“The Other Ages”
Even though she is enveloping inwards
Taking back her hair
Until it is so tightly tucked behind her ears
I still love her
Giving back a few years
She greets me at the door
With a large smile
She greets me in a stained sweat top
Not recognizing me at first
Then recognizing me
Or what she thinks is me-
She almost looks fearful
When I sit down
She offers me nothing
“Almost time for lunch,” she says
Unaware that I am hungry
“I have to go in a few minutes,” she says
Looking at her clock
Looking a little concerned
I walk her to lunch
Kiss her goodbye
And tell her I’ll be back tomorrow
She turns away
Turns back
And kisses me on the cheek
Then walks to her table
And sits waiting to be served.
Poetry of Politics-jrm
Poetry hides in the alleys of the old city, almost any old city, if it has character and has weathered storms and conflagrations of spirit only to rise again.
Poetry hides in the streets of New York under manhole covers which seep white with steam revealing workmen in orange jumpsuits slowly climbing down and disappearing at last when their hardhats can no longer be seen.
Poetry hides in the first buds of spring in the Galilee, yellowed flowers surrounding ancient grey olive trees lighting their bark on fire like supernatural lightning bugs who have come knocking as invited guests, as they always do this time of year.
Poetry hides but tries to elude those with the hardest souls, for far too often they leave us, leave themselves, having missed their chance to ever realize this, making us all wonder what epiphany they would have had if they only realized that Poetry Hides.
Based on a Pin Left Open on a Table-jrm
Oh you’ve caught me again
Opened me up and left me
Ever so dangerously exposed
To your whims
Uncoiled like a snake
Warming on a Kansas road
When the sun has
Just started to come up
You have avoided me
Treaded lightly
In your favorite sequined top
That jingles in the wind
Yet I am ready
Somewhat dangerous
Somewhat functional
Sharper than you will know.
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