I would write a love poem
I but I am getting tired of those.
I could write one of nature,
charting this winter's long repose.
I could try a standard patterned one,
like a complex vilanelle,
I could attempt a sonnet or a haiku, or
one of those easternish gazelles.
Each day another poem
Each day another fight
to make sense of all these feelings
and all you can do is write.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
March 9th, 2011
i don't want to say good bye.
not yet.
not ever.
and yet.
it's been a long time coming, three months, nearly four, since the accident
and you've been suffering, we've been suffering
but i've been putting this off, this
"saying goodbye" this, "letting you go"
not yet.
and yet.
i can't keep paying the upkeep, the maintenance, on a body so badly damaged
i can't afford to keep you, splintered like you are
for sentimental reasons
my heart couldn't take it, either.
and so.
and yet.
and now.
it's time.
not yet.
not ever.
and yet.
it's been a long time coming, three months, nearly four, since the accident
and you've been suffering, we've been suffering
but i've been putting this off, this
"saying goodbye" this, "letting you go"
not yet.
and yet.
i can't keep paying the upkeep, the maintenance, on a body so badly damaged
i can't afford to keep you, splintered like you are
for sentimental reasons
my heart couldn't take it, either.
and so.
and yet.
and now.
it's time.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
March 7th 2011
it's like being stuck
in a sandwich
of doom:
this is what happens
when you purchase a house
built in 1929.
the walls cave in with moisture
and the ceiling collapses from damp
and the basement floods, waves of water rising steadily through the night
ironic
that you're being soaked out
considering you live
in the driest place on earth.
in a sandwich
of doom:
this is what happens
when you purchase a house
built in 1929.
the walls cave in with moisture
and the ceiling collapses from damp
and the basement floods, waves of water rising steadily through the night
ironic
that you're being soaked out
considering you live
in the driest place on earth.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
March 5th 2011
Communicating.
"I'm shorapling".
"What?"
We are on the telephone, each one of us holding one close to an ear. The wind is rushing, I can hear you breathing, I think you must be outside. I imagine you standing there, in the snow, without mittens, a cell pushed tight to your head.
"I'm shrapling," you say again, and I know you are getting frustrated, I know you are losing patience. We have been shouting down the phone like this for days now.
"I still can't hear you," my voice is straining, I can hear the wind, it is rushing on my end, too, and I want to understand you, I want to know what's going on. "Please tell me what you mean."
Please. Please. Please.
"I'm shorapling".
"What?"
We are on the telephone, each one of us holding one close to an ear. The wind is rushing, I can hear you breathing, I think you must be outside. I imagine you standing there, in the snow, without mittens, a cell pushed tight to your head.
"I'm shrapling," you say again, and I know you are getting frustrated, I know you are losing patience. We have been shouting down the phone like this for days now.
"I still can't hear you," my voice is straining, I can hear the wind, it is rushing on my end, too, and I want to understand you, I want to know what's going on. "Please tell me what you mean."
Please. Please. Please.
Friday, March 4, 2011
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