I Sometimes Wonder

I sometimes wonder what my dad would say
If he could see the way my life has gone –
I still have questions I would like to ask,
But there is nothing now he can pass on

The last time that I spoke to him, he said,
“It’s time for me to go.” – and so he went —
But with each passing day, I realize,
How much I missed, from being arrogant

For now I find, among the stacks of years,
The things he taught way back when I began:
That brains and money, both, count but for naught,
While honor is the measure of the man

I sometimes wonder what he would have said
To all the many things I could have asked —
It’s funny: he was not much for advice
Except a couple times, when really tasked —

He’d say to look ahead at what’s to come,
And not to waste a day, or waste a night:
But always to remember, in all things:
Too late, it never is,
To do what’s right

love’s a broken word –

love’s a broken word – it doesn’t
capture what we mean to say –
so many senses used,
and past that, felt –

a practice of amphiboly,
we never really understand –
like cards we can’t turn up,
but that we’re dealt

we say we love, I know,
but tell me this –
aren’t words that broken

The days I spent in knowing her…

A retelling of a story I’ve told elsewhere, so, please excuse any repetition. – Owen

(A retelling of a story I’ve told elsewhere, so, please excuse any repetition. – Owen)

The days I spent in knowing her
Were soft and slow, but yet a blur;
That time was like a holiday
That lit the sky, then went away

But not in anger, not in doubt,
And not in bitterness or strife;
We ended carelessly, it seems,
A half-well-thought-out time of life

And we, we each moved on from that.
She went to places far afield,
And all her passions learned to yield
To circumstance and habitat

And I, I took a different path;
Of problems, answers, business, math –
I stirred the life domestic, and
Found sperm donation doesn’t make the man

And when, last Christmas, I reached out
She answered with the same sweet look
Although now many miles we’ve gone
Past bridges made of stone across a brook…

… she said she loved me then and still;
She always has, and always will,
But not to swap the life she’s led
Or change it to an “us” instead —

And with some mist upon my eyes,
I looked away from her a bit:
The years I’ve spent in knowing her,
I think I only knew
The half of it

One Man’s View of Loving A Woman

(for my wife — )

I wouldn’t write monologues
If I knew how to have conversations.
With her, I know how –

Closeness, where
The necessity of distance is

Distance, where
The reality of closeness is

The younger man’s hunger to always be joined, and
The older man’s desire to always see her flourish;
To see her safe to give full play to her own powers
So long as life’s vicissitudes allow for it.

The perpetual amazement of knowing someone
Wants me to cause me pleasure;
The unceasing desire to be her pleasure,
Or her sounding board,
Or her solace, as needed.

In a bare room, she is
The only decoration required;
And when she is deep in thought,
The world slows itself into kindness.

We only get so many spins of the Earth;
Eventually, it flings us off —
But when the day comes
That this planet travels on without me,
I will have known the miracle that is
The creation of a new whole universe of reality

Out of two people

The Fading Path Back Home

If wishes could our dreams make true,
I’d walk the fading path back home
And see the very best of you
Beside a sunset polychrome

But years come in, and like the tide
They bear away our wishes late,
To leave an emptiness inside
That is our burden and our fate

For much that was, no longer is,
And much we feared has come to be;
Until the day that just to wish
Becomes a part of history —

But that day is not here, just yet.
The waves are restless, topped with foam,
And I will not forsake, forget
The love that lights
The fading path
Back home