Poetic Reason.

I wish I was daring as a hat, the hat that is placed on
My head; the heart that beats like a sad remembrance of
Things wanted, things that are ashamed. I cannot know
What it is I have reflected, a genius of sorts, a prodigy
Of the mind. Sometimes,
I cry out in the lonely night, wishing for a spark of genius
To strike me; most of the time, there is nothing but memories,
Flitting like a butterfly in my mind. I try to wipe it away,
Try to hold it back, but there is nothing more than a sparrow
Pushing me forward, holding onto the rhythm of something
That is not as likely as it seems.
What happened to the beat of my heart? What happened to
The gentle understanding that comes with sharp rain?
I am not whole again, my heart does not beat steady.
In the night, I often see spirits that haunt me, like bitter reveries
In a night storm, my mother always in my mind.
Words are like poetry; they move me to enter the door,
Swinging in an arc.
Why do I like poetry? There is no rhyme or reason,
A simple day that gathers rain.

Thoughts and Memories of a Rainy Afternoon.

Rain poured through my fingers like soiled sheets.
An umbrella sits, lonely, on the front porch.
I see you, sitting there, on the swing,
leafing through a copy of
USA Magazine in the pouring rain,
immersed in the pictures,
I suppose. You love to draw, it is your hobby,
you say that one day you want your pictures
to be put up in an art museum-not in Paris, you insist,
or Rome, but a local museum,
like in Boston. We live in Massachussetts.
You love Boston. It is your favorite place.
Sometimes,
we go there on Saturday mornings, and eat at the
Bagel World
on Fork Street, and watch the traffic go by.

Sometimes,
I wonder what you are thinking, if perhaps your thoughts
are about art, or me. I usually tell myself to quit it.
Most of the time,
I do not listen to myself.