"Red Pears", oil on canvas, by Cathleen Rehfeld

 

PERFECTION

 

He looks for it

in the folds of his blankets,

and in the first display

of water from the faucet.

It’s there at six

in his comforting cup of coffee

and in the satisfying light

of his computer screen.

It’s in his perfectly old car

as he carefully brings it to school.

He sees it in the precise trees,

and in the houses that sit

composedly beside each other.

He never fails to find perfection

folded up among his lesson plans

and displaying itself

in the words of his scholars.

It’s in the peacefulness

of his sliced peppers at lunch,

and in the red pear

proudly sitting on his desk.   

"Two Hearts", oil on canvas, by Cathleen Rehfeld

 

 

A BROKEN HEART

 

One day her heart was broken

into shards of silver and gold.

It shattered

and the pieces were spread

across the sidewalk.

She shook with the misery of it,

but soon she noticed that people

loved those fragments of her heart.

A man of sorrows saw a piece

and placed it in his pocket.

A woman made a nest in her hands

for some small flakes,

and her students took some home

to help them live.

Even she herself leaned down

and let a speck of her heart

amaze her.  

SEND FOR SPECIALISTS

 

There are broken bones in my poems,

and bruises where the words

have been shaken, and scars

that speak of recklessness.

My poems need bedside care.

They don’t breathe with freedom.

The phrases take short breaths,

as if all the words

are straining to stay alive.

Each line lets out its life slowly

like the last words of someone

who has always been lost.

Let the nurses bring bandages.

Let the doctors send for specialists,

the ones who heal words and hearts.  

 

CALL YOUR FRIENDS

 

Here we are in a world

where winter is gone from hearts.

It’s a summer

of standing up and shouting,

of taking walks with wisdom,

of running across streets

because something tells you to.

It’s clear

that confusion has settled

and the water is clean again.

There’s laughter to listen to

and loyalty to tell you what to do.

Call your friends,

for they’re angels and saints

these days. 

SHIPS OF FEELINGS

 

Several of my poems froze last night.

Some of the words

are as white as snow this morning.

The commas carry backpacks of frost.

The somber, ice-coated words

aren’t fit for standing in lines.

How insignificant they seem

as they sit like lumps of ice

on my desk, how distressing,

my once proud poems

with ships of feelings

frozen inside them. 

PERFECTION

 

 

It’s what you get

when you hold a good pencil,

or a breath of air,

or a person.

It’s what you see

when sunlight settles beside you.

It's a stoplight flashing,

or a strong hand inside yours.

It comes when you call it,

and then you can carry it

to others. 

THE WAY SPOONS REST IN A DRAWER

 

When he lost his job,

he saw stars in the smallest things –

in the shine of the streetlights,

in the sparkle of his mechanical pencil,

in the small poems he wrote.

He saw that all things in his life

flow from far away,

even the flowered skirt

the woman at the grocery store was wearing.

He knew that her task was to brighten lives

with her colorful clothes,

and his was to notice stars,

and the way papers sit peacefully in a trash can,

and the way spoons rest in a drawer.

 

BEFORE BED

 

At the table, at ten,

the clock keeps talking.

Tick by tick it tells a story,

second by second a poem.

If I put my pencil down,

lay my pencil to rest,

I could listen,

and the clever clock

could talk to us,

to my silent pencil and me. 

AT THE CENTER OF HAPPINESS

 

He could be carrying his bowl

back to the kitchen

when the curtain might curl in a breeze,

and suddenly he would be miles away

in his mind, constructing

something useful for someone.

Or he could be sitting in the park

when a woman passes on the path,

a woman whose suffering

flares in her eyes like fire,

and swiftly he would set down

a foundation for the future,

a life where fulfillment

falls from the skies on everyone.

Or sometimes some children would laugh

and chase the snow from his thoughts,

and he would find himself

at the center of happiness.

 

SINGING WITH SATISFACTION

 

If he stares down

into the darkness of a drain

and sees deposits of sediment

that have settled there,

he smiles and sets to work.

First he digs around

in the darkness of the drain

with an old clothes hanger,

then runs the water

and sees it drain faster.

Then he pours Drano down,

and listens to the fizz

like voices speaking softly.

He waits for fifteen minutes.

He sits on his comfortable couch

and says some Shakespeare sonnets.

He stares at leaves

hastening past the windows.

He sees in his mind

the silver water

flowing freely away.

He hears it singing with satisfaction

on his hands

as he washes them over the drain.

 

TO THE SEA

 

 

She had flowing silver hair,

and one morning

she saw the streets

surging with people,

and a person standing by the bank

with brightness streaming all around.

She said some words

and they spilled into the air.

As she drove to school

she felt a river

running through her

to the sea.

