Poetry

When I was just a child, the phone
Would ring to let you know
That somewhere else a someone sat
Awaiting your ‘hello’;
You’d pick up the phone, or leave it alone;
And that’s how far you’d go.

And then there came the softening blow:
The answering machine,
That played (thanks to your greeting from
Attempt number eighteen)
Each message amassed, the first and the last,
And all those in between.

But Murphy’s law had barely seen
The things that we’d bemoan;
We sigh and roll our eyes at each
Reverberating tone;
Our hunger for tools has made us such fools:
Won’t leave ourselves alone.

Day One: I sow my softest smile,
And reap the harvest wilted frown.

Day Two: I flash that smile and see
Just why the fallen must stay down.

Day Three: my customary smile
Begets a mostly vacant stare.

Day Four: the stare is lessened in
The degree of its vacancy.

Day Five: sweet reciprocity,
As I detect the slightest nod.

Day Six: the nod has swelled to bow,
I marvel at this work of God.

Day Seven: I get greeted first,
We trade our names excitedly.

Day Eight: I sow my softest smile,
And reap the harvest ‘bundantly.

Day Nine: we shake our hands to seal
Our warm relationship in style.

Day Ten: my dear friend receives
Me in his arms before he leaves.

And by the bye, know I ain’t I,
I’m usually the other guy.

The new anti-depressant pill,
The iron-clad pretexts for war,
That caring education bill,
Those coupons that we line up for,

All make us feel secure until…

You drown your baby in the bath,
You lose your son to smart-bomb wrath,
You ace the test, but get no call,
Our GM diet kills us all.

Our home-grown double-yew-em-dee
Is knowledge without certainty;
And that is no knowledge at all.
Lets read the writing on the wall,

And taste the glory in the shame
Of trying out this simple cure:
As we defend the good we claim,
Could we just mention, “We’re not sure”؟

The more I say, the less you hear;
The less I say, the more its clear,
That wishing for to know me more
Is not a fancy you hold dear.

Head…pain.

I pull into the parking lot,
And want to shake my head so bad,
But find that I cannot.

Head…pain…feather.

My immobility persists
While I attempt to process why
These words arrest me so.

Head…pain…feather…child.

And then I see inside my head
A scene projected by my heart,
A fascinating show:

A baby in my mother’s arms
Is rocking slowly back and forth;
She smiles, she laughs, she imitates
His coos so very well.

And as he rocks and bobs his head,
She’s taken by surprise just when
His forehead strikes her in the chest,
How hard, I cannot tell.

But she does seem to wince at that
With baby still held in her arms,
Laughing, then crying out in pain,
And then, laughing again.

I blink to end my reverie.
Feather still eludes me.