Tenderness, Poetry and Patience - That Kind of Real
That Kind of Tenderness
I.
she loosens draped veils,
they snake down her body slowly,
revealing buttery flesh
rounded by breath of offering
that kind of tenderness
II.
Mother, holding her dying baby,
memorizing each feature, finger and toe
by heart that will wait eternity
that kind of tenderness
III.
a soldier holds his wounded veteran wife
even though she can no longer
hold him back because a roadside bomb
tore her baby blue wedding dress dreams
that kind of tenderness
IV.
I trace the ragged scars
that once represented something of femininity;
babies’ suckle, lover’s taste,
still able to feel what it can not know
except by the tender cup of his palm
holding air
that kind of tenderness
That Kind of Poetry
I.
Words that twist themselves up in Joy,
spill across the page like children running
in fields or riotous daisies
that kind of poetry
II.
new babies bright eyes over mother’s shoulder,
icecream on the forehead,
butterflies stalling midflight
that kind of poetry
III.
crippled man learning to walk
on prostheses of phrases,
stumble down stories of war,
and love, and bliss seeping
through cracks that can trip you up
that kind of poetry
IV.
I can’t write that exact language.
I breathe it, though,
like a half-hung criminal
hanging on truths and borrowed bridges
who finds the knot loosens
on a happenstance swing
and I can read minds
who are oasis’s mid-desert mirage
to a woman who is dying
of thirst for such as this;
that kind of poetry
That Kind of Patience
I.
She waits like half-starved whelp
for him to come
as food boils over,
goes dry,
yet she re-warms it over and over
and hopes for kept flavor ~
that kind of patience
II.
brewing and stewing a baby
in an overstretched wombful
of belief in miracles
with right number of toes, and fingers
and cells doubling in the right places,
praying she has
that kind of patience
III.
he doesn’t hear,
so she yells,
without sounding angry,
or hurt, or spiteful
he loses things, misunderstands,
comes to bed with beer-breath,
wakes up too early,
holds his breath at night
until she shakes him
and she learns to let it go
he forgets to say he loves her
but remembers to put flowers
on his first wife’s grave, once a year
slurps his soup, eats with his knife,
steals her covers, takes a bigger piece
than she but then she uses onion in his food
and he hates onions
so it is give and take
that kind of Patience
Wow that’s beautiful. That Kind of Real and so beautiful! Thanks for sharing!