The Thirteenth Of May

They come and go, days,

each like every other, another one to come

after this one is done.

We mark them or forget them or ignore them

as we choose,

the significance of a date often lost in the daze of our lives.

Joe Louis, Dennis Rodman, the Wonder of Stevie,

and lesser mortals, entered the world on this,

the Thirteenth of May,

while Doris, on this Day, left it.

And this day will soon be that day, passed, the past,

like those who come and go or came and went, alas.

What will tomorrow bring? More of the same thing.

So celebrate this day, the Thirteenth of May,

because, unlike all the other days

this day is today,

today.

We Don’t Understand Us

You don’t get it.

I can’t get it right.

We don’t understand us.

Nothing of us is understandable. We are complex,

complicated, completely normal

in our abnormal ways. This is how it goes,

how life unfolds for us, for all of us, for always,

forever, ’til death us do part, our carved hearts

entwined in the bloody accident of our meeting,

of our simple act of simply being,

of the living of our ordinary lives.

Husbands and wives.

Neither knows the other, and never will, anyway.

I know you little enough to be able to say

I do not know you, too.

You will always be a mystery to me,

as I will be to you.

And this is true,

love.

Sunlight Through Petals

The garden at dawn, early morning

outside space.

Sunlight shines through petals.

Mere purple turns to violet,

white shines brighter; the light

illuminates the tight spun-sugar wires of webs

linking leaf to stem, bud to branch.

It is too early for the human stain.

Ants crawl by my feet, just as busy and aimless.

Birds sing to me, trilling cadences

thrilling the ear with their unfathomable

messages of life and hope.

There is a faint perfume, the residue of some

night scented bloom

that needs the intimacy of night

to hide it’s beauty.

From three million miles away

the sun paints my face with warmth.

The empty, cloudless sky

has never been more blue.

This world is a wonder.

If I have to leave it,

let it be on a day like this,

not wrapped in the shrouded gloom

of bedclothes and room.

Let me go out

outside,

smiling.

Losing My Mind

Maybe it’s the times. Maybe it’s the lack of self-space.

Maybe it’s just that I’m getting old and even more Leary,

but I seem to be losing my mind.

My captive thoughts are escaping their brain cells,

running away from me like ungrateful rats

deserting a shrinking wit.

Concentrating is taking a frustrating effort,

although in truth it was never easy for me

and my fluttering butterfly mind

to keep a single thought in my head

when there were so may others to be thunked.

They wander in now from the corners of my mind,

like creeping jeepers in a horrorshow, and I’m afraid

that is what the next feature may be.

Hanging on to threads, following them through

before they unravel and I am lost in the backwoods

of my brain, just keeping hold of thoughts

seems to be getting harder.

Oh, well.

I’m not going to worry.

If I did lose my mind,

how would I know?

Maybe madness is normal in times like these.

I Think Of It All

When the only thing you have to do is live,

not make or earn or serve or do,

what you do instead is think.

You think about you.

You always think about you,

but not always so purely,

so completely,

so utterly focused

on you.

And when you think too much,

you start to think like this.

You are not just part of existence,

you are all of it,

because without you,

without you as the witness

to the star farms and quarks,

the sound of seashore surf,

to jasmine scent, or the smell

of a wordless child’s head,

to the unutterable beauty

of bird feathers and snowflakes,

without you as the witness,

it is not there.