Today Yolonda declined
a rejoin invite from ladies of the day,
because the absurd notice said,
“and no damn masks” is as close
to a dis as she is willing to concede.
My writer’s guild also discussed
timing and protocols for safe rejoins
at face-to-face meetings after
we’ve all had our shots. It’s complicated.
But no one even mentioned wearing masks.
Look both ways for both wise choices and illogical tropes.
Mind the gaps as the CDC warns of yet to come.
Morning Cat
Sometimes, in the morning I stretch like a cat.
It feels good to expand my arms into the air,
to feel my body push against itself,
to feel my life physically trigger another day.
It feels good to stretch my arms into the air,
quietly announcing my arrival before dawn upstages me.
I want to physically trigger another day in my life.
before dawn steals my self-awareness, that “I’m alive” feeling.
I enjoy quietly announcing my arrival while
admiring the cobalt blue and sunny pink sky colors,
as sunrise steals my awareness, an “I’m alive” feeling
that makes me want to make the best of the day to come.
I admire the cobalt blue and sunny pink morning skies
and I want to feel my body push against itself,
as I hope to make the best of the day to come.
Sometimes, in the morning I stretch like a cat.
Look both ways when you’re feeling a bit catty.
Mind the gaps. Especially the ones behind the eyes.
Moon’s Grace
What about the moon?
I see it and can feel something
unlike the Sun or stars.
Mona, Selene, Luna, or Mwezi,
a nameless orb.
The Moon is
Waxing, waning, or full;
in orbit, playing with tides, waking
creatures of the night,
inspiring music and stories,
the moon relates to us.
Look both ways.
It is the same moon it’s always been and always will be.
Mind the gaps when it’s new and dark as night.
Neither spiritual nor religious, I
See life’s awesomeness, and feel Nature’s beauty,
In such vast Universal vistas of consciousness.
They don’t escape this precipice of
Love, admiration, and appreciation.
Look both ways.
The awesome beauty of it all is not lost without a god.
Mind the gaps, lost logic fits well there.
Sitting on a bench
beside this small lake
on a warm, sunny
winter March day,
in Texas, not yet Spring,
but it feels good.
A golf course
on the opposite side,
with carts silently
moving, following, stopping,
going nowhere
to find a ball.
Golfers swing clubs,
ride to find balls.
Some call it exercise.
I gave it up
in college. No
regrets.
What is it
about the water
that calms me
and I want to
write a poem
about feeling
peaceful, calm,
listening without
hearing brave birds?
Soon it will be
Spring, and
I’ll return here,
to find calm.
A nice day, this,
in many ways.
Look both ways around the water.
There’s the natural and the not.
Mind the gaps where golfers lose their balls.
What’s Cool?
Is kitsch quality or poor taste?
Are minimalists monotonous?
Are sandal’s socks courageous?
Do pink Flamingos
promulgate plastic?
Is Bahama Mama racist?
Are Brazilian Beauties sexist?
Is bland better than spice?
Is culture copy complimentary?
No fuzzy dice on mirrors,
but the green turtle on my dash
and a little yellow rubber duckie love me,
without some good god’s crucifix
or prayer beads.
I admit. I’m a bit kitschy.
Look both ways with taste and preference.
Human nature dictates, human nurture personificates.
Mind the gaps between and among us.
I wrote two poems because I liked this prompt.
Happy Raspy
The young, talented, beautiful Irish busker’s angelic voice,
unique and indescribable, called to me from Grafton Street.
Her glancing smile and raised brow calls all to pay homage
to the gift that brings me to resonated tears. My raspy old poem.
***
Yo, Billy Boy
When we said, “Call for me,”
we invited a friend, always a boy,
usually Jimmy, to stand outside and yell,
“Hello, Bill (or Billy)” loud enough
to be heard from any part of the house
and responded to, if anyone cared.
***
Look both ways on Grafton in Dublin.
Mind the gaps in such a marvelous voice.
Half of One
Her possession complete,
their synergistic power became
magic greater than ever.
Look both ways because life is short and comes with a price.
Mind the gaps for inspiration and answers.
(I have no idea if she is the possessor or the possessed. I was thinking the former, but the latter works too.)
Should you want to read my mind,
and I yours? Do our thoughts matter?
And what of dreams?
Are they in our minds, barely clear,
unseen reverie of thoughts, only real when we sleep?
If you could read my mind, could I then read yours?
Would we share thoughts, and each be of two minds?
I’m often with two minds while claiming one—
more conflicted than confused. Do you see through eyes
that are like windows to a witness,
seeing my thoughts,
or are they mixed with yours in me?
If I could read your mind, would a new universe
be revealed to me? One with background and rationale
to justify your thoughts. Would I understand you better?
Or is it true that you and I are what we do?
If you read my mind, do you see my thoughts
through the lens of yours? If not, are my words and actions
filtered through your mind and thoughts? Is that truth?
Are you able to separate you and understand me alone,
entirely without you, your life, your experience, your own thoughts?
“I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try”
“But that was just a dream
Try, cry, fly, try
That was just a dream
Just a dream
Just a dream, dream” *
Forget my mind. It’s crazy anyway.
Read my heart. Listen for my soul.
Judge me by what I do. Ultimately, that is who I am.
I am not a poet. I’m your poet. And you’re mine.
Look both ways. Believe the real, the truth. We are what we do.
Mind the gaps and the pullbacks, the maybes are filled with deceit.
(* Lyrics from Losing My Religion, R.E.M.)
Small Heart; Big Deal
Sometimes, size matters. It seems sensible,
big things are to do big jobs. But not always.
Our most important parts are brains, hearts, lungs, livers, and stomachs.
In that order. Everything matters but size.
The most impressive of these is the heart.
Small, weighing less than a pound, it does gargantuan work.
Pounding up to 25 quarts of blood each minute every day at 70 beats a minute,
one-hundred thousand times per day. Three billion in a lifetime.
The size of my fist, our hearts, yours, and mine,
have been heralded through history, physically and emotionally.
Look both ways in chambers and valves.
Feel and hear as the beat goes on. Mind the gaps on the EKG.
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