In My Life
I sit under the stars
Ruminating
Meditating
Ping-ponging
Like an 8-bit game
Back and forth between
Sonnet 116
And In My Life
Asking myself
How many I have loved?
Most nights I would say, three.
It’s the safe answer.
But on a good night
When the entire universe
Resides in me
I would say thousands.
The girl with the pink hair
Waiting in line at the Bursar’s office
And the boy who held my hand in fourth grade
The girl with eyes so black they were almost blue dancing against
me at the club
And the long-haired boy in High School without the nerve to
ask
Each smile on the train
Each glance and look away
And why not?
Why doesn’t each of them deserve
The full force of my love
For those few moments?
I loved them all
But what about 116?
If it be error than
No man ever loved
So error it mustn’t be
And then
The number drops
To one
Who is not time’s fool
My ever-fixed mark
I sit under the star
To my wandering bark
I ruminate
I meditate
Some memories never lose their meaning
When the Muse Comes to Call
“Revision, revision, revision.”
I tell my writing students
Like any good teacher will.
With prose, it is true.
It is solid. It is the work
That must be done.
Poetry—
Poetry is different.
Poets don’t write poetry.
Poets wait—
Sometimes for hours
With pen in hand
Pretending that there is something
We can do to make it happen.
Sometimes
Still and silent
Hoping we won’t scare her off.
Sometimes
In the crowded chaos
Frantically trying to grab her whispers.
Poets don’t write poetry.
Poets wait—
For when the muse comes to call.
Angel
of Grief
On
my knees
A
weeping angel
next
to the bed
Prayer
position
with
no god left
to
save me
I
have released
everything
not
meant for me
On
my knees
weeping
in
no man’s arms
Alone
I
rise
stronger
Heart
of Fire
(For
Mary Shelley)
Wrap
your blackened heart
In
a poem
You
know the one
The
one not fully lost
Like
me
The
one not ever found
More
than a memory
A
thing that can be touched
That
you can never touch
Again
And
I will carry it
That
blackened heart of yours
Wrapped
in your poem
In
my inside pocket
Or
the bottom of my purse
Safe
but forgotten
Until
I'm gone
And
all that's left of you
Your
poetry
Your
blackened heart
Are
my words
Dog-eared
on bookshelves
Tucked
away in backpacks
Or
open on nightstands
You
will be remembered
Not
for what you did
Or
what you wrote
But
for who you were
To
me
Weal
and Woe
Sometimes
I drink in excess
Though
this is not my vice
A
glass of red becomes the bottle
By
the end of a dark night
But
my real addiction lies
In
people, poetry, and song
Consume
each page and inch of skin
Before
the breaking dawn
And
you — my past, my future love
I
know you do this too
On
more than one occasion
I’ve
been this vice for you
I’ve
been addicted to your eyes
Addicted
to your touch
I’ve
turned away and back again
From
wanting you so much
Now
you turn from me once more
I
accept it with a sigh
Love
them all — I know you will
Love me until you die
Greatly enjoyed.
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