The Ground

She was putting something in the ground.

 

The earth was cold just a few inches down and

She didn’t notice her nails crack and split

As she scratched desperately through grit and

Rocks until finally, finally she reached

The softer, easier soil beneath.

 

She was putting something in the ground.

 

She strained to hear the slightest sound

But the blood rushed in her ears until she

Could barely hear. She couldn’t see

Much either, but still she looked and

Listened as hard as she could

 

She was putting something in the ground.

 

And before she could turn around

He was on her, his weight pressing

Her wrist breaking from the twisting

Her breath leaving in a soundless gasp

Her one good hand continuing to grasp-

 

She was putting something in the ground.

 

Joel is Painting

Joel is painting. Standing over the paper. Pools of water sit there, waiting for him to drop in the pigment. And the magic swirls around. Don’t laugh – it is magic. It does what it wants, and he coaxes it along. Like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. He twirls his magic wand. Sometimes it obeys. Sometimes it gets away and dances everywhere.

Joel is all about letting things do what they want. He doesn’t boss. But don’t expect him to stop you if you decide to do something dumb. He’s gonna come along for the ride. He’ll be right there with you. In it, beside you.

I’ve probably not heard all of his stories yet, but I’ve heard a lot of them, and I can assure you, there’s a theme. He’s usually with somebody who’s decided to do something crazy, and he’s right there, doing it, too.

I’m always worrying about everything. “You worry too much,” he declares, and I think, Yeah, somebody better worry. But it gets in my art. I can’t let go of the controls. That’s why I like to draw – there’s so much control. Then I add a little watercolor and everything goes nuts. “That’s what I like,” Joel says, and I think, I know.

Pulled

You lean in, lips almost

Touching my ear

Your whisper

Humidifying my hair

And every one of my

Individual molecules

Strain toward

You

All of me aching

To get closer

Every drop of water

That makes up

Me

Tries to bead on

My surface

I have to use my

Higher brain

To control the

Reptile part

To remain civilized

Against my body’s will

It reminds me of playing

In the garden as a child

The irrigation water

Rushing past cornstalks

Washing iron filings up

In the Colorado sand

I could gather scads of

The black, hairlike filings

With a magnet

Held inches away

They would leap

Through thin air

Pulled helplessly

Just like me

To you

Your Love is a Truck Farm

When you’re starving

And you find a little patch

Of strawberries, or

Maybe some raspberries

Growing in the forest

They taste amazing

So tangy, so sweet

And you’re grateful

They keep you alive

But they don’t last long

And soon you’re longing

For something, anything

Even the tiniest bite

And you nearly give up

But then there’s an acorn

And it’s bitter, but

Still you’re grateful

And you tell yourself

That it isn’t bitter

And you tell yourself

That you’re full

You really are

You don’t need

More than this

This is enough

This should be

Good enough

Then one day

You stumble upon

A truck farm

There are beans

And squash

And sweet corn

There is so much

That you almost

Make yourself sick

And days and weeks later

You realize you haven’t

Worried

About getting enough

For a very long time

You find a ripe strawberry

The most beautiful one

The sweetest one

And you just enjoy it

It doesn’t keep you alive

All by itself

You weren’t desperate

When you found it

But it reminds you

Of all those scary days

When you were starving

And there wasn’t

Nearly enough

So you savor it

Then it’s gone

But that’s okay

Because there’s

Another one

Right here

Joel at 58

Fifty-eight birthdays

But, actually: one

This is the only one

That exists

The others have passed

Or have not yet come

And so, this is the only one

That matters

The first one

We celebrate together

Sometimes it seems

So strange

How we found each other

And we are still

Getting to know us

But it is my privilege

To see what is really

Back there

Past the big muscles

And the bigger laugh

The beautiful voice

The handsome face

Behind what you

Show everyone else

It is real

And messy

And true

But also –

Beautiful

And there is weakness

And softness

Love

Pain

Sadness

And fear

But you are wrong

Wrong

If you think

That is it -

That

That is all

There is

Because I have seen

More

Beneath the softness

That hides

Behind your mask

Deep in the middle

In the quiet

In the dark

There is something else

You

The real you

Curled like

A bird

Inside an egg

Sitting like

A prisoner

In solitary

Quietly ticking like

A clock

Waiting

Waiting

And

I see you, in there

I see you

Night Whisper

 

I like to whisper to you

In the middle of the night

Across the mound

Of pillows

And say directly

To your

Subconscious mind

That I love you

I want to believe

It sinks in more deeply

And inoculates you against

Any crazy thing

I may say or do

During the day

That hurts your feelings

Or annoys you

I know it doesn’t

Work that way but

I do it all the same

I figure I could use

The credit

Poets, ironically

Are startlingly clumsy

With spoken words

Everything they think

Comes out in a rush

You could get hit

By a stray thought

Receive a concussion from

A passing feeling

Or be knocked off your feet

By a temporary mood

So I’ll whisper

To you tonight

While you sleep

Or hold your hand

Under the sheets

So tomorrow it will be
Easy to remember

That I love you

The Brightest Edge

You walk with me to
The brightest edge 
Of sleep
Take my hand
And slip with me past
The precipice.
In my dream 
I feel your whisper
Tickle the cup of my ear.
You are so close that
You are looking out
Through my eyes.
Tasting with my lips.
It is your breath
Filling my lungs.
I sigh and it is
Your sigh-
So much deeper
Than my own.
The light fades
On the black horizon
And I smell your scent
All around me.
In the dark you turn
And the pillows shift.
I feel you press against me.
I am suddenly awake
Nerves humming
Sweat beading
Awaiting
What's next.

Bomb

There’s a conversation going

But I can’t hear what’s being said

There’s a warning being given

But I don’t know what it is

Where can I set my feet?

Will a bomb go off on me?

I know sometimes I rub you

Just exactly the wrong way

But it is not on purpose dear

I just don’t know what to say

Where can I set my feet?

Will a bomb go off on me?

These thoughts and fears aren’t helping

I need to find my heart instead

It would be better if both of us

Would just get out of our heads

Where can I set my feet?

Will a bomb go off on me?

The Moth

Notice the moth.

Its dark, shining eyes.

Its hairy, delicate legs.
Its fern-like antennae.

Its furred, dusty wings

Like the negative image

Of a butterfly’s wings.

It is nocturnal.

It finds its

Nourishment

In darkness.

Yet its desire

To seek light

Is so notorious

It is cliché.

It wants what

It cannot have

In safety.

It beats itself

Against the glass

Trying

To get out

To get in

To get somewhere.

We do not know-

Maybe to get out

Of this world.