Because we took a trip up to Albany this weekend to see Kathy Mattea - pictured above - I fell behind in posting this weekend. I wrote the poems and posted them on the Poetic Asides with Robert Weber website, but didn't post on here. So I 'm putting all three of them in this post. :)
my book to be published, family harmony,
world peace, my old thin body,
to be twenty years younger
sunshine every day,
the man I knew at twenty-one
laughter from Sara
global warming to reverse and
the toast not to burn.
“Are you sure I didn’t hit my head?”
"Yes," I say to my anxiety - crazed daughter.
“But I’m sure I was close to the wall.”
“No you weren’t. It wouldn’t be possible.”
She feels the phantom spot again where
she swears her head was injured.
Silence happens for awhile, but I know she
is spinning that scene around in her head in
an unending loop.
“I walked by that plant and I thought I ate part
of it,” she says at dinner in the Mexican restaurant.
“You what? You think you ate part of a plant
on your way to the restroom?” My mind tries
to find a way to accept this as she walks over
to the plant and re-enacts the scene.
“It could have happened, “ she says her hazel
eyes trying to make sense of the act.
“No,"Sara and I both say eager to smooth over this
bump in our night out.
“I’m worried it might be poisonous.” She has
continued as we attempt to ignore her.
“We’ll ask the waiter, he must know.” She won’t
rest until she knows. The reel won’t stop spinning.
“That plant, “ he asks pointing to the offending palm
in the clay pot in the back near the tiled wall.
He doesn’t answer. Then he says, “What you don’t
know is there are no real plants here. We had to
replace them years ago. They’re all artificial.”
We laugh and the sound fills the space around us
healing and right. She smiles, a sheepish grin.
Aware she is caught. “Oh, well, but are you sure
I didn’t get any in my mouth?”
I grit my teeth and hold the anger. It would be like
yelling into the wind. I hug her instead.
It creeps up on us
Like a tiger hiding in the bushes
One minute it’s peaches and cream
He’s smiling, expounding, joking
And the next exploding
Voice harsh, cold, sarcastic,
mean, drilling its way into our
egos even if we are in the right.
Who made the wrong turn? He can't
accept the mistake. Yet he shuts us
out as if we were in a glass room –
We can’t reach him when he crawls
into his anger coat.
He becomes the fairy tale ogre
The bully, the villain
His voice slaps our faces
Through our armor
of caring and love.