if/then

if
there’s more to snow than melting
more to waves than churning
more to leaves than burning,

then
there’s more to loss than losing
more to grief than crying
more to death than dying

A Miner and a Gardener Both

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod,
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil…
And, for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
              --Gerard Manley Hopkins

Did your name—Vincent—
on your brother’s tomb,
pre-load your palette
with earthen umbers in the early years,
as you picked your way
through darkened shafts bereft of light?
Did those potato eaters, earthy and forlorn,
portend a life of dread-filled days?
So it seemed.

But suddenly,
like seeds popping from the soil,
you make a play for air and light.
Growing gold in your painter’s plot,
sunflowers bloom, wheatfields glow,
fellow workers pose for you,
a postman and his wife.
Forthright faces, brazen blooms
writhing cypress trees
all announce you’re living in the light.

When evening comes, you splash your golden
brush against the darkening sky—
but your many stars prove no match
for the midnight hues with whom they dance.
Darkness never goes away,
your damaged ear hears the cruel taunts
and dismissive tones
echoed in the cawing of the crows.
And, for all this,
you worked away in well-worn boots,
a miner and a gardener both.

Submittable

I may not care
to dress my words
in the clothes
of what they’re
s’posed to wear.

I may not care
to load my brush
with muted tones
and nuanced notes
of artsy irony.

I may not care
to learn the code
one needs to know
to open up
the castle door.

I may not care  
if plaster casts
on my limbs
are signed by those
I’ve never met.

I may not care
if you see me
as I am–
a quirky mix
of green and gray.

You may not care
for what I write,
and if you don’t,
I may not care–
but yet I might.

The Door

The day they threw the rice
we vowed to be a pair
for whom the door would open twice:
once to bring two in,
once to take one out.
    
At the start we knew not what to do,
self-exiled in a room, dark and dimly lit,
we opened windows here and there,
filled our lungs with country air
and bathed together in the light.
We learned to live beyond ourselves
not by going out but by bringing in.

Since you’ve been gone
the days are much the same.
I keep the windows clean
to better see the skies we always saw,
the birds are flying free,
a breeze blows gentle through our room,
and if the flowers seem a little late
they never fail to bloom.

It’s night that tries to have its way.
When the bed’s too wide
the thoughts too loud,
I drag my blanket cross the floor
and lay me down beside the door.
As you rustle on the other side,
I close my eyes and dream with you
as if you never died.

My Brain is a Dog

which has its ups and downs.    
Lunging on his leash,
he takes me places I may not want to go,
sniffing nuanced scents of random thoughts
found along the trail.

I dare not let him roam
lest I lose my mind.
But what to do?
Make him march in time
with logic’s haughty steps?
To be ever cogent and correct
seems a little cold, even cruel.

Maybe fence him in a big backyard,
let his neurons freely fire,
with no fear of burning down the house.

He eats his meals from shelves of books
and snacks upon the bits and bytes
of googlicious treats.
    
There’s lots of
who and what, where and when,
but mostly
why, oh why, oh why?

He keeps me up half the night,
paws pounding round
the racetrack of my head,
chasing squirrels of what’s to come,
and what’s been left behind.

No matter what the night might bring,
the squeaky toy of his existence
wakes me every dawn to greet another day,
another day of work and play.

Good boy!

Just Asking

Mother, please.

When you don your dazzling gowns
full of shock and awe,
do you mean to turn your back
on those who need your love?

CHURNING CLOUDS    
LIGHTNING STRIKES
SURGING TIDES
BUCKLING ROADS
FLOODED FIELDS
SWIRLING WINDS    
FIERY WOODS
TOPPLED TREES

Mother, please.

Wear instead your comfy robe,
Embrace us in the arms of days
that serve to soothe
our beaten, battered selves.

gurgling brooks
cotton clouds
gentle winds
lapping waves
tiny flowers
sprouting bulbs
sparkling sands
twinkling stars

Mother, please.