This was one of the first poems I posted on WordPress.
I don’t do a lot of re-posting, but a post by one of my friends reminded me of it,
and I thought it could use another airing.
Thank you for reading.
Making Love With Music
At Shag Phelps' birthday bash,
in a small dark bedroom,
on the far end of Alan's trailer,
we found ourselves laughing and naked,
doing the dirty dance to a drum solo,
and strains of electric mystic Iron Butterfly
Flashes of strobe and heady weed
streamed through a carelessly ajar door.
The earth swirled and tilted
when I arched backward,
just to hear you swear as my hair
tickled the bare tops of your thighs.
'Oh won't you come with me...'
Thirty years later, a soft country ballad
is mingled with snoring before
the first verse leads to pause.
In still darkness I walk
through this big house alone,
while ghosts taunt from shadows.
'and walk this land…'
I put the album carefully in place,
turn the volume to an unfamiliar low,
and close my eyes to drink the music.
If I lean way back in a younger woman's arch,
I can almost feel the hair that is no longer there
tickle the skin of my bare and lonely waist.
'Please take my hand…'
Autumn Porch Days
Some days, all we can do to see a wider world
is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky,
watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds
paint a bleached collage of our other places.
All this radiance and warmth must surely
reach something deeper than skin,
higher than your mountains and stars,
less broken than my in-between lovers.
Yet, why does the wind winter swiftly?
If I fade to sleep, dreams will pull me
to body tired Autumn nights in Boone;
Perseus chasing Pegasus across a dingy lens.
Do you remember?
Somewhere, far to the south of my dreams,
you climb toward a circumpolar view, where
your lens is robbed of my brightest star.
I envision your weary form in these clouds
as you drag a trail across that uncertain heaven.
If you are seeking peace, come home.
Our days apart are beyond the stack of peaks.
All that is left is a calming stroke of hands,
the sharing of pictures in winter clouds.
That is enough for me, if I am with you.
If you are seeking redemption, come home.
You will discover the best of it here, in my heart.
Years become mountains. We both know the trail.
When will you remember me?
What My Father Planted
He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood;
his silhouette strong and familiar
like a steeple in times of worry.
It was a determined stance,
glance to sun, hand shading frown,
tongue moisture over dry lips.
He timed breaths by till of hard soil.
If he chanced to catch me watching,
he was quick to harvest a smile.
We’ll be okay when it rains.
God watches over farmers and fools.
He was a short man,
but there was a certain way he stood,
tall and strong like a church steeple
towering toward heaven.