these shallow glimpses we share
as days grow long
the scattered thoughts swirl and bury themselves
in crevices of this old house
to be re-awakened perhaps
when we are many years gone
what can we salvage of this eternal bond
while the Sun buries itself behind the Oak
that we've watched grow from the kitchen window
since the days when our hair was thick and dark
and the smell of fresh cut wood was present
what words can I say to bring tears to your eyes
tears that would come from but a glimpse
that shouted my fervent love
we are captives of our timeless, undying, unwavering hearts
yet all that remains of this diminishing soul
would disperse like the final slivers of light
should I lose you

rose at the wee three hour,
to verify the factual, "they" have cancelled
this particular Tuesday in NYC due to celestial inclemency
named
ma Bella Stella

the guv and the mayor,
a creator's doctored note received
from the supreme being of their choosing,
** ** **, whaddya know, we city folk and grownup kids get a day off,
cause we got a special kind of cold, called a nor'easter

sho'nuff, an atmosphere perusal
shows a whiteout sensual ensual,
through a sleepy bedroom window,
visible the commencement of 18,
maybe 24, inches, can't be too sure

but it's all about safe over sorry which is why,
really good poets rewrite a new poem countless times

rose at the wee three hour,
a snowy add-on found to our raging winter,
a poem~note^ from you, patty girl,
about transition and juxtaposition
which leads me here, here being on the
writing couch roundabout the now wee hour of four

for the juxtaposition of the blizzard external
and your early-morning poetic missive
has transitioned to blizzard inferno internal,
visible the commencement of 18,
maybe 24, lines, with poetry, one can't be too sure

you can lead a horse to water but not make him drink,
you cannot lead a poet to certain words without making him think,
you phrased me a phrase, so consequential, guilty you are of
robbery in the first degree, stealing my mind in furtherance
no mas sleep

the providence words you provided shot off
so many alt-poem routed roots that I must now provide
a trigger warning to you dear reader, that I am near to
dangerously drowning in an internal blizzard of very
l e n g t h y poem possibilities

transition and juxtaposition

dumbstruck

are not our entire lives consistent of transitions
by the elemental random juxtaposition of
consequential accidental, just happen to happen happenings

to all my friends here,
how did our juxta-wooded paths happen to cross
we are citizen~strangers of the planet
Never Met
who exchange secrets and confidences as if we,
transitional, friends but, of one family born

dumbstruck

now past the five,
my torrential impulse powered thoughts
have slowed to tortoise speed
and someone has mercy on my soul
calls me back to the
snowed-in blissful bed

but this my parting pattyshot

if i ever get the shoulder tap,
"kid,would you like to update the
Five Books?"^^

I know instinctually intuit,
the first book, no more
Genesis

the first chapter of the
nattyman version
**Transitions and Juxtapositions

~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.