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Posts Tagged ‘luck’

Despite the Bad News

 

 

after Sometimes by Sheenagh Pugh

 

 

It happens, sometimes. Though rain was predicted,

the sun invites itself to your outdoor party.

And sometimes, though you were afraid

to say something difficult, you say it, and

the words turn to wine in your mouth.

And sometimes, as you run toward your dream,

you don’t trip and fall. In fact, the wind nearly

lifts you, supporting your back. Yes, it can happen,

you feel alone and a friend arrives. With a bottle of whiskey.

And another arrives with dark chocolate. And

another arrives with a poem full of water.

And another arrives with nothing but

her big, open heart. And sometimes

when you say a prayer for someone to heal,

they do. Sometimes, that someone is you.

 

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Pray the road is long.

—C.P Cavafy, “Ithaka”

 

 

Sometimes it’s like this—

the journey to yourself is not

creeping barefoot on sharp rocks

nor crawling through the desert,

nor being pummeled by hail in steep territory—

yes, sometimes, though you’re wind-whipped

and sun-flushed and sandy and wearing borrowed shoes,

a new friend will meet you

just as you are and say,

I have an idea—

and will pull the brown dust covers off

of a shapely heap in the corner of the garage

to reveal a neoclassic Excalibur Phaeton,

impossibly shiny and shamelessly black

with a silver sword ornament agleam on the hood,

a cream leather interior

and a 5.0-liter engine—

and even though you don’t know what that last part means,

you know that the only right answer

is yes, please.

Yes, sometimes, the journey

to yourself comes with a chauffeur and

a guide who tell you stories as you ride

and both insist you need ice cream,

you choose salt caramel,

then they buy you fine chocolates

for tomorrow’s road—

and the fireflies come out

like the small miracles they are

making the sparkles they’ve evolved to make,

and the rain doesn’t come

and the night smells like roses,

yes, sometimes the journey is just like that.

 

 

 

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Odd Luck

an h-poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie

If you are lucky in this life,
you will find hearts everywhere you go—
hiding in full sun in the leaves of the hollyhocks,
or tucked into brambles, or rising up
when you hold your hand out to a friend.

And if you are lucky,
your heart will break, not just tiny cracks,
but huge fractures, wide enough
for a hippopotamus to swim through,
high enough for a hawk to circle inside.

Then, the heart can no longer believe
it is separate, beating only for itself.
Only after it is broken can it find in itself every form—
from the silver herring to the great blue heron
to the red hibiscus to the hermit crab.

In Asia they bring loved ones pink hydrangeas
to say, “You are the beat of my heart.”
If you are lucky, you offer hydrangeas
to every creature you see—the hummingbird,
the rattlesnake, the man across the street.

A horseshoe is lucky if you hang it
open side up, but not as lucky as an open heart
which is always ready for love. And if it is
too difficult to ask the world to break you,
then just wait, and whisper frequently, “Thank you, thank you.”

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There between the tortillas
and the frozen okra,
an old friend.
How is it possible
to love someone so much
but to forget that we love them
until quite by accident
we see them again?
Lucky for me,
I needed to buy tortillas,
and there they were, on sale,
our favorite brand.
There are many kinds of luck,
each like a rope
that rings a different bell.
Falling in love again
with an old dear friend,
even if the reunion lasts
only until the end of aisle two,
I feel in these three minutes like a little girl
pulling the rope of the cathedral
bells, and letting myself
be swung by the full body chime
as it dongs, dongs, dongs.

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Five Accidents

my whole life
preparing me for this moment—
10:19 p.m.

*

rolling down my window
to ask directions, hearing
a chorus of birds

*

new snow on the grass
this, too, the scent
of exploded stars

*

please, I said
to the sun, don’t go
some part of me
reveling in asking
the impossible

*

my whole life
preparing me for this moment—
10:20 p.m.

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When I think
of all that had to happen
to constellate this moment

in which I stand
beside the road
with my whole face

buried in the lilac bush
I almost weep
overcome by the pure

purple sweet of it all,
how perfect, how
unlikely it all is—

from the star exploding
to the first simple creature
pulling itself out of the sea

to the seed being planted
before my parents met
to the woman who is me

finding her way
to the shoulder of highway 145
where the sun has just set

and the bushes are heavy
with good perfume
and the air is still warm

and the stars are just
beginning to show
their old light.

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Three Crazy Haiku

Every part of me
burning and still, go figure,
I feel lucky.

Lost and scared, still
the only thing that makes sense:
fall deeper in love.

Light spills all over
the mountains—oh morning, please
kiss me like that.

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