What She’s Like

She considers herself an average girl,
Who’s led a sort of mundane life:
This model-scientist-dancer-preacher
Who I happen to call my wife —

She was an entrepreneur for years;
She’s a volunteer when she sees a need:
She’s been a mother, a grandmother now,
And there’s not enough hours for her to read

All the books that we have, or she wants to have.
She’s curious and inquisitive;
She defends anyone who is ganged up on,
And knows, and believes, what it is to forgive —

She loves to move and she loves to laugh,
And she always gives comfort to those who mourn:
She as wonder-filled as the sea and the sky,
And’s had love in her heart since the day she was born —

She loves to come up with a better idea;
She lives to watch dramas that come from Korea,
She worries about the strange man that she wed,
But after a day, when it’s all done and said,

She closes the eyes on that beautiful face
Having made the world, my world, a much better place;
And I think, every morning, as I move the cover,
I can never quite say just how deeply

I love her

Waiting Room

I’m sitting in a waiting room
And choose to write this verse;
The snow is blowing hard outside
The wind keeps getting worse —

Winter once was magical
With castles made of snow;
But now the world is blank, and I
Can’t see which way to go —

The wait is over, and my child
Is here, so we depart;
We speak of senseless nothings as
We head into the heart

Of this relentless blizzard
Where we’re greeted by a blast:
Just two more people cold and lost
In problems
Way too
Vast


 

(“Waiting Room” – 1-26-2015)

A Hope

The first time that I saw her there
I had to kind of catch my breath —
To fall so hard seemed so unfair:
Another day, another death —

But then I saw her looking back:
The days came wild, I lost track —
A look that turned into a life,
And hope that turned into

A wife

Empty Room Monologue

There is an emptiness at night
That morning’s never seen:
The throbbing pain of words we say
But do not really mean.

There is a slope, a precipice,
And safety is so fleeting —
I wish I was a tourniquet
So I could stop the bleeding —

But gnawing at my very soul
And eating of my ghost
Is all that I have said and done
To those I love the most.

So tell me now, you empty room:
What all is next to follow?
And how can guilt so fill me whole
And yet I feel
So hollow?

How Soon They Forget

A boy and his mother, slowly walking
Kids voices behind them, indistinct
His head down, she reaches out to stroke his hair
He says to her, as they reach the car,
“I’m not good at sports.”

Stopping beside the car,
She looks at him, this little man (he’s become)
And says, “Sure, you are.”

“No, I’m not. I’m the slowest in my class.
I’m not, mom. I’m just not.”

And she knew, she’d always known, the day would come
When all the loving lies that parents tell
About how children can do anything, be anyone,
Would meet reality, that big, blank wall
That tells their child,
“You can go no further.”

And even though he has many, other talents,
She knows how soon he’ll forget this day, and this feeling,

Which is

 
Never

in eight plus lines

o let that one day not go past
that she should once more sorrowed be;
o please, if i could take that weight,
provide to her self-clemency —

i would. the heart that knows no law
believes: it reaches out in pain
to touch in healing whom it loves,
and tries to soothe in all times and

in vain

The Grove

I woke. My people turned to trees.
Then wondered, if I had the chance
Could I, too, with the cold winds learn
  to dance?
 
It is the grove that gives us life.
The sun, the soil that we share,
The tears of those who watch o’erhead,
  their left-by mulch, subconsciously aware —
 
I sleep; my people growing tall.
Now am I just too fast to feel
The slower dance that’s only dreamed,
  but far more
 
  real?