Love starts with
a mother sewing
hunter green
and vibrant gold.
A pig-tailed child
who pulled out all
of her ribbons and curls
running down the walk
eager to catch the
boy who carried
his large trombone.
Love is a father
whose hands were
cracked, raw, large fingers
molded to a hammer
beating time
after time to bring home
brown bags, gin,
walnuts and pears.
Love is alcohol in the veins,
the pairing, the leaving,
the rejoining moaning
of two hearts who live
to weather. Leaving not an option
and who later when the drink
dries tender one
another across thresholds of
pain and age and what must
of course, eventually come.
Love is that first glance, the one
where you know your soul just
landed. The lift of the jaw. The
dark eyes in movement. The
turning corner of lips. The
soft underbelly of the arm
where touch sometimes lingers. The
dissipated wind in the wake of
emotion, knowing you will be
the first generation to crawl
hands to knees out the door.
Love is the babe in tow.
The babe on the hip.
The babe tethered to
the ticking of the clock.
Watch him grow to
become an honest man, watch him
choose a wife who places
Buddha on the stoop. Watch
him lift his own mirror
and swing her gleefully in the air
knowing she is safe
and smiling with compassion
gentle grace,
in the truest of small hearts.
Love is this time and
this place where the trees valance
the large window and the
rain washes anew the green on
the ground springing up
a farmer's red raspberries
and the Muscovy tramplings.
The break of his dawning thoughts
lost in hazel past mid-day
but in the early morning budding
near perfection.
Love is the virtual, the use
of this energy, the exchange
we choose to offer without war,
without spewing offense, without
tearing down the sanity we use
to offer, to comment or to rate.
Love is the artist down the road
putting his feet on the floor
wanting his wife to come home but she
can not for she now sleeps in
the cemetery beyond his door.
The green glass he cuts shaping connections
to nature, to the moon, to the tumblings
of what he remembers when he met
continuance one afternoon in search of a
bridegroom's gift.
Love is the breath of birds, the lift
of the red sky, the waking of this day.
What do we know of length and endurance?
What do we know of pain?
What do we know of celebration?
We will be trees. We will be limbs. We will
spread to some new shape where the water
washes pure the seed of remembrance, the
swift and rolling center, cleansed and resown.
Scupper © 2/2010
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Ashley Holt
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Comments
When my Father 'passed-away' ... Dad said`Kick the bucket.
Croaks.
Last breath.
I smelled my Fathers breath. He has baby breast milk breath. It smelt like it.
I held my Fathers jaw until the jawbone tendon muscles stiffened.
I had my hand on his heart.
My Fathers heart fluttered.
Then, it stopped. A buzzard.
I call him a old turkey chins.
My Father had a gobble chin.
Hi Pop.
Behave.
Wear a pair of baby blue PJs.
Smooch.
Heaven?
Ya hots?
O Mom?
O wows.
Oh, my, dear Scupper! You've done it again....
I have a little box, a small wooden chest for all things sublime, where I like to hide away poems (I already have one there or two) like a miser hoards wares. This is the box where I hide words, when someone asks me what is poetry, I open and reach inside my word-chest. I want to save yours too, commit them to memory, and when someone asks what is, the answer will be yours.
Love is the virtual, the use
of this energy, the exchange
we choose to offer without war,
without spewing offense, without
tearing down the sanity we choose
to offer, to comment or to rate.
And then I forgottaboutit. rated for beauty, truth and gentle humor
of what he remembers when he met
continuance one afternoon in search of a
bridegroom's gift. "
Wow - so beautiful.
---Ann & Vanessa, I'm honored.
-- Sharon, Smithery, and the fine feathered Owl, Thank you so much.
--Skateboarding Frog, What a snarkless thing to say. So appreciated!
Thank you.
rated. (sorry, ...tired, but can't stay away from OS)
And you are the only person I have ever, ever seen use the verb "valance". And you knew it was transitive.
(Yes I digress -- but for the time being, English is the only safe object of my love, and I really do love it. And you seem to, as well.)
Thanks.
--Patricia K, I would like to read your effort. I enjoy your blog.
--Elisa, I appreciate that you have taken the time to share that comment with me.
--Lady, rita, julie, trilogy, jali, and Kim--Thank you for such encouragement.
--DB, I assure you the valance just fell into the line. Intransitives are not my (I say fort, some say forté).
Reminds me of " Nature's first green is gold ...
her hardest hue to hold."
"Love is alcohol in the veins,
the pairing, the leaving,
the rejoining moaning
of two hearts who live
to weather. Leaving not an option
and who later when the drink
dries tender one
another across thresholds of
pain and age and what must
of course, eventually come."
you definitely know how to make the heart flutter.