Seasonal Confession Disorder
I.
I fully admit I have leered at women
in office elevators,
in 20 item-or-less check out aisles,
at restaurants, waiting for the next table,
and down university hallways, their swinging legs
marching them step-by-step closer to me.
I am not proud of this, but I have often
thought their faces slipping, falling
apart like the smeared oils on damaged canvas,
distorted by an arthritic God-hand, creating
the real threat of crumble,
neglect.
Thought them artistic failures, stricken,
painful in their almost-was perfection.
I have found their voices humbling,
unheard operas that blind my willing eyes
with sharp, stabbing tears. They always
shame me.
II.
Today, it is February, and I can tell the trees aren’t ready.
The morning joggers slamming through
their own crisp breath are ready.
The downtown shoppers, who shimmy
in the sudden heat of open doors, are ready.
But, I can tell the trees aren’t ready.
They are content with a few hanging, crackly leaves
and a distant hope of budding
under warm showers, content to cold bake a while more
under a winter sun,
waiting for the proverbial sheets
to be thrown over, thrown off.
It takes no effort to wake up to another spring,
takes no hope.
Spring is another given, another assumption.
Winter is work.
Wintering. Really seeing. I mean this.
The trees aren’t ready.
I fully admit I have leered at women
in office elevators,
in 20 item-or-less check out aisles,
at restaurants, waiting for the next table,
and down university hallways, their swinging legs
marching them step-by-step closer to me.
I am not proud of this, but I have often
thought their faces slipping, falling
apart like the smeared oils on damaged canvas,
distorted by an arthritic God-hand, creating
the real threat of crumble,
neglect.
Thought them artistic failures, stricken,
painful in their almost-was perfection.
I have found their voices humbling,
unheard operas that blind my willing eyes
with sharp, stabbing tears. They always
shame me.
II.
Today, it is February, and I can tell the trees aren’t ready.
The morning joggers slamming through
their own crisp breath are ready.
The downtown shoppers, who shimmy
in the sudden heat of open doors, are ready.
But, I can tell the trees aren’t ready.
They are content with a few hanging, crackly leaves
and a distant hope of budding
under warm showers, content to cold bake a while more
under a winter sun,
waiting for the proverbial sheets
to be thrown over, thrown off.
It takes no effort to wake up to another spring,
takes no hope.
Spring is another given, another assumption.
Winter is work.
Wintering. Really seeing. I mean this.
The trees aren’t ready.
posted by shakes at 12:45 PM
2 Comments:
Very good, both of them. I am wondering if enough connects them though. Could they, would they, stand better apart? There are many great lines in each. I want to talk about each in more detail. There is a breaking away in these poems for you and I think it is significant. Let's talk. They are good, very good.
I also think this is a very strong poem, and I especially like the second stanza and also think they could be/should be two separate poems. The final stanza is full of meaning without the disparate images that accompany much of your work. It is different from your other poems. I like it.
Post a Comment
<< Home