Posts Tagged ‘love’

            (title after a first line by e.e. cummings)

when you with your nimble

and radiant thoughts

reach into the junkyard of my mind

and there—hiding behind

some old rusty shoulds

and burnt-out what ifs—

you find a small tarnished scrap

of lost perhaps and hold it up

like a treasure, burnish it

with fierce devotion

until even I can see

how it shines.

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            with thanks to Rebecca Mullen

but what if I can’t do enough

I said, and love said

what if you don’t try?

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Over thirty years later

I still return to the night

when my brother and I

stood in the kitchen and argued

the merits of Grape Nuts,

versus Cap’n Crunch.

Potassium, potassium, potassium.

I still hear him chanting

the one nutrient his cereal

had more of than mine.

Breakfast was the least

of our differences,

but it taught us to laugh

as we disagreed

so that later, when the stakes

were higher—

presidential elections

and gun laws—

we could argue till I cried,

then snuggle on the couch.

Though we seldom agree,

though we will forever cancel each other’s votes,

though I will never eat Cap’n Crunch,

I’ll sit with him as he eats it,

laughing, shaking my head,

grateful he teaches me so much

about how I am not.

He will celebrate me and buy me

any damn cereal I want.

Though we disagree about almost everything

except how much we love each other—

we are two threads in a civilization

that would try to makes us believe

we couldn’t be one cloth—

but we are, woven tight, we are.

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One Comfort

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In the middle of my heart

is a meadow with tall golden grass

and a big blue blanket

spread out like an invitation.

I never fold it up.

Not ever.

It is always the right time

to meet you there.

The light is always golden.

The air is always sweet.

Even when I ache.

Even when my heart

ticks in my chest,

not like a clock,

like a bomb.

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One up in the Air

this loving you—

both the high wire act

and the net

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One Marvel

after Issa

common as morning

this love and yet

and yet

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It Just Might Happen

Everywhere I go, I find them—

people who bring love to the world.

Reading the headlines,

I sometimes think love is dead

and humans are brutes

and we may as well all give up.

But every time I leave home,

I meet pedestrians who wave

and women who give understanding nods,

and men who offer to pay when the person

in front of them is short a few bucks.

People hold doors for each other with a smile

and I’ve seen folks pick up trash

off the sidewalk and go out of their way

to not step on a beetle or a worm.

My friend Wayne says,

We have to love the world

to want to save it,

and sometimes, I think

it just might happen—

though every day unspeakable cruelty

happens on these same streets.

Oh this world.

Even as I feel my guard go up,

I see strangers chatting on the corner

as they wait for the bus,

notice how their laughter

threads through the noise of the day

like a song, like a kite.

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In Times of Great Darkness

I want to do for you

what the sun does for me—

coax you to come

outside, to breathe in

the golden air.

I want to warm you

and enter you,

fill you with brilliance,

make your muscles melt,

make your mind shush.

I want to prepare for you

luminous paths

that span across deep space,

thaw any part of you

that feels frozen,

find any cracks

and slip shine into them.

I want to intensify

your shadow

so you might better know

your own shape.

I want to encourage you

to open, wider, wider,

want to teach you

to write your name

in light.

Find this poem published in the amazing ONE ART POETRY

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inspired by Wayne Muller

I do not love you in 0s and 1s,

some straightforward proposition—

our love, my dear, is gray, is .772,

refuses to be simplified, reduced.

There is maybe in us. And perhaps.

Wouldn’t be easier if love were like math—

a logical answer we could arrive at,

with binary digits to map it all out.

Instead, a word, a tone, a should

makes what is certain slip off its string

and the bits and values keep changing.

Somewhere between the 0 and 1

is a meadow where we might watch the moon,

a garden where outlandish fruits still grow,

a mountain we will never stop climbing.

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