I am no god to grant permission,
nor to watch your struggle
and pretend I know any more.
I want to lift you into the air,
to hug you close to my face, but
you are a grown woman now.
I flounder along in my own life.
The easy problems— to kiss
your stubbed toe, and all be okay—
have grown exponentially,
until I am as lost and incapable
as I think you feel. We all subsist,
scrabbling among the rocks searching
for that tasty bit of explanation
that will cause it all to fall neatly
into place, which never happens.
We are all lost in our worlds,
doing our best to love each other.
(July 3, 2018)
in a few weeks it will be
forty years since we went out
for a banal movie and pizza—
forty years, college, a marriage;
three children grown,
and moved out mostly.
We are grandparents now.
Isaac toddles about the house
determinedly going where he goes,
as we follow behind bemused.
I think we worry too much
for the troubles we have. I am
aware they are there, as they are—
yet, so am I, and so are you.
(February 19, 2018)
My son’s wife’s pregnant:
I wanted to tell my mom,
dead now these eight years.
(August 29, 2016)
A friend shrugged his shoulders pessimistically,
“The nation’s in decline, but what can ya’ do?”
Weeks later, I’m still disturbed.
I read Ezra and Quinn “Theseus and the Minator.”
Lilith’s seduction into books has just begun.
A pebble ripples the entire lake.
(July 1995, from My Book of Changes)