My head is up in
The clouds as I
Have so often told
You, that collective
You to whom I write
For whom I write.
The clouds are my
Magic carpet, my
Highway to heaven.
A route so ephemeral
I fear to tread on its
Soft shoulders and
Wonder where they
Will take me just as
I wonder where they
Have gone as they
Float by and away.
I have been prolific,
Writing poems of
Maturity, of aging,
Poetry of memory,
Poems of mortality.
I have loved on paper
As in life. Wanted and
Longed. Remembered.
I have written it all
Down, to share with
You. My poems tell
Stories, paint scenes,
Sometimes profound,
Most often mundane.
That is what a life is.
That is how ours goes,
From heights of drama
To the ordinary, the
Beautiful. The every day.
This is my bid for immortality.
Leaving behind a few words.
Savoring life in poems, writing
It all down. Ideas writ large or
More often small in just so many
Words. They spill out over all
Life's many topics. There's
Love, of course, and what you
Chose for dinner. My awe can
Overwhelm my poetry. Fear is
In there too; fear of losses, big
More often tiny or petty. They
All matter. To me, to you. To us.
Day or night, some of us are
Dreamers or sceamers, some
Plan some plot. Daydreams
Are the hopeful kind, the ones
Full of wishes and whims, of
Things we want and maybe
Don't know. Desires hidden a
Bit deeper than fears, those
Come out in the darkness. We
Call them nightmares, in honor
Of a medieval evil spirit, said
To smother sleepers. Dream
In the daylight and let your
Sunshine shine in, dodge the
Malevolent "mare." Be ye of
Good cheer. Dream well and
In peace, in good company.
Day dreams are the hopeful
Kind, where desires are met
All these years, we never dropped
The ball. If it happened to fall, we
Would have been there, saving the
Other the embarrassment when it
Rolled away off the court. It didn't
I came for summer
And stayed for fall
Autumn leaves fell
I was still here and
Now it was getting
Cold. The chill did
Not deter. I waited
It out. Spring was
'Round every corner.
I stayed for summer.
April was "the cruelest month"
T. S. Eliot had his sway, being
Right only goes so far and now
May comes in teasing, blowing
Hot and cold like a lady in waiting
Flowers, famously made hers
By the showers of anticipation
From the clouds of the month
Before sit unsure of themselves
In beds strewn around tree trunks
Cast too early for their colorful
Debuts, appearing papery and
Transparent in the iffy sunshine
Of overcast May days, seeking
Succor from the chill winds, not
Quite secure in their nesting
Places. Chaucer spoke of the
Renewal that is spring. I say it's
A process and a time of year.
Our personal juices
Teasing through our
Veins. We are giddy.
Floral scents and that
Chaos of color makes
Us flighty as a puppy
Chasing butterflies.
It's spring; we crave
Love but more than
That. We're unreliable.
It's spring. Our blood
Is pumped for and
Primed. Renewal is
A reward, a privilege
The genitalia of flowers is frequently
On display, even in polite society as
Startling and unexpected as innocent
A pictorial to guide us on their growth
Loving you will save us, although
I know I am powerless, and my
Love can't save you from what
Ails you and rips you from me, I
Know that actively loving, giving
My whole heart in my care for you
Is my salvation. Our lives are on
Parallel paths, but our love is a
Collision course, both perilous
And divine. Love doesn't stop a
Heartbreak, but giving love can
Mend or bend and reunite us
With our better, nay best selves
Tamara, really