hey hon, hows bout a dance?
we could hold hands
and foxtrot.
hey hon, hows bout a kiss?
lean in close before ya
say goodnight.
before ya close the door to my
Mustang, turn quick,
and wave.
before the weekend winds away
back to steel and rust,
and dirt.
say you,
when rain bleeds
heavy
on window panes,
hear your parents
praying:
maybe next life
we’ll do it
better
maybe next go round
we’ll solve
puzzles
before untouched
we’ll conquer demons
yet to be
vanquished
we’ll reconcile these
self-hatreds
into a lasting peace
the sort that
when rain falls
will now sing us to
sleep.
[rip ryan]
Hope everyone has a grand weekend! In rememberance of all who gave their lives to this country. Thank you.
watch how the light slants
across the garden and lights red
the empty old vines
across the yard from the back
farm woods fields, the mysterious “back”
and notice,
the jungle gym no longer has swings…
when were they taken down?
years ago.
lifetimes ago.
feel the light grow brighter, hot
on your cheek through the glass door
like a warm hand
remember your grandparents waving goodbye
from their door on Charmuth
and your parents
top of the hill
low lingering light
silhouettes waving.
I slip in the shower, face to the tiles,
and think,
God I don’t want to be found
dead like this.
After I practice
holding my head up, shoulders back,
as if good posture
can somehow stop the inevitable.
After, pillow in
my lonely arms I
wait for ghostly whispers
but there is only darkness,
and quiet places,
street light illuminating
small spaces here and there.
Those spaces
are small glimmers
in a grand scheme.
I wish I knew
how to tell your story.
I wish you could know the sum
of all
these secrets.
Looking down the hall
is the same as peering
down a deep dark grave.
Simple truth is
we continue to bury those we love
unless we go first.
I have:
my father’s penchant
for “thinking man” classical
and my mamma’s love
of a sexy singer.
[quick note that i can’t help but share (sorry ma): my mom preferred Herman’s Hermits over the Beatles because she said they were “cuter”! HA]
Even at 80 mph
I knew what the chair used to be:
green cushions with white buttons
it sat on a patch of astroturf
in a screened-in porch.
Faced a small glass table where
ice tea was served and fresh tomatoes were stored.
And in winter,
its cushions were stored and it sat bare-chested
braving winds that fluttered its
white thick-strapped spine.
Spring cleaning meant
cobwebs were removed
and the chair was bathed on the deck
with soapy water the kids
sprayed on each other.
The cushions were fluffed, tied gently back on for
another lazy season.
Until one strap broke.
The kids moved out, and
when there was a sale at Sears, the chair
was left to face west on I-95, naked
to the elements
and the drivers hurrying home from work.
i did not choose this path
the path chose me
the dirt chose my
black barefoot feet
to cling to
i had no choice but to
dig in
and when the river rose
with a muddy swirling torrent
i had no choice
but to go.
Poetry by JC Snyder 