sparks (part I)

sparks (* and life begins—)
            rise
flames        , but then
                                       die.

this is all. life =
mean of * + loss + * + loss

(*I am, *I am, *I am…)
what I was — could be.

I could be, I am…

I was waiting for—

   (     )      .

For Thomas

For Thomas

I used to think abortion should be outlawed
because it is unethical, immoral.
“Pro-choice” is simply cheap paint over sick graffiti;
“pro-life,” of course, the only means of preventing murder.
Life begins at conception
(it has a heartbeat)
(it has fingernails)

But now I know

After a late night shift, doubled-over,
After a deluging night in denial (of the unknown yet obvious)
After – finally – gloved hands and glazed eyes
intruding
affirming
what I had tried to reason away;
immediately relieving the fear that I might find it a relief
(to be free from that unexpected, unaffordable-right-now pink line)

There was no heartbeat
There were no fingernails to see
“Your uterus is empty”
(resonated in me that, maybe, I had imagined it all along)

There was a distant “sorry”
(I forgive you?)
and a prescription to return in two weeks
(no problem, I had a prenatal visit scheduled then anyway)

No answers, no explanations,
“The bleeding should stop by then.”
“We'll verify you're okay by then”
(it was barely even a fetus)

Now I know

Abortion should be outlawed
And not just because
of my standards versus yours
of your rights versus hers

But because
to give you “a choice” takes away mine

---


So I know this is a touchy subject - but I would greatly appreciate any objective feedback you can offer. I'm still not completely happy with the last two stanzas. And I'd like to know how the overall impression comes across - if you would be honest about it. Thanks :)

my funnygirl

lying in the drawer where she hides (oh, my funnygirl).
puppet strings cut and strewn about her, entangling
oddities and freaks, lost marbles for companions—broken thing
reaching inside, i try to draw her out, but elbows push—away
she shrinks farther back, knees crawling, fingers digging. harder.
nails bleed as wood splinters, signaling warning (staining remorse)
the lines of her palms now forming the grain of her coffin.

her eyes dark and full (of ebbing sorrow
spilled secrets) from fearful eyes carrying a chronology down
her face. (small panes for such a large soul)
small hands that hold much.

her breaths come heavy and she heaves with sobbing silent screams
(and He shouts in her pain to awaken)
but like that couple who hid to cover, so she retreats
barring herself without (within), flinching as i hold her
i lean low and close to her grief (and my fingers do gather
as i sit to bleed.) her own story mixing with my own.

she lays in her drawer, no love or joy
a hell of absence—cry for peace
and all i can do is struggle to lift the corners of her mouth,
oh my funnygirl.

I am at a deep well of loss

peering over the circular brick wall
that holds something
you can’t stop staring at

listening to the echo the water droplets make
as they let go

and you hold on

"wear another shoe to comfort the soul..."

your every look (which today) uncloses
my every smile and thought
timid—expecting—a heart
still. (reflecting off of me)
—I, undone.

lights that traffic a wasteland
never dimming – point of beginning
(or the end.)

red light, green light
beckoning. (go)
days where I wish—
street lights might turn blue instead of green
(like your eyes)

you take me in and then disclose me
oh, Love that cannot and will not (ever)
—be known.

waves rush in (as well as fools), oh child,
and we shatter.
rhythmic pull of a western tide
bringing us in and hemming us out
finding that these are paths for a solitary way

looking up, looking deeply to decide
the sky is gaping wide.
to an image of myself (I am bound)
sky too blue. day too near.

"I am as constant as the northern star"

I think that if my feelings were liquid,
they would be blood.
And the red of them
would be drenching my white Armani blouse right now.
I think if my heart were a playground,
it would be closed at 3 p.m. each day
and on the days you get bored with me.

But it would be open
each and every rainy day,
without exception.

I hate power.
When you have it all,
my cells move in the opposite direction of your touch.
When I have it,
I use it like black magic
and ruin everything around me;
including you.

I think if aching has become my career,
I’d like to retire early.
I think I’d at least like to take my seven-day vacation
very soon.

I’ve never been a brick-layer,
a wall-builder…
there is no dam keeping my feelings
from spilling over the rocks,
or onto your plate during our dinner conversation.

I’m sorry.
Should I change?

I think if I do,
I might become a solid that can’t melt—
not under heat or pressure.
And that sounds pretty permanent.

When I swallow,
I wish it would work.
I wish The Moment and Forever
would stop rising in the back of my throat
every time I breathe.

The Fools' Love

Alas, amore shall sting your sides
For deftly Cupid's arrow flies
Across the land or sky or sea
To pierce cold hearts in irony
You gasp and shudder in anguished woe
Two strangers caught by Cupid's bow
And love's first spell begins to play
On lovers trapped by a cherub's sway

'Ay, me. What is love?' she desperately cries
Her entreaties met by a silent sky
Devotion burns, he pleads with her,
'My heart is yours, oh please concur'
'Baby I'm afraid you'll break my heart.'
He draws her close and swears never to part
Then fire burns with expanding glow
And a tempest of fervor threatens their souls

Now, others watch this dangerous game
Some human, some not, but all know the same
If asked they can't say what love really means
If pressed they'll just say "Love's more than it seems"
But Puck, he knows, the clever truth
And for a price he'll speak in sooth
If the lovers ask with earnest pleas
(And add a gift) he'll answer quick as you please

"True love," he'll say with impish grin
"Is more than just a heart to win;
But sacrifice, faith, and a little fun
True love won't begin 'til the wedding's done."
But silly lovers bask in passions' glimmer
'Til rapture fades to a dying simmer
And in anguish the lovers break their embrace
And walk away wounded by mishandled grace

Puck likes to foil Cupid, so you see,
In the dying ardor he looks on with glee
And if you listen softly you'll hear his decree
'Lord what fools these mortals be.'

In Honor of Valentines Day--A Love Poem

I wanted to finish something I started.

So when we kissed that first time
and you said, “We can do better.”

I thought,
“Let’s make this homework
for the rest of our lives.”

I want to make plans for the future.

I want to live inside a giant bookshelf
disguised as a house.
I want a vegetable and herb garden out back,
flower pots on every window sill,
easy access to my easy-bake-oven,
finger paintings hung like sconces on the wall,
and you
in a chair
studying,
thinking,
reading,
dreaming,
waiting;
ready for me to interrupt you,
eager to hear me remind you
that we are alive.

We are alive together.

So when I tell you, “I love you.”
I mean it in the ways they do;
on television and inside books
(and inside the looks they give one another
across candlelit tables)

But more than that, I mean it
in all the ways I hadn’t planned for—
the ways I now
can’t imagine
living without.

I wanted to finish something I started.
So I started with you.

Hello

I admire that you've reconvened 

and sought to brew 

a tast of what we once consumed 

in joy and secret

or in public places 

The revelry of pure expression 

Brought to paper lovingly 

We spoke and shared over chicken fingers

I spilled sauce on your things

What was it that I had at masters that I've so often sought to deny

When I convinced myself I was never one of you

Was it a lie?

Well, I've written sparcely since we dispersed

And my being has become more bland

Work emails never flow in verse

Cubicles constrain & countermand

I hope I see you all again

But maybe I won't -- time will tell

For now I hope this entry finds you

Living, Loving an Writing well

JML

poem from 2006

I'd rather be a companion to loneliness
than to see the day that you stop seeing me.
I'd rather only wonder what it would be like
than to be made a fool by reality.