 

EARLY ONE MORNING

 

He saw a stone in the grass,

the best one.

He heard a bird

sing a song with no mistakes.

He touched his right hand

with his left with precision,

and he smelled the September air

the way you should.

He then headed for home

to taste a piece

of raisin toast for breakfast. 

FOOD

 

Wherever she was,

there were scraps

of ideas to be savored,

concepts she could relish.

Words, too, were food for her.

She sometimes sat by herself

and spoke a special word

to understand its sweetness.

Sitting on the front steps,

she might taste several

sugary words

as she watched the sunshine

strengthen her small town. 

COULD

 

Each morning he wonders what could happen.

Could his car depart from his driveway

with happiness breaking open inside?

Could the trees beside the road

stand extra straight as he passes

on the way to school? Could the door

to his classroom open by itself?

Could the students’ ideas dance

and play  tricks?

Could his lunch leave him feeling like a king?

Could his last class carry him on its wings?

 

DON’T FEEL SORRY FOR ME

 

Don’t feel sorry for me.

I just found forever underneath a stone,

and salvation in the sunshine along Spring Street.

I found something funny in something sad,

and a thought worth a dollar in the wind

in the trees. Don’t feel sorry for me.

I know the secret of starting a new life.

I hear announcements from daffodils

and songs sung by boulders in the woods.

I write with a pencil that prays as it writes,

so don’t feel sorry for me. 

DOORS

 

All doors are full of promise

for him. He holds their handles

like gifts he’s found by chance,

or hands to hold in his hand

before entering the paradise

of a room or a house or a street.

To him, the eyes of other people

are doors to a castle,

and raising his arms in pleasure

is opening the door of praise.

He sees a door

in the darkness of sorrow

and in the first page of a book.

If you see him,

he will just be opening

the plain door of the present.  

A DANCE

 

It was done as the day began

by anything daring enough.

A nest of sparrows started it off

by standing in unison and singing.

A tree did some twirls next

as it wished the new day well.

Sorrow and sighing stopped,

and amazement started to shout.

Whatever was lovely let loose

and moved to the music of starting over.

 

No one had seen anything like it

since yesterday morning.

 

 

CELEBRATING

 

For her, every second

is the time and place.

She just wants

to wake up gladness.

She sends up her life

like a flare

only for you.

Would you be willing

to feel as wonderful

as you actually are?

Then ask about your life,

and her answers

will spread out before you

like newspapers

with the happiest headlines. 

THE CHOSEN

 

She feels it in the park

when breezes single out her skirt.

She sees it when the sunshine

stays on her shoulders.

There’s a sure sign of it

in the way the evening

veils her sadness

and shows instead

the peace of the stars.

At night, if she makes a trip

to the bathroom,

she knows the nightlight’s glow

is given only to her. 

 

COMPANIONS

 

Two books on a desk,

two pens resting side by side,

two hands fastened together in friendship,

two clouds carrying rain,

two streets he can follow

for coffee and a paper,

two days of dreams come true,

two hours when help is all around,

two moments of mighty power. 

BY A STREAM

 

Over this silver water

two trees are whispering

under the sun’s love,

and one dove is doing

its sympathetic call.

Don’t go yet –

two cows are coming closer,

and a deer in the distance

is back in its summer mist.

Overhead, a jet is happy

just being high

CATCHING WORDS

 

You can chase them

with your pencil.

On silver nights

you can see them

settle on your arms.

You can seize them

and set them in a jar

beside your desk.

You can

let them loose

in sentences

or put them

in the prison

of a poem.

 

BUILDING

 

He constructs a house

from each day’s materials.

When the sun sets

he carries each shining experience

and sets them out like stones.

The floor could be blue

with his best actions.

Something wild

could make a wall,

and all the surprises

could be the steps between floors.

A wish could be a window

to see out of,

his feelings could flow

through the faucets

like life-giving water.

The roof could be the realization

that stars stay

where they are forever.  

BOOKS

 

The words in some books

are small shining pieces

resting on the page.

Delays are possible then

as he sorts through

the dazzling nouns,

the polished prepositions.

Sometimes he celebrates 

single sentences

by closing his eyes

and visualizing 

their shining appearance.

His life seems magnificent 

when he finds

these glossy words in a book --

faces flash,

streetlights shine like moons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BEING TOUCHED

 

He isn’t sure

if it was the satisfying air

of the summer day,

or a sociable breeze

that passed through Westerly,

or perhaps the smile

the girl at the coffee shop gave him.

Was it a word

that one of his students said,

a simple word

that softly brushed against him?

Was it a thought

that let itself into his life?

Was it the sandwich

that sat in his lap

as he drove through the countryside

in the sunshine?