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Posts Tagged ‘words’

Conspiracy

Sometimes when walking

or driving or sitting in a chair,

I thrill to see some words of yours

float through the air—as if

a cartoon thought bubble

cut loose from your thoughts

filled with calibri sweetnesses

and times-new-roman puns—

and I pluck the words

from the sky and wrap them

around my wrist. They bob

above me like a helium balloon—

sometimes I almost believe

could carry me away.

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Beat. Blending. Bolero. Breakaway.

Before bed, my daughter and I

do a word search. The theme:

“Social Dancing.” At the same time

we notice how closely related

Dancing is to Distancing.

 

The hidden words all snuggle

in their thirteen by thirteen square.

Brush. Cha-cha. Foxtrot. Polka.

They cross each other, touch each other,

overlap, congregate, connect.

Rumba. Samba. Slow Dance. Spin.

 

How I miss doing what these letters

are doing—getting lost in a crowd,

then emerging less as a self and

more as a spiral turn, upside down

and backwards, or heck,

showing up as a straightforward sway.

 

Oh I miss that glorious not knowing

where I begin and end, surrounded

by others as we swing, swivel, tango, waltz.

 

 

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And when they say, I am going to eat ice cream

until I feel better, perhaps say, What flavor?

 

And when they say, I am going to cry myself to sleep,

perhaps say, May the night hold you as you cry.

 

What is it in us that wants to say, Don’t cry?

And since when has trying to stop the tears worked, anyway?

 

My teacher speaks of the greatest gift:

to give a person themselves.

 

I think of when I told my friend I did not feel beautiful.

She did not rush to argue with me.

 

She let me outline my reasons.

She hummed in soft agreement.

 

Her nods nourished me like a clear lake.

I threw my stones of self-doubt in its waters till it stilled.

 

So when they say, I feel terrible, perhaps say,

Yes, it is a difficult day. Perhaps add a knowing hum.

 

Add a nod. A hug if they want it.

And give them their own words,

 

how they shine like daylight,

bright enough they see, perfectly, themselves.

 

 

 

 

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Revelation

 

 

 

Perhaps when we don’t know what to say

we have at last arrived at the one true thing—

and in our thrill to share it with words, dilute it.

 

It is like the seed, perhaps, that in sprouting

at last understands its purpose, only

now it is no longer a seed.

 

How easy it is to lose revelation.

Not that it is ever gone—more that it

drops its petals, and we are left

 

holding an empty stem, trying

to remember how beautiful it was,

failing to see how beautiful it is.

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The words that will change us

remember, perhaps,

when they were first found

by the person willing

to serve them—

 

they carry in their serifs

a willingness to wait,

late nights of wrestling silence,

the wing of receiving, the joy

in sharing the gift.

 

When we read them, they enter us

like tiny notes in a score we never knew

we were part of until one day

there is music everywhere

and we are the ones being sung.

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telling you I love you—

trying to pour the ocean

into a thimble

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One Transmutation

 

 

 

sending you these words

to wear like a scarf, only softer

than that, more like song

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Future Imperfect

 

 

 

We’ll catch up soon,

I say, and I actually believe it—

though after I say them

the words stare at their watches

and rush off, late

for their next sentence,

their letters shaking their heads

their sans serif heads,

as if they know

I’ll never learn.

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Candor

 

 

 

That’s when the words

arrive barefoot

and not in the tight laced shoes

we set out for them

by the door,

 

and they surprise us—

perhaps because

they appeared on the lips

via tiptoe,

perhaps because

they bypassed the brain

with a leap—

 

so that before

we have a chance

to stop the rogue words,

they bounce

off the tongue

and out into the air

where anyone,

even we—

despite our horror—

are astonished

at their pluck,

 

so naked and

going for it

anyway.

 

 

 

 

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Two Nearlys

Two Nearlys

these empty hands—

there was a time

they grasped for emptiness

*

just before the words

there’s the chance to say nothing—

trees don’t have this problem

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