or music without melody.
A foggy morning, though,
is the lid on the teapot--
so that the scent is stronger,
the sweet is richer,
and the rhythm smoother.

#2
Did you know
that sun-dried tomatoes
are made without sun?
Pity that;
I am sure they miss the experience,
but at least they can still be enjoyed
when the lights flicker on.

#3
The dawn and I would get along better
if we saw one another less,
and yet she is the most beautiful
of all the beings I know.

There are a lot of trains

There will come a day
when you look at your dreams
and find you don't know them.

This will be a day, perhaps,
when you say you are living them;
you turn the covers and flick the lights,
and what you see isn't what you thought
you had once imagined, but rather
a memory, fleeing, of living through trials
that always you thought you'd never see.
And these are the things, the survivals,
the setbacks, the blood and tears--
these are the dreams you didn't know,
deeper, stronger, more fulfilling than
the ones you thought you wanted.

Or maybe the day will come
and you'll look out the window and say,
"I have no dreams," because the ones
that buoy your soul and fling you to heaven
seem impossible, unattainable or unreal.
Funnily enough you'll discover the dreams
you never thought you dreamed are
in fact the ones you wanted most,
and that you are living as you think;
the everyday humdrum you want to forget
is its own beautiful, unstoppable adventure.

Or maybe you never did call them dreams,
but rather goals; and having obtained one goal,
set another, until the sky came within reach.
Now, with the sun close to your fingertips,
you find it burns; but the pain drives you more,
because it's not the goal you wanted, but
the struggle of which you dreamed.

Then again, maybe you still have them
the same as they ever were,
putting them away on the "maybe one day" train,
which daily leaves the station, and daily
you watch it go with unshed tears.
These are the dreams that sit so thick,
so solid in your eyes, you cannot see beyond:
the cataracts of the soul, the thick and salty sea.
These are the dreams that hide the dreams
you really ought to know; and when asked
what your dreams are, you'll say, "One day,"
and stand watching a train pull away, as
behind you your real dreams frolic and play,
or bleed and beg and laugh and help you suffer.

There will come a day when,
being asked about your dreams,
you may realize those dreams aren't what
you always thought you should call dreams.
Unplanned dreams, the tears of hearts,
the soul of nurture and the spirit of growth--
the dreams that matter, that few ever call
a dream come true. 

A Paradise

If there was a sunrise in my paradise, it would be blue.
The sunset would be gold and pink and violent,
but the sunrise would be blue, with perhaps a touch of orange in the clouds.
Not just any blue, though: a warm blue, a welcoming blue.
Caribbean-sea blue, under a bright mid-day sun
(without the mid-day, of course)
sparkling with ripples and plays of light
so clear you could see the stars and sun beyond
except for the foamy tips of the waves
orange with the early-morning light.

We'd wake up to the crashing of the waves on the shore,
lounging in daybeds on the veranda, birds in
well-ordered trees around us, but not above us.
Our white-brick, blue-bricked patio would have a sunken wall
so that nothing stands between us and the sea
and at our perching elevation we can see
the morning gulls swoop down and scoop up fish.

The awning shades the other half of the patio--
we like to wake by sunlight and fresh air
and watch the sun rise up from the sea.
We won't have slept inside since last week,
when the rain tumbled us from our outdoor beds
just past midnight, and the breeze tried to steal my blanket
but you caught it, and tied it back down, and laughed at me
for forgetting to secure it as I usually do.
"You summoned the rain," you said, and perhaps I did.

Calendar Claustrophics

Funnily enough they seem to like tight spaces,
fit right in under the desk or in the pantry,
wedged between the cereal and three-year-old cans of beans.
You'll find one with a colander on her head,
or a book across his bonnet;
there's one wrapped in a tablecloth
and another curled in a newspaper recycling bin.

Perfectly rational people, really--
they're just claustrophobic, calendar claustrophobic.
Paws pulling back when the water rises,
clambering to stay dry, sinking islands of time,
they panic not from tight spaces, but
rather from the closing in of calendar blocks.

Fill up a day here, mark a day there--
schedule three appointments on a Wednesday
and don't forget to pick up groceries after work.
Thursday's the bridal shower, Friday your mother's;
Monday for a mandatory-voluntary coworker potluck.

Once-blank pages with neat empty squares
now closed in with scribbles and notes:
hear that gasping under the table? She's just
looking for a lost contact, I think.

Don't ask for his Sunday; Saturday is already gone.
He'll come out of hiding Tuesday if you're quiet,
just promise not to take him to the game.

At least it's not spiders, or tornadoes or sharks,
and they'll climb the ladders and enter the cellars just fine.

Only there's too little time, for calendar--