Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Fourteen, Poem Number Fourteen: “This Moment”

I’m only here for this moment.
Soon
others
will be clamoring for your attention.
But I can’t let myself wander
into future scenarios where I am excluded
and my existence isn’t considered.
I have you all to myself for this space of time
which could be measured by the numbers on your clock,
but for what purpose?
Later, in my dulled, damaged memories,
hours and minutes won’t matter.
Only the photo strip of still lives will remain and affect me.
I have you all to myself for this space of time
because I am all you have directly in front of you.
It is my good fortune
that you have switched to tunnel vision and
mine are the only approaching headlights you’re focused on.
I drive at a mild pace;
eager to reach you,
my destination,
but fully aware
of the danger
of rushing through an experience that
will in end in the ironic,
illuminating rays
of the rising sun.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eleven, Poem Number Eleven: “Jude, The Patron Saint, Falls In Love”

These are not Halcyon days and nights
for those wearing exposed hearts
stitched clumsily to their arms.
They should be afraid
or at least alert;
put up your guard!
I say.

The hospital volunteer in her vermilion stripes and exhibitionist skirt,
offers to help the ailing and hapless but even worse
our body’s defenses are low.
She infects this vulnerable man,
an unprotected soldier sans armor
caught in her barbed wire,
destitute.

Like a dentist, she comes in grinning, porcelain, smiling innocence
brandishing tools and clamps and other things that are good for my health.
And if I’m a good boy, here’s a sweet, except
my molars shatter every time
they bite down on your
hard candy,
doctor.

Another role, another face, she fills the shoes gracefully, a glass slipper
forms around her foot, molten glass never burning the skin.
Instead the clear membrane embraces it, thankful to have been chosen.
Until the day the scuffs and the dullness
become embarrassing
and she kicks it off
shattering it.

At last, a waitress comes around to deliver the check,
and the price is hefty, perhaps too high to pay.
She knocks over a bottle of wine yet
her charm is disarming so
I don’t mind the stain.
It all trickles down
to the bottom.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Nine, Poem Number Nine: “Tonight and Tomorrow”

Tonight the moon looks like a flashlight peeking out from a closet bulging with grey suits.
Tonight the moon looks like a night light obscured by cobwebs in spooled loops.
Tonight the moon looks like a pupil less eye judging our every move.
Tonight the moon looks like the only clear spot on a magnificent bruise.

Tomorrow the sun will shine like the second hand cufflinks on a poor man’s suit.
Tomorrow the sun will burn like not being kept in the loop.
Tomorrow the sun will warm like an awkward first kiss when you make your move.
Tomorrow the sun will heal all but a damaged heart’s bruise.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eight, Poem Number Eight: “What Am I Giving Away Here?”

What am I giving away here?
Interwoven memories or
Merely stitched fabrics.
The smells have washed away
As have the dirt and the filth.
Hard as I try
I can’t roll around in that soil again
It wouldn’t be the same stains and grime.

What am I giving away here?
Gifts I never appreciated,
Items I’ve outgrown.
In size and scale
And humor and personality.
There were trips I never took
But falsely advertised.
And regretful acts.
And vacations taken as someone else.
I once tried to hide an unintentional publicized shame
That I now cringe at the thought of releasing.

What am I giving away here?
Control.
Over myself.
Over my past.
Over the history that is told.
They may not fit me anymore
But I am inclined to squeeze into them again.
Those roles and moments and snapshots and lives I miss living.

What am I giving away here?
The first time I truly understood what a woman felt like;
The first time I attempted (and failed) at having people take me seriously;
My innocuous attempt at revenge you’ll never know about;
My drunken attempt at reinventing myself;
No, these shall still be mine.

They will become someone else’s costume
They will tear
And rip
And mend
And love
And assemble a new life out of these rags
And perhaps they will ask themselves
What am I getting here?

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Seven, Poem Number Seven: “Open Book Closed”

Your secret name is Karintha
known only to me.
Like Toomer’s nymph
who grew into a woman wild with freedom
and made the men lascivious.
You are
irresistible.

You are free
in a world you feel trapped by.
The souls of your feet never touch the ground
as you dance through the air.
Thick fingers paw at the hem of your dress.
You are
elusive.

You attack with a smile
targeting only me.
I have married you fifty times
in my dreams, in yours, and raised a family with you by my side.
But I am like all the rest of those men who were enamored.
I am
mistaken.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Six, Poem Number Six: “By The Way”

(An Ode to Love, Leftovers, and William Carlos Williams)

I awoke today
to leftovers of
your fried mac and cheese
in my fridge

I’m sure
you left it accidentally
hoping
to eat it later

I apologize
for devouring
your tempting
and tasty food

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