All the Beautiful People

How do you describe that moment
once every third lifetime
when you see them all at once
all the beautiful people

They come pouring in in droves
and every familiar face
is the one you see
You take a breath and wonder
why you’ve never seen behind
your neighbor’s eyes before

They shine at you like mercy
And every gesture speaks of grace
His one good arm holds up a sign
As you approach him

Pardon me brother
I don’t believe I caught your name?

He doesn’t know you
or why you’re here
or what you want from him
He takes a second glance
and shies away

If Life Were Perfect

I would set up residence
In the furthest corner of a large bookstore
and read
Great anthologies of anecdotes, like
The Encyclopedia of Urban Legends or
Isaac Asimov Laughs again,
from cover to cover
Pausing for intermittent breaks
of Coffee, Chai Tea, and Biscotti…
But life is not perfect.

And until then, I must
live in my room, on sidewalk benches
at dining hall tables, alone
Clutching dusty tomes of great works
reading little pieces of them, in spurts and fits
Telling the people who already know
just what I gained from this

Sleeping

I cannot sleep during the day. I find
It difficult and pointless, dimming that
Intense fire that is my awareness to
Some peaceful lull that is half way between
A slumber and awake, where you both dream
Your dreams and think about them; then to lay
Away my book, which I had long since left
Off reading, drifting into some decayed,
Warm slumber in the middle of the day.

I once had thought of people who took naps
Like Walden’s railroad sleepers: vainly laid
In mud to let the ruckus of the world
Run over them, but Constance sleeps like love,
And nothing in the world can run her by.

She rises early in the morning, light—
Her brightest hour, and in that moment rests,
At peace, and yet still burning. It’s in that
Moment of quiet intensity that
She sets the tempo for her day. With spade
In hand she weeds the garden of her mind,
And sets the world to dancing.

I have failed
To ever see her in the morning, fast
Asleep in bed, to know if she awakes
With starts, or calm and quiet ease, but I
Have seen her sleeping in the day. She lies
Behind me while I work, her curve of hip
Exaggerated by the straightness of
The bed. I steal a moment’s peace and sit
Beside her, wrap my arm around her own,
And in the partial knowledge of her sleep,
She pulls my hand close to her heart.

Somehow
She manages to sparkle even while
She sleeps—to burn and yet still slumber. She’s
So different from me, and yet she’s the same.

She turns to sleep so she may wake again

She Gave Me Love

It was two weeks from when she gave me love
In a little porcelain puppy figurine
To the time she called him back again

I never cared for dogs.
I had one once, who when he died
I rejoiced that he was finally free
Of the mindless neglect that I had given him

Not so this ceramic token
He had the highest honor in my house
I dusted him and cleaned his feet
I watched him, as he watched me
Waiting for the phone to ring
So I could see her face
And make her laugh again

I meant to marry her—she had said yes
But never felt like going out to buy a ring
Waited a week to tell her parents
Another week till she told me
And demanded back everything she had given
Whether word or deed

I argued, but she said no
I couldn’t keep a single memory
It was three months before I gave up the habit
Of gnawing through my cheek
And three years now, when I have finally forgot
Nearly everything

But sometimes I still wonder
If she was offended or even cared
That I unglued the paper base
From that porcelain figurine
And if she kept, or threw away
Her little love for me

I Believe in You

My love leads me to dissipation: I
Lie listless, moping, thinking how I would
Surround you with my arms and lay my head
Upon your breast and watch the clouds obscure
The sun, which then obscures the stars. My day’s
Work lies beside me, rotting, left untouched,
Untended, as I tend to you and balk
At all the things I thought I loved when I
Imagined you, but would not trust in God.

I could not make myself believe in you.

Your love outshines me: I cannot compete
With everything you’ve given me—yet I
Refuse to be so easily undone.
Your love is pearl, and mine is steel—a love
That’s common, though refined, but does not seem
To match the ornament that I would like
To grasp. But I will beat this iron till I
Can call it something rare, which may be said
Competes with silver. Call the alchemists!
If what was once called gold is lead, it can
Be changed again. So I will prove my love’s
As good as yours.
It’s not impossible.
New elements have been unearthed before,
And compounds thought incredible have been
Found preexisting in a natural state.
Then cannot this new element that is
Between us be compounded naturally?

I will not say it is impossible,
For I believed in God and found in you
What I imagined.

I believe in you

Bed and Breakfast

Jeremy Flynn was 7 miles from the Tennessee State line when he remembered the livermush and Cheerwine. He immediately took his foot off the gas, but it was too late: the sign for exit 7 was already swishing past him. He accelerated again and started looking for another road sign. Karen wanted the livermush for something she was making for the wedding. Jeremy didn’t know why she insisted on doing all the food preparations for her own wedding–her parents were more than willing to contribute whatever was necessary. But some strange manifestation of Southern pride had convinced her that she was the only cook for the job. He sincerely hoped the Cheerwine wouldn’t end up in the punch. Continue reading “Bed and Breakfast”

Comments

It’s amazing all the comments I’ve been getting lately. Apparently I’ve wowed you guys so much with all the things I have to say that nobody feels there’s anything left to cover.

Or it could be that stories and poems are difficult to comment on and that if I want comments, I should enter something more personal. My mom gets on to me for the same thing. She complains that she knows I’m alive because I send her poetry, but she doesn’t know how I’m doing because I don’t talk about events in my life. And she’s right. Events in my life are the most boring thing I could ever imagine. The big news for me? I have a paper due tomorrow and I wasted all day yesterday without even touching it. I did my laundry, cleaned my room, went out with my friend and her dad (that was a requirement, he was in town to pick up stuff, and well… c’mon! the man has a right to meet his future s… I mean that uh… well anyway), then I played video games until 12:30 or something. I’m lazy and I me for it.

Now, back to my poetry…

I’m taking this class on how to go to Ireland and England. Basically, we talk about history and culture and stuff and it’s pretty cool except for the annoying papers. They had a required paper on a list of subjects (every paper had to be different so we could read them to each other) and each paper had to be 2-3 pages with 5 sources. Has anyone here ever tried to write a 3 page paper using five sources? Mine was 6 pages. Then they add on a paper if you miss a class. I missed 1 class and I still haven’t done that paper. It’s due about a month ago.

That said, one of our requirements for the class was a map test. I did fine on it, but I couldn’t find the River Liffey. So I made up this little ditty…

The Liffey runs through Ireland,
and down to Dublin Sea,
and licks the feet of everyone
who would remember me.

I can see my Mary cryin
as she kneels upon the shore
groaning like the first day
that she heard I’d come no more
And there’s my brother Charlie
A standing like a man…

And there’s where I stopped because it’s pretty morebid and I coudln’t figure out where to go with it.

And tha’ts you’re weblog for the day.

KB