The First Thunder of JuneI could tell from the waythe truck barreled down the road,how its motor revved and caught on the air,that a storm was coming.The dog shook,his twelve-year hips aching with the effortof tucking his tail between his legsin the hope that such displays of submissionwould appease the weather.They did not.The sky turned feral and spat on the house.While my old-hound pantedwith his panic-wide eyes,mine filled with awe and lightning.
Ninety-nineIt probably feels like a broken sigh,witnessing a century of repetition and change,becoming a testament to human tenacity,and watching too many wars on television.The nursing home is too sterile for you,but as your children near sixty,with problems of their own,you have no place in their houses.While everybody visits,they never stay for long enough.you are lonely.Your daydreams are like old jazz records--sometimes you confuse them with memory.Were you really such a beauty on your suburb streets?Did you really love that boy so completely?Perhaps you have forgotten.
HelplessNothing in front,and nothing good in the back.Only a fool says life is fair.I know the value of having hope,but that doesn't do much right now.My mind feels like it's drowning,and my eyes want to stream out tears.Still, I want to be strong enough tonot say "Why Me?"—though I feel it on the tip of my tongue—and lose myself in misery,but the pain hurtswith the haunting, terrorizing memoriesof the past it brings,and it's as if there's nothing I can do to banish them.Misery is not my friend,but it sure comes around often.The world is spinning way too fast;I'm dizzy and frazzled.But how do you fight the truth?I feel what my mind is telling me is true,but I'm not sure.I know most of the negative things we thinkare never really true, but even if it isn'tthere's very little that would change.Someone pulled a switch on my mindand then broke the "off" lever;it's stuck on depressed.But hey,we all wake up on the wrong side of the bed at
CountermelodiesWhen it begins,it’s like discoveringthe decadence of music.Perhaps your breath hitcheson the cello carrying the countermelody.It reminds you of their voice,as they warm spices in the kitchenand you’d wrap your arms around them from behind,like the horns come up from underand saturate the harmony.Their body feels familiar in all different ways,a second listen granted to a beautiful movement.You can’t tell them you repeatthe first song they showed youbecause it smells like their skinIf you listen close enough.And they can’t tell you thatthey try to harmonize with yourspeaking voice on the phonebecause you sound closer that way.They’ve turned your solos to concertos.You feel their lips on your cheek andyour hair stands on end like you’veheard God on their lips;their touch is prophetic.You hold them close and hope they’ll lingerlike a violin on a high note,and you can’t bear to open your eyesand dismiss the beauty