I always called it sing-songy French,
the occasional sweet things she’d say
in her deep southern, swing low tone.
We lost all contact over time:
marriages, divorces, voyages,
wars and rumors of wars,
storms and floods and broken dikes –
and now we are too old
to put the scattered pieces back
into their right places.
But though scattered, the random pieces
of our lost love, words, verses
refuse to go away completely,
to abandon us hopelessly, altogether.
So we stare at them, the pieces,
the fragments, impossible to ignore,
though equally impossible to re-assemble,
and the pieces stare back at us,
the sing-songy notes, the French words
we used to know, the whispers,
and rest in peaceful sleep.
poetry is late
Jupiter in Cancer
Mars and Earth
and Sun in alignment –
blood moon coming
roll the dice:
a bumble bee
a swollen thumb
an ocean voyage
At our center
is a dying star:
an empty space –
a black hole.
It once emitted light
to all inside its orbit;
but now it only absorbs,
and robs, and depletes –
And yet it still
has force and grace
to bend us at its will –
and hold us all – together.
In one year, or in a thousand years
our galaxies resume their chosen paths,
and from afar, from Earth perhaps, the truth
will be revealed: we are not one – but two,
or many stars, diverse, distinct, passing through
space like ships in the night. And sailors still
reach their destinations, despite the inexactitude,
still sleep in loving arms’ embrace the long night
through. So what’s the moral of this story,
what’s this sonnet’s point? We seek defined lives
in indefinite space. We try to reconcile
our every act, our every word, each thought,
but ere the end all bets are off,
and all is naught but drifting stardust…
The universe has no beginning nor end,
expanding and unbounded in undefined space
and time. And every event is an act on a stage,
a plot that continually evolves.
Our paths cross like two distant stars –
each a separate solar system –
but from afar, from Earth, perhaps,
we appear joined, fused, as one.
And sailors use our illumination
to steer their ships by through the darkened night,
and stargazers reckon the passage of time
by the single light they think that we emit.
Yet all their precise calculations miss
the mark, if based on a fixed truth that’s false.
Measure equal portions each:
ground ginger and cinnamon sticks;
whole peppercorn and clove buds;
cardamom pods; nutmeg; and black cumin seeds.
Mix in a grinder until powdery and fine,
store in an airtight metal tin.
Heat one teaspoon in four cups of water
until it forms a shimmering slime on top.
Add tea and steep for taste,
or brew in coffee, per your choice,
in similar proportion. Or sprinkle
on ice cream or your favorite dessert.
The spice mix will de-stress your mind,
soothe digestion and aid regularity.
three days in
might be three days late
for a beginning poem.
my compass was confused,
I lost my way
in the thickness of the fog.
a late start
is not the end of things –
it is still a beginning:
and I still have you,
and you, me,
and we, each other.
So let’s make a go
of this poetry month
and celebrate each day,
early or late,
lost or found,
beginning to end.