It’s odd folks think I/
don’t know how to whisper ‘cuz/
I dance hard. That’s why.
OR
People
may find it strange
that I,
one who dances hard
and sees much
and sings loud
and long
and deep
and lives life,
(Carpe Diem, Man!)
top down,
tunes up,
arms outstretched,
hands up,
with passion
and vigor
and tears
and laughter
and joy
and energy
and YES!
would
know
how
to
whisper.
That’s exactly why.
She thinks I am in/
the Matrix, but everything/
I’m seeing is real.
I want to write poems/
to her whom I danced with, but/
she’s knee-deep elsewhere
She wants poems from me/
but she’s in love with him. What’s/
wrong with this picture?
She knows she wants to /
drive with that top down guy with/
sunsets in his eyes.
I don’t know that I’d/
ever heard a lone goose call/
so frantic and sad.
I am certain that,
at some point,
I will create
a little red hen-type poem
about the joy of picking pie cherries
(with permission)
from The Neighbor’s tree,
processing the cherries
by putting them,
one by one,
and giving them to my aunt
to let her make them into
a fabulous cherry pie
nearly a year after the Harvest.
But right now,
my fingers are sore
from pulling out the pits.
My back is sore
from standing at the counter
too short for me,
and my hands are too messy
from the cherry juice
that has squirted out
all over the entire kitchen.
And besides,
I don’t even know
what the pie
will taste like.
Addendum:
As it turns out,
this was even more
of a Little Red Hen poem
than I thought it would be.
I’d delayed,
too long,
bringing my Aunt
the pie cherries.
So I took them back home,
put together a fruit crisp
(previously made with apples,
or peaches,
or strawberries,
or rhubarb,
or something similar).
This time, it featured my home-harvested
pie cherries.
Served ala’ mode after
a massive Easter dinner
with family and friends,
the self-picked-and-pitted-and-prepared-and-baked-organic-pie-cherry-crisp
was something I should eat
and share
by myself.
And so I did.
On this Easter morn,/
though He is risen, I still/
don’t want to get up.
When you don’t have lots /
of space, make room to see things/
that are important.
It’s such a common thing
among
the sisters of Zion.
So many walls up.
So much fear.
And worry.
And don’ts.
And can’ts.
And shouldn’ts.
As though they think
anyone will think
less of them
for the less
that others do
to them.
As though we
who have been
or could be
there
would ever
deride them
for seeking,
quietly,
for the help
others force them into.
They feel bad
and hide
and suffer
inside,
instead
of letting charity
never fail.