Juxtaposition

So many years
went by when I
didn’t write a word.
Half-finished novels
stuck in exposition.
Protagonists just
setting off on a
hero’s journey,
frozen in mid-stride.

Poems written on scraps
tucked into notebooks
piled in boxes
stacked in a closet.
Epic tales told
in snippets.
Odes to odes.
16-syllable haiku.
13-line sonnets.

Songs, short stories,
essays, comedy routines.
Journals filled for
20 pages,
or 30,
then abandoned,
the thread
picked up later
in another journal.
Eleven journals
covering thirty years,
each with a month here
and a month there
from disconnected years.
A life, cross-indexed. 

But I was busy
teaching people
how to write. 

And when I would come home
from this noble endeavor,
I paid the mortgage and
kept the lights on
and bought the kibble
and gardened
and watched sunsets
from the porch
with you.  

It was this hero’s journey,
a living poetry.
Story after story
I finished.
Whole chapters
on which I
closed whole
books.  

I don’t regret
abandoned manuscripts.
I would, however,
regret missing
a sunset
on the porch
with you.  

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Routine

Office reruns in bed

late at night

(Jim plans a prank)

We laugh so

hard we have to

pause the show

We catch our breath

You press play again

My toes reach for yours

under covers

You play 

a game online

Me, a crossword puzzle

(Dwight planning Jim’s demise)

My right hand clutches

pen and book

My left reaches for

your fingers

gripped on your phone

I stroke the back

of your hand

(Jim grins at the camera)

Subtly, not suggestive

You say nothing

But I see you

smile

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

The Color of My Sadness

Not blue.  Never blue.  

I don’t care what Elvis thought about Hawaii

or what kind of Christmas it will be without you.

Blue is not sad or depressed or blue.

Blue is happy, sky, azure, eternal seas,

baby boys, forever in blue jeans.

I love blue, and I refuse to hand it over to sadness.

 

You can’t have brown either.  

Brown is the earth.

Brown is suntan, coppertone, 

beach babies drinking brown beer 

on a brown blanket 

delivered by a UPS truck.

Back away from the brown.

 

And you can’t have yellow.  Duh.

 

Red is out.  I need it for passion.

And righteous indignation. 

 

Green?  Not on your life.  

It is the smell of freshly mown grass, 

the sound of the breeze blowing 

through Mother Nature’s hair,

the taste of a slightly tart margarita.

 

If you want to own my sadness,

then I suppose you’ll have to take

whatever color the sun becomes 

in those last seconds before she falls 

into the coin slot of the horizon.

Take the thousands of

red-orange-purple-mauve-fuchsias

that melt into each other

and shift and change each other

every few milliseconds 

into one more sunset seen 

for the first time anywhere,

just like that one I saw 

the night you left,

when my tears made a

kaleidoscope of color

out of the western sky

and welled to honor

the last of the light,

the farewell to the 

Bringer of 

Life. 

 

Whatever color is sent on

the last ray from the sun

at day’s end,

that is the color of sadness.

That one you can have. 

Elect to Love

“It’s really a wonder I haven’t dropped all of my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out.  Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”  ~ ~ Anne Frank

Like so many others, I woke up this morning enveloped with despair.  How could this be?  What didn’t we do?  What does this say about us?  Something that seemed so certain slipped out of our fingers as surely as if we were trying to clutch at vapor.  And then, along the way, there have been moments of such sweet serendipity that I have been moved to tears in their preciousness.

One of my first acts of the day was posting something to Facebook.  It was my attempt to set the tone for how I would respond to our new reality.  I wanted to convey a peaceful resolve.  A family member from the other side of the political spectrum commented in appreciation for my stance.  We sent a few kindhearted messages back and forth.  I asked for his help; after all, his party won, and those in my tribe need folks like him more than ever now to hold our new leader to the highest standard.  He assured me he would do so.  And then he wrote, “Deb, I lock arms with you.”

At first, I admit, I felt the internal confusion that comes from seemingly mixed messages. I wanted to say, “How can you cast your support in the direction of one who promises to restrict and remove my freedoms and then say that you lock arms with me?”

And immediately a new thought fell in line behind that one.  I realized that I had a choice.  I could chew on the mixed message or I could savor the sentiment of unity.   I could focus on the confusion or I could focus on the connection.

In every moment, we are called to be better people.  We are called to love each other with a spiritual fire.  We are called to shine a light on the best in each other; and we are called to remind each other that everything else is not the truth of us.  We are called to inspire and uplift and encourage.

But also in every moment we are given another option.  We can dive into the depths of suspicion and discontent.  In every single opportunity we have to shine, we can decide on the darkness.

We have to choose.

I gathered my students in a circle this morning and talked to them openly and honestly about this election, about the fear a lot of people have, and about the personal impact it has on me as a lesbian.  I told them that nothing about this election can take away our freedom to decide each morning just how we want to show up in our world.  I told them that love is still stronger than fear.  I told them that love comes a lot easier when your side wins, but the love that you have to reach into the depths of your soul for and muster in the face of defeat is the one that is actually, bygod, love.  And I told them that no matter how they feel today, whether joyous or forlorn, we’re all still going to make it through.

In other words, I told them that I lock arms with them.  And we all felt a little better, a little safer, and a little more assured that everything would be okay.