Tag: dragonfly book

A Dracula is never a cure for a headache.
At times, I need some beautiful soul
 to drive a wooden stake through my heart
 to get the point.

Oh, mama, you laugh at me too much
 with your knowing smile.
What have I got myself into this time?
Regard as little tears and snot rubbed all over my sleeve,
 as if the ripping of my subject from my little hand
  was all just a bad dream.
With loving eyes you take me all in
 and send me out to recess again.

Nothing worthwhile ever gets done.
When it’s finished, where’s the fun?
For whom do you want to make this past?
Aye, for them with whom we hope we’ll last.

I’ve tucked my worries into bed —
their toddler eyelids chasing night visions —
tucked in, with folded blankets, creased
both cat and mouse;
I’ve blown out the candles as,
with silent footfall,
I hushed each room
and let moonlight in.
I’ve folded the blankets over my chest,
thanked each cricket in their lullaby chorus,
thanked each star in its twinkling.
I’m not the first to breathe in thankfulness.

It’s hard to catch the vast world’s tune;
 it goes on so long:
 it’s surprising when it begins to repeat
 to know it well enough to like it.
 Then, there’s the instrument I’m stuck with,
 embarrassing for its narrow applicability.
 Oh, well; here goes —
 and I blow or strike or strum or sing
 and accentuate the melody
  or compensate with harmony
  or engage in counterpoint
  or remain silent, waiting for a dramatic
       crash of symbols or discharge of canon
 and, at some point, appropriately — artfully
 add to life’s symphony.

Say it. Say it:
it’s unfair that they sing while you have no song.
No. Sing it. Sing it!

What would I do
if my blues weren’t beautiful?

With every chisel, freedom.
Within my text, a poem.

The dance in us
celebrates persistent beings
who perform forms
we love.

You’re going to make a father out of me:
first snake I’ve held;
first baby I’ve cared for.
I place my hand into your cage;
 you sniff and avoid
 when it’s obvious to me you should glide right on.
Only after both of my hands have lain on either side of you
 and you’ve tucked yourself into a ball,
 head resting on curls, do I realize
 I must pick you up directly.

You don’t snap when I pinch;
then it’s hand over hand over hand:
non–stop.

On the table, in the sun,
you stretch out into a new world.
You don’t know and there’s no way for me to tell you:
it’s small.
Just one big circle as far as the eye can see:
only, snakes are blind.

You’re so young; you need this experience
to learn to move, to understand your body.
You head straight for the edge;
it’s instinctual or inevitable.
And there’s my hand.
It’s such a long drop; I don’t want you bruised or dead.
So, here’s my hand.
And you comprehend.
And, though it’s not the best new place to go,
 perhaps it’s the only place you know.

And, back on the table you go
and straight to the edge.
I blame the small circle you’re in;
and, a hand I extend.
And you still search for ground.
I pull up a chair, in case you want to leave.
Do you dare? You sense something underneath;
though it be further than you’re long,
you hover down till — plump — you fall
belly to the sun.
You twine between the slats
till, like water, you find that sinking leg
and dive down — despite its sheer plastic,
crimp on it with your pinky–full stomach
until — plop — again.

Back to the circle and its edge you go.
This time, no hands, though.
We are both learning about falling here.
Now, I see you can smell the ground — or its absence —
and I let you dip
as far off the edge as you dare;
head and belly drip
with just your scales left to grip
and that fine sense of gravity,
refined from your last fall,
saves you
or perhaps this is normal activity
with which I’ve just been meddling?
Now, you gracefully circle and dip
along the edge without fear to slip;
just desperate for some place wherewith to get
down.

I guess I’ve learned my lesson, now,
knowing, as I take you in my hand,
we needn’t go hand over hand over hand.
And I need not worry about your leaning on me
while upon my hand you circle ’round.
to curl into a peaceful perch —
until you sniff deeper ground.