Tag Archives: Poetry

Haircut

He tried to pay me
that first time I cut his hair
and I said no—
no way—
said I was happy
to do something for him—
reminded him how much
he’d done for me.
And I found a twenty
in my purse the next day—
but since then
my dad just sits
in the chair on the patio—
closes his eyes
and crosses his arms
when its time for me
to spread the towel
over his shoulders
and cut away
the excess gray—
he knows that love
is the only currency
we’ll exchange—
and today we both know
that between this haircut
and the next
he’s going to have his heart
opened up for repairs
and someone else
will be making the cuts—
and I know both of us
are hoping
the surgeon’s hands
will be steadier than mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
2-21-18

“Samson and Delilah” by Padovanino (1588-1649, Italy)

Where No One Can Follow

Rain all morning

nowhere to go

but inward

where the memories

are stored

where the only thing

that can reach me

is music—

a guitar

and a couple of voices

in harmony

that seem to be saying

all the things I can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
2-19-18

“Meridian Street, Thawing Weather” by T.C. Steele, 1887

Cake

Just for him

she baked

a beautiful cake–

multiple tiers

icing so white

it seemed to glow

and there were

fowers too–

sugar-sweet

pastel soft

and he was not

misled

by this facade–

he knew that inside

was a different

kind of sweet–

dark–

the color of sin–

but just when

he was sure

the time had come

to enjoy

this decadence

he watched her

recoil

as he lifted a fork

above this

aesthetic perfection

and he realized

he wouldn’t

be allowed

to have his cake

and eat it too.

Deep Winter

You are winter.
Stripped down
to necessity
but not quite barren.
Still beautiful.
Sometimes
I’d even say exquisite.
But mostly
your warmth
isn’t enough
to penetrate
what is cold in me
and even though
I long
for summer
I find it impossible
to believe
that once it wraps me
in its blue skys
I won’t long
long
long
long
long
for you.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
2-4-18

Welcome Packet

Dearest lover,
I have compiled
a list of instructions—
a user guide for this body
you claim to love—
know first
that my heart
is not filled by you—
you alone do not feed
or complete me.
There will always be
an unnamed vacancy
beside you.
Please know
my time with you
will never be enough
and will often be too much
and I will need
to recede into solitude
where I will suffer
from regrets
I will never share with you.
I will expect you
to read my mind
when I am silent—
and when you can’t
I’ll withdraw from you
for a while
until I remember
you can’t see
into my imagination.
When I re-emerge
I’ll require copious
amounts of affection
and will need
to give you even more
than I receive.
Know that I will need you
more than you need me
but I will never
show it.

 

 

 

DeMaris
2-2-18

Sparrows

The sparrows
finches
chickadees—
all of them know
his kindness is reliable
even when, especially when
cold, frost and snow
cover their world in difficulty—
they know where to find his love
poured into the feeders
outside his windows—
they taste it in the suet
he prepared and stuffed
into the vacancies
of a fallen cedar
to give energy and sustenance
to wings of all colors
that flicker
like his memories
of a different landscape
a different decade
when he met a girl
who flew in for a closer look
and spread her love over his world—
he soared so high
it took him a long time to land
and by then she was gone—
so he keeps the birds near
to remind him how it felt
to be weightless—
and every morning
the sparrows return
and every evening
they fly away
and take with them
small pieces of his sorrow.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
1-29-18

“Snow Birds” by Andrew Wyeth

I Wonder

Sometimes
the writing is on the wall
but for weeks
it’s been on a handwritten sign
at the corner of Main Street
and Emerson Avenue–
black foamboard
white letters
hunched over in the snow–
a kind of crude, yet sincere
devotion to philosophy–
an invitation, really,
to fill in the blank.
“I wonder ______”
Two words that begin a question
so capacious
I worry about the one
who put it there–
what was she thinking?
It must have been a she
who believed existentialism
was the path to understanding
what couldn’t be easily defined–
or maybe it was a man
who erected the sign–
whose only wish
was to know what happened
to the woman who got away
and this was a cry to the universe–
a universe
that will never answer
or care.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
1-20-18