some flowers bloom
only at night,
so it is with certain conversations,
that open in the dark,
the whole room
blessed with sweetness
Posts Tagged ‘conversation’
After Midnight
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, night, parenting, poem, poetry on April 2, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Another Lesson in Impermanence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, conversation, death, friendship, impermanence, poem, poetry on March 8, 2019| Leave a Comment »
A metal table in the sun. Beyond it, winter.
Two women sit, brought here by rambling.
One woman weeps, tears of mortality.
The other woman rhymes with her.
Everything rhymes eventually, though
neither of them know it yet. The grass.
The snow. The dirt. The way the two women lean
into shadows. It’s not that time makes demands,
it’s just that the women still see themselves
as separate. They grasp at the present,
thinking this makes them a part of it.
Meanwhile, the birds. Meanwhile,
the trees. Meanwhile, the cells, changing.
Meanwhile the sun slides down the sky.
One Conversation that Didn’t Happen
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, music, piano, poem, poetry on December 8, 2018| Leave a Comment »
One Afternoon Hike
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, hiking, poem, poetry, Rachel Kellum on February 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
—for Rachel
between the cactus,
we walk, our conversation
daring to step wherever it wants
Two Words with You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, conversation, other, poem, poetry on October 26, 2016| 1 Comment »
What if
we spoke
about how
we can’t
speak to
each other,
and by
other, I
mean other
versions of
our selves,
and what
if, as
the words
crashed on
our lips
like ocean
tides that
won’t be
held back,
what if
we realized
that our
speaking about
not speaking
is a
starting shore,
sea water
collecting on
our cheeks.
One Doomed Conversation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, conversation, poem, poetry on January 12, 2016| 1 Comment »
Uprising
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, language, love, poem, poetry, silence on March 23, 2014| 9 Comments »
Speak to me soft
in a voice so low that I lean in,
and speak to me in idioms
of night. Let’s lose any lens
that condemns. Let’s forget
any tongues that speak in
blades or claws. Speak awe.
Speak yes. Speak song. Translate
my fear into tenderness.
Converse in amber.
Converse in ice melt clear.
Speak quietly. Speak near
in tones that I more feel
than hear. Speak broken.
Speak wing. Let’s mislay our will
to judge. Let us be uncaged, untethered,
let us be light, fluent in warmth
in greening, in spring. And let
us be lighter than that. And lighter.
Speak in nothing. In the morning,
let’s give everything away.
More than a Feeling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, faith, god, poem, poetry on May 26, 2013| 4 Comments »
So when I said,
God, sometimes
I am just so tired,
she said, (and it wasn’t
really a she, but it wasn’t
really a he, either),
she said, yeah,
not as if she were going
to change anything
more as if she knew
exactly what I meant.
And then I said,
God, I’m sorry.
I guess you’ve seen
all the bad stuff
I have done.
And she said,
yes, not as if
she thought
I’d been bad, more
as if she believed
I were truly sorry.
And then I said,
though it scared me
to say it, God,
sometimes I don’t
believe in you.
She nodded,
though it were
more like a wave,
like a current,
like a swell
than a nod,
and she said
nothing, as if
she didn’t want
to prove me wrong.
A Couple Conversations
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, life, lost in translation, poem on February 5, 2013| 5 Comments »
It sounded,
perhaps,
like
“Please,
pass the salt,”
but the subtitles
said
(I love you
I love you
I love you)
*
From clay
we came
and today
the ground
reached up
at me
I swear,
as if to say,
“You’re mine,”
and I told
it “Yes, thank you,
yes,
but I ain’t done
with this living
just yet.”
All Around Us Darkness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, conversation, daughter, familiarity, intimacy, love, mother, poem on August 23, 2012| 7 Comments »
In the middle of the night
mom finds me still awake
and makes us tea. We stand
in her bright kitchen and cradle
our steaming cups. How
the hands like something to do,
even at this quiet hour.
We talk through the scent
of licorice root and chamomile,
we talk with no phones or children,
chores or appointments to interrupt.
She is older than I think she is.
When I’m not with her, I see her
as the mother of my childhood,
her hair not yet gray, her spine
not yet bent. She is lovelier
than I think she is. I don’t
think of my mother as beautiful,
only as my mom. But here,
in this wrinkle of early hours,
she radiates, even as her chin
begins to quiver, even as she bites
her lower lip to stay the tears,
even as her tears miss the steeping tea,
she is radiant. Even as she collapses
her shoulders and laments little things
she can no longer do, she glows,
and I see her not only as my mother,
more fragile than I like to think,
but as someone so full of light, someone
I so very much want to know.
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