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FunkyPlaid and I celebrated Obligatory Romance Day with Burgermeister burgers and geocaching. It was a perfect San Francisco day, 65 and sunny. Dogs of all kinds trotted happily before their humans. We talked about what makes us unhappy about our present, what we look forward to in our future. I am lucky to be able to tell him whatever I am thinking and feeling. It is a small yet crucial thing.

Shortly after arriving home, I read that Lucille Clifton had died. While I was in school in Alabama, I was assigned to read her collection “The Book of Light”. It took me a few passes before I understood the genius in her simplicity. Then