April 1991

Maybe if there had been (more) color in my life,
I wouldn’t hate love so much.
All I remember is green.
The green of the visitor deck where the duck family lived.
I liked those ducks—
Liked watching them grow from infant to toddler
(Like) a premonition of the prayer in my mother’s womb.
None of it made sense—
It still doesn’t.
Maybe there’s some red in there too;
Red in the thin little tubes covering her face and body.
Red on his hands.
Oh yes, and black…
Maybe dark brown?
I remember her hair—
Her dark brown hair.
Seventeen years later it still touches the top of her shoulders.
I am at the same instant repulsed and drawn to her.
She’s both my heart’s magnet and finger nails on a school chalk board.
She’s like the sun and the rain—whenever I have one, I want the other instead.
She’s like chocolate and poached eggs.

And so I ask myself,

Why do five year olds not play dead?
And how can this answered prayer support a head?
I ended up wanting to be the one being fed…

I wish someone had told me I was necessary.

~A-M, 11/30/08

August 25, 2008

White flowers bloomed today in the August rain.

I thought the petals might fall off--

Might not withstand the pelting.

Frost knows what I was thinking.

I guess flowers can take a beating...

And bloom brighter because of it.

-A-M

My Current Sentiment

The red sunrise at dawn
Satisfies the lustful eyes and is gone—
Only to be followed by a storm.
And the eyes knew this end all along.

A-M

An Ode on Unattained Contentment

I looked at Your tree,
And was about to deem it dead--
For it was bare and leaf-less.
I was thinking about Your redemption
As I saw birds resting in its barren branches.
But then, I remembered
It's not dead at all--
I caught sight of its stable, mighty trunk,
Planted firmly in the green grass.
And I remembered,
That even plant life goes through their own seasons.
Even though it looks dead to my eye,
It is far from being so.
It is as alive as ever;
Resting within itself,
Content within itself--
Not concerned with providing beauty for humans to marvel at.
But only concerned with resting for now with its Creator--
Knowing, with full assurance,
That it will once again sprout beautiful leaves...
All in God's time.
It does not envy the Evergreen
Who stays clothed all year long.
It delights in its vulnerability--
It's inability to hide behind its coverings.
Oh the joy it finds
When the green buds appear in the spring!
Oh the joy and sorrow it feels at the same moment
When its leaves begin to turn,
Shades of orange, red, and yellow!
For it knows they are about to fall and die.
But the colors bring the tree such delight!--
Even while it mourns their loss.
And God sustains the tree through the winter.
And comforts the tree.
Multitudes of birds
Spend their mornings resting in its branches.
Within it, hosts of sparrows bathe their loved ones
And sing songs of love and life,
Amidst the barren branches.
And so, the tree is filled with companions.
The tree is not left alone.

I'm sitting in my math professor's front room. This chair's pretty damn comfortable. I bet she grades my 15 hours of proofs sitting here.

There are books and cds and records all around me--on the floor, in piles, on shelves. The aroma of cabbage and cornbeef lingers after a hearty St. Patrick's Day celebration last eve. mmm, now that's some good irish cookin'.

The sun is is shining in through her window facing south. I can see the dust on her bookshelf, on her odd lamp, on her dead plant. Yes, this is a math professor's humble abode. The lack of decoration and conservative amount of furniture reminds me of me. I'm all about drapes from Goodwill. I eat that shit up.

I'm here kidsitting three 12 year olds--2 boys and a girl. One of the boys, David, started crying earlier over a bowl of fruitloops because his rat will probably be dead by time he gets home today. Schema is her name. She's lived a good, long life, he said. He's going to miss her. They had a real bond.

His tears reminded me how fragile we human beings are--and how most of us spend our lives trying to convince ourselves and others that we are not.