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Posts Tagged ‘apology’

Preparation

 

 

 

I must take off my gloves—

not the rubber gloves

for dishwashing, nor

the stiff cloth gloves for the garden,

not the wool gloves for snow

nor the leather gloves for stacking wood—

but the gloves you can’t see,

the gloves I wear to protect

you from me. Or me from you.

The invisible layers I think

I need to keep us safe. When

what you really need, what

I really want, is to show up

exposed, bare, to strip off

the unseen covering,

and from this tender place, say

I am sorry.

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Some apologies we think we’ll never hear. Some we think we might never say.

This poem was published today on New Verse News–How to Eat the Moon

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“We must move forward together to build a shared understanding. We must forge a path that allows us to move beyond our history and identify common solutions to better protect our communities.”

—Terrence Cunningham, president of the International Assn. of Chiefs of Police

 

 

With salt, of course,

though there’s the matter of how

to get the salt to stick

without the assist of gravity.

 

And paired with a slightly chilled sauvignon blank,

preferably from Marlborough, of course,

with its hints of green pepper and grass.

 

It doesn’t taste like cheese after all,

but then the experts never seem to be right.

It tastes more like, well, hard to say.

Try another bite.

 

You never thought you’d be here, did you,

sampling these bits of reflected light.

Almost as unexpected as the apology

earlier tonight from the man in the suit

so blue it looked black.

 

Maybe not a white. A red.

A cab. Dark fruit. Full body.

One that’s needed time to evolve.

Its complex woody tones compliment

the moon’s impressive density.

 

What was it he said? “While

we obviously cannot change

the past, it is clear that we

must change the future.”

 

Toast to the future

and raise your glass

and take another nibble of moon.

Notice how dark it is, really,

about the color of asphalt, worn down.

It’s only because space itself is so dark

that the moon seems comparatively light.

 

All along you thought it was white.

Where else have you been wrong?

Perhaps between sips

and forkfuls you’ll find an apology

ripening there on your own startled tongue.

At the moment, anything seems possible.

The night makes its rounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I am sorry I threw away your broken tiara,

the blue Cinderella dress with the ripped sleeves,

and the wand with the faded pink star.

I am sorry I tossed out the magic eight ball

with the blue message in the bottom that always said,

“Not Sure,” and the various mismatched sections

of Hot Wheels race tracks. And the pen

with the bobblehead that always falls off.

And you won’t find Barbie’s black high heel

rubber shoes with the broken back strap.

Or the toy Pegasus with only one wing.

Or the shiny slinky with the torque in it’s spring.

I threw them away.

There was more.

I know you loved them, those broken bits

of childhood, those souvenirs of past happiness.

I did it while you were in the other room,

and took out the guilty bag before you could peek inside.

I knew you would want them back, the jacks

you have never played with, the crappy plastic Elsa kazoo

you got at your best friend’s party.

And when you ask me, “Mom, have you seen

that little green rubber fish that I won at the carnival

four years ago”—yeah, I know you won’t ask me,

but if you do—I am prepared to say No,

no I haven’t. I’m sorry.

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An apology is the superglue of life. It can repair just about anything.
—Lynn Johnston

I wanted her to apologize,
told myself I needed it.
She gave me a blank page.
A silent room.
A heart wildly aware
of its own beating.
If she had any inkling
how rich these gifts have been,
how much more abundant and spacious my life
has become,
I think
she would have
apologized.

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I don’t really want a stink bug
infestation in your home. And I don’t
really want your full cup of coffee
to spill on your open book. Not really. I don’t.
I don’t want to see you trip on your
ego’s huge feet. Don’t want to hear
that you have some strange rash
that makes your skin beet red.
And your new car, I’d hate to hear
that a surfeit of skunks had their kits in there.
I’d hate to hear that you had shrunk
that dress that looks so good on you.
And I don’t really want to hear that you
are sorry for all those things you said.
About me. I could care less. Really. It didn’t
hurt at all. I don’t really want to hear
the phone ring if you are on the other end
calling to say let’s be friends. No I don’t. Not at all.

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I’m sorry I didn’t let you
watch a movie when we got home tonight.
And I’m sorry I didn’t let you
have a piece of gum before bed.
And I’m sorry it was too late tonight
for a story. I’m sorry.
Not sorry in a guilty way,
but sorry in that I know
how hard it is to want something
and not get it. I know what it’s like
to convince yourself that your happiness
depends on that thing, that whatever thing
that you don’t have.
All those tears. I have cried them, too.
It did not matter that I was loved,
that the bed was warm, that
my belly was full, that the sky
was a lovely shade of peach.
I did not have what I thought
I must have. It does not change
when you’re older. Oh, the whatevers
change, but the longing
is part of being alive.
Tonight I wanted you
to stop crying. I wanted it enough
it nearly made me cry.
But even more than that
I wanted something else
I can’t explain to you.
That greater wanting,
some kind of peace—
could you feel it, too, as it fell on us
like the most gentle rain,
how it fell on your anger,
my helplessness, your wanting,
my wanting—the kind of peace
that touches everything just as it is
and doesn’t change a thing
and changes everything.

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Distracted by the Universe

in the vein of WCW

I’m sorry
I let the fire
go out.
It was so
starry.
So dark.

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The only reason we don’t open our hearts and minds to other people is that they trigger confusion in us that we don’t feel brave enough or sane enough to deal with.
—Pema Chodron

The hands and tongue
would make quick work
of forgiveness, rushing

to shake hands, or to touch
the other’s feet, or to taste these words
I am sorry, please, forgive me,

but the body will not be hurried,
will grieve and shed and wander many
rooms of confusion and courage

before the real apology
rises in its own time
in its own way, perhaps doe-eyed

and unstartled, with such sweet
fragrance, with such compassion
you reach also for your own face

and say, I forgive you.

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