Scratching an Itch
Poems that needed to get out.
Staying
I stayed a day too long.
I thought I needed the time, to pack, to clean up loose ends, to tidy up.
But I was ready to go.
My mind was already getting picked up, in a hug, on the other end.
I became resentful of the time. Another night, another meal, another plate to wash.
The visit that had been neatly arranged became spoiled, like a first date with nothing more to say. It wasn’t fun anymore. My memories were running toward the swamp.
I vowed to remember the next time.
But I know myself. I don’t like to be rushed.
I would rather catch the next train than run for this one.
So I will stay too long the next time, and the time after that.
If only I can learn to avoid staying too long when it is time to really go.
It Takes a While
It takes a while to figure out what love is.
It hides sometimes.
It may look like one thing and be another.
The view may be a mirage, or maybe a miracle.
It changes shape and depth and consistency over time.
It can be tougher than it looks at first, or suddenly more fragile.
What at first is opaque can become transparent after the gilded surface is worn away.
What people who separate never discover is that the character of love changes over time. The annoying things become just part of the background, and the kindness buried deep comes bubbling to the surface.
The rushing water of life scrubs away the superficial things that attracted you like the cuteness of every child.
At some point the only thing left is the grace of one who has become part of you, and you of them.
On the Side of the Road
A deer stuck its head out on the side of the fast road.
Not enough to do anything, just curious.
I didn’t even have to slow, but I wondered about the deer.
Would it ever see the other side?
Did the seeing answer its questions, or make more?
Was it happy now?
It ate a leaf and took a pee to sacramentalize the occasion.
I think that’s how these things begin.
As I sat down the pew creaked, and I imagined it was a sign.
I heard the words, but couldn’t find the right page.
Then the sun broke through the stained glass, and my bladder felt full.
The Joy of Discovery
I am tired of words that I know.
The new words I find in my language sound pretentious, and I don’t like them.
In a different country, each new phrase is a surprise and a connection. They are everyday words, but new to me.
I grow like a web from passage to passage.
The people around me become more real. My ignorance is revealed, and I become more than I was with each idea.
I go home, and I see differently. I find that the people have followed me. And the words. The old words have been polished to a bright new shine.
Wonderful poetry, Bob! Since I know what's going on in your life, the second one hit me.