nickels and dimes

        nickels and dimes

 
when I didn’t rightly count the fleas.  who’d guess the sorrow that would make.  when the salad went into the freezer to crisp it up.  how well that went you can guess.  when the choice seemed make rockets or radios, yet choosing either was as far off course as off could be.  when a kiss took hours to arrive, although truth is, it was years.  when driving forty miles and forgetting the marriage rings seemed obstacle rather than omen.  dumb.  and yea, after-the-fact, that marriage wasn’t worth much even melted down.  (insult to injury) saying yes to one because I said no to another, when I should’a said nothing to anyone, (or everything)  too much pizza, yea, it really is a sin, although a small one, unless it’s large.  telling stories inside my head when the world is outside, like it always is.  crashing can get to be a habit. cars shouldn’t assume some shapes.  giving the baby freedom to roll is not always the best idea.  reality is bigger than we (me) sometimes (always) imagine it.  there, that’s a better reveal of truth than I usually suggest.  countless important pieces of paper I’ve lost.  taking a back seat to riotous desire, because like they say, hands on the wheel, ten and two o’clock.  please.  but no blaming me alone because we all do it too.  maybe you’re doing it right now.  it’s like dodgeball without the ball.  creaking bones say childish choices are in the jeans.  say fences are just pockets turned inside out.
forgive what the river does.

there, that’s important too, but pointless saying why.

 

neil reid © november 2011

 
comments:
minor confessions. nothing much more than autumn leaves. and while seeming long long since a last poem, (mostly) true to my word, write when you wanna and don’t when you don’t. no fair beating yourself up for the truth. yet writing is how I measure time (little as I do recall) so not writing gets rather odd (fish out of water like they say). and confessions, yea, don’t count for much but sometimes stirring the mud is what you do, stick in hand. it’s just something to write till better words come along.

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river walking

river walking

is river the rumble of rocks sleeping in bed?

is river the mountain that lures it up or from which it falls?

is river servant to gravity’s whispered beckon touch?

is river the sun that makes it leap to sky, imagines seedling clouds?

is river those wild lips taking rest from thirst?

is river those who melt back into aqua flesh, redeeming death?

is river the serpentine landscape that insists on wandering?

is river the silt that rides along, opening and closing mouths?

is river the fish that fill its belly? shadowed like loaves of bread?

is river shrub and tree that pull then blossom its skirts?

is river the stars the moon of a shimmering face?

is river the fingered hulls of men and their labored rope?

is river the eye of beauty eager for a reflected face?

is river the lover bound each glance to say farewell?

is river the snow the wind that drives away or holds close?

is river the wind that takes its breath?

is river all that’s unabridged?

likewise, the river walking you.

neil reid © january 2011

[post script] river walking and first is now last to post. This is sort of the papa bear of the last four poems here. Not really planned by any means, just what arrived on the plate. Of this poem I was even surprised myself, the myriad paths by which this one vehicle interplays within the environment. In fact, where is the boundary? Seemed something of an octopus at first, too many arms. Simplification helped some with that I think and hope (scenic not confusing is the desire). (And another list poem, although that was not the point, but it keeps the flow, as the river does.)

Revision 2011 Aug 31
is river shrub and tree that pull then blossom its banks skirts?

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I remember you (napowrimo #10)

read write poem   napowrimo #10

prompt by Pamela Sayers celebrate!

RWP member Pamela Sayers says, “I live in Mexico, and one of the things I love most about this country is that people here celebrate their family and friends to the utmost.” And it is in that spirit that Pamela asks us to write about any celebration we have been to recently.

Write about a birthday party, a wedding, a baptism — any kind of celebration where you were with family or friends or both. Write about the colors you remember, the sounds (and how they made you feel) and the tastes you remember from any of those events. Did these things make you feel good? Did you experience any new foods? Did you meet any new people?

Sometimes, beyond our control, festivities can take a turn for the worse. Maybe that happened to you or someone you know. Whatever happened, be it great or not so great, let’s write about it!

(A church gathering, family really to us. Celebrate. And just one moment of that kept coming back, begs me to speak again. So be it.)

I remember you

Three-quarter moon of white linen tables

Twelve gather, make a ring, acknowledge roots

Eyes ahead, who we are

that might become

Celebrate

Food on plates, the service is robust

sparks were silverware might be

hand to mouth. Old tomes beneath the tables,

we call them feet

The river’s miles that brought us here

Share to speak, all of us as one

Then comes one hand, remembering

Thanks for those parted from

                    * * *

It was an afternoon some when

far past. I was the one who got the phone

Sister of one of us, family

The river was high, the water fierce

His son was plucked and safe on the bank

But Paul, a father, a friend, one of us

He was not coming home again

And it was me who got to turn, face family

and speak his name, say, he was gone

                    * * *

Years later now, again, it was me

remembering (and how we all forget)

(not unkindly, but we do you know)

but not that day, and I remembered now

A second time, to speak his name

and celebrate the life he had given us

Neil Reid © April 2010

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Watersongs

Watersongs

 

 

Says water, Everyone lives on a mountaintop.

 

Familiar stones, rounded thoughts.

Measure them in the curve of your hand.

No boundaries, only another waterfall.

 

Trenches are where water likes to go,

however sometimes it changes its mind.

 

River seems blue because water loves sky.

 

Oceans are memories of mountainsides.

 

Water befriends gravity, yet every river

also falls up in little breaths.

Clouds like threads.

 

There is a river in you.

 

 

 

Neil Reid © December 2006

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Bear in the river

Bear in the river.

 

I am too old to sing these songs again,

    the old bear thought to himself,

    wishing he was wrong.

He tried hard to remember the wise things

    he had learned in his life;

    at least one wise thing.

He tried very hard. Mostly without success.

 

Instead he thought of her often, each day,

    each hour; sometimes each breath.

Could not conceive a horizon without her face.

Would that the earth be her image,

    and he the seas, and sky and clouds to

    embrace and delight each borrowed breath.

 

It pleased the old bear to have these thoughts.

With time he came to know his heart was able

    to embrace this grace, and surrendered his resisting,

    let the wind blow down from the high valleys again,

    allowed the fish their play in the river without

    his gaze guiding them.

 

 

1996 © Neil Reid

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