“I love that man,” was what she said to me,
and “I hate that other one,” her follow-on, bait-switch statement,
that morsel of red herring to mislead my unwanted retort
to her bleating caterwaul. I knew this kvetch ranked
behind turd infected punji sticks in heart and soul.
Niggle not. Poetry is sycophantic art when inoffensive kindness
and socially sensitive ethics are euphemisms for hidden truth.
Look both ways, if he can tell it like it is, I’m also justified. Mind gaps for expiration of truth.
“The process of assessing how you feel about the things you own, identifying those that have fulfilled their purpose, expressing your gratitude, and bidding them farewell, is really about examining your inner self, a rite of passage to a new life.” (Marie Kondo)
New clothes were brought home
as treasured items proudly worn.
Gifts of love once remembered.
And cloth diapers for three babies,
none of whom used wash and wear for theirs,
but they sure as hell wore them.
Old shirts, their purpose long fulfilled,
now used to clean, dry, or wipe.
They’re washed, then continue to serve.
Old rags have memories woven into fabric—
from experiences with life;
from when first worn, old rags aren’t discards.
They’ve simply changed uses. Like people.
And memories. Lots of memories.
“…a rite of passage to a new life.”
Look both ways,
from the marvel of the mint to the value of the venerable.
Mind the gaps, but for most, “it don’t mean a thing.”
How can it be?
They were once lovers intent on solving the riddle of forever.
Time was the mere scent of one, aroused the other
and they clung together like peach and stone.
How can it be as time passed, such love was lost?
How did what was become unthinkable?
When did the passion of love serve up malevolence?
What paradox now leaves two enigmatic lovers
with a secret neither knows?
Look both ways on the road of love.
The past is not the future. The present is not forever.
Mind the gaps for the riddle of discontent.
His first words,
“What will you get?”
With such words our brother
accounted for decades of silence.
“He can’t help it,”
I’d tell myself.
“It’s not his fault.
He was raised like that,”
I told myself.
He’s your big brother.
He should be your hero,”
I still tell myself—
Not some pitiful old man
Who’ll never understand why,
I told myself, again.
Our sister’s bequest
was that he suffer
as he caused her, but I couldn’t
let her love lapse, I told myself.
Look both ways with family and friends.
Mind the gaps, but learn to live without them.
Please move closer to me,
feel chilled air,
warmed radiant love,
skin against skin,
two pools of passion.
Feel me, touch me, taste me,
lucid reality packed with
lost memories so real as we
dance by the luminous light of
a harvest moon.
She thought his bright sun made her shine.
But it was his darkness that illuminated her beauty.
Look both ways into days and nights.
Mind the gaps, sunshine or moonlight.
Give thanks for those who make us look good.