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.
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?
AT SCHOOL
He saw a boy raise up his arms
like someone shouting.
He heard the humming of strong hearts.
There was a girl
giving a smile to a boy,
and three girls sharing sunlight
with each other.
Outside the whole world
was singing at the windows.
Brother and sister trees
were swinging in the wind,
and the name of our street was shining.
Everything everywhere was free
and grazing on great hills.
AT STEPHANIE AND ELIOT’S WEDDING
In St. Louis, there was devotion
at the door of every house,
hands of kindness across the yards,
words of delight on all the lips,
the sun in its blue sky
like a boy, then the stylish moon
moving among clouds, then thousands
of blonde leaves letting each other alone
as they beautifully fell to the grass.
AT 4:55 A.M.
A few melodious words
rising on wings
from the pages of a book
could carry her all day.
The kindness of friends
would be there to moisten her face
in the strife of sadness.
There would be dozens of shades of green
in the woods beside the school,
and storm clouds that loomed
would look like reasons
to rest in happiness.
Her life was heading west.
Her passionate hands
praised and clapped.
MOZART, STONES, AND TREES
He wanted to play
a Mozart violin sonata with someone,
but since he couldn’t play the violin
and didn’t know a pianist,
he went outside
and walked among stones and trees.
He saw the stones sitting precisely
where they should be,
and the trees taking each other’s hands
as breezes blew by.
He held his hands out
and they folded together like friends,
and the trees and stones
stayed where they were,
and the time of day
was just what it must be.
WHAT HE DOES
He doesn’t surf or skateboard,
but he does hear wisdom
when it cries out.
He doesn’t run
with the best and the bravest,
but he does see simplicity
shining in a spoon
or in someone’s shirt passing by.
He doesn’t go forth
with fire in his eyes,
but he does leave sorrow
standing at the starting line.
He doesn’t always
attack his work with industry,
but he does have
a shining appearance
when snow is falling.
A MORNING FOR A BIKE RIDE
It didn’t exactly get his heart beating
when it started,
just a hesitant summer morning
singing its inconsequential song.
There wasn’t much to praise,
wasn’t much to raise
a rosy smile to his face –
just a silver morning
with its gift of easygoing light,
just a quiet day coming his way.
just geraniums shyly standing
in gardens beside the roads.
THOUGHTS
In the morning his thoughts
are as light as feathers.
He feels them floating
just above him
as he sits at his desk.
Each thought that comes to him
floats effortlessly up
to join the others.
He keeps typing
and thoughts keep rising.
They stay with him
all day long,
these hovering thoughts,
now and then
raising him up
just off the classroom floor
as he’s teaching.
A GOOD DAY
Something happened
to the pot on the stove.
It started to sing,
and then the lid
lifted itself up in the air.
He listened to the music
of the small pot,
to the serenades of cars outside,
to the rhythms of his breath
beneath his shirt.
It was a day
when hillsides of thoughts
had blossomed in his mind,
and now this pot
that was nobody’s
and knew nothing
was singing to him
and he was listening.
WRITING POEMS
He loves words
the way some people love horses.
They come to him
hoping for treats.
He asks them which trails
they wish to take.
A wild word
might make for the hills,
while a stylish noun
might sidle and prance.
He’s learned that words
know where to go
and what to do.
He loosens the reins,
sits back for the ride.
BEING LUCKY
It was an honor
to have another day
driving up to his house
in its swanky car.
He felt privileged
to hold his cup
and sip the coffee.
It was a sign of distinction
that his toast had turned
the perfect shade of brown,
and that butter
was spread on its surface.
Writing this poem,
he felt fortunate
to find a word
just when he needed it,
shining like a prize.
WALKING ON THE BEACH
His left leg steps ahead
and then his right.
His left arm smoothly swings,
and then his right.
It’s effortless,
like the way the surf
sweeps in and then sweeps out,
the way sadness arrives
and then silently leaves.
Overhead
the sky is a simple blue,
and soon,
with no struggle,
it will sparkle with stars.
WRITER’S BLOCK
One morning
he didn’t know what to write about,
so he didn’t.
He just sat in his writing chair
and let thoughts take off
like small planes.
He watched them
as they ascended –
graceful ideas by the dozens
rising above his desk.
There were thoughts about friends,
about throwing baseballs
when he was a boy,
about making poems in the morning,
about coffee that comes
to help him.
He watched the thoughts climb
and circle away
and disappear.
He watched them
and wondered at their poise,
these thoughts
that would never be part of a poem.
THE OTHER SIDE
When she was sad,
she could see those
on the other side
shining in the sun.
They weren’t far away,
and they flashed their smiles
whenever they noticed her.
She was on the side of sadness,
while the other side
was prosperous and satisfied.
Her shirt was messy
while those celebrating
on the other side
wore new outfits for summer.
Her thoughts sat in silence,
while the other side’s thoughts
threw themselves up in the air
like performers.
She saw their thoughts
swinging and soaring,
while her thoughts
wept for themselves.
What was strange
was that she easily
could have stepped across
to join the festivity.
She just never understood
that straightforward fact.
THE CENTER
Yesterday he found
the center of his life.
It was a small piece of paper
resting in the grass in the park.
The instant he saw it,
he knew it was exactly
where it must be.
Perhaps that’s why
it was shining
on that overcast afternoon.
Someone had tossed it aside,
not realizing its importance.
He held this piece of paper
like something special,
like the universe holds him
just where he should be.
TYPING A POEM
With a click of some keys,
something flashed on the screen,
just like the sorrow
that flashed through her life
long ago.
He was six years old
when he suddenly died,
a dazzling boy
dead in a street.
She typed another word
to send out some more memories,
and then more words,
and more,
and soon the screen
was flashing with words
like small signals
in darkness.