Pounding heart when she enters the room and
pounding hard-on because her kiss is replaying his fantasies and
pounding emotional effort rebuilding her trust because he lost it.
Pounding feet chasing after the children he’s promised to raise and
pounding life from the exhaustion of full work days and baby up at night.
Pounding down dreams he won’t ever give up and
pounding gravity to escape velocity and
pounding against what he almost knows but can’t quite say.
Hard Way Harder Way
Fetal position. Crying on the floor. Rock bottom.
Then I’m open to an honest conversation with myself.
Then my intuition is sharp.
God give me a message! I am listening now.
I pick myself up from the floor, guide myself
into an improved relationship with myself, and walk
into my next chapter. Months, years or a decade later,
I either remember or don’t. I have either learned the hard way
or the harder way.
I sometimes write poetically, but I’ve never considered myself a writer of poetry, and yet I have collected poems that speak to me my entire life.
What I have here isn’t what I would call poetry. Instead, I consider them small “ditties” that I’ve whittled.
I call them “Dead Weight” poems because after awhile, these “ditties” want release else I’m just lugging around dead weight. These little pieces are the forest floor of my journal.
These “ditties” are in constant production. I try to let them sneak out the back door yet would also betray myself I didn’t post them here. It’s the documentarian in me that uses these “ditties” to mark time.
I call this collection of two “Wave One” because that’s enough (but not all) of the content I think one should gulp in one sitting.
My impatient heart
has wanted nothing more
than to rise up, and rush
into all the unsettled
complacence. That might be the anxiety
of perpetual insecure attachments,
or of falling in-love itself,
but oh how genuine the love making is!
I’ve lived one woman at a time,
I have not resolved
the impermanence of love.
And. I have so often felt foolish because
inside my heart
and there I am living the opposite of what I said.
I don’t know
what to make of aging once my children have gone.
My heart both fears
and longs for
doing the same handful of things
with the same person,
The best part of us
drank toasts for better days,
leaned into our best selves,
loved on the weekends,
shoulder to shoulder
down empty streets at 2 a.m.
balancing our way
where our private parts
pushed and pulled
as if to erase
an inevitable reality
that we hoped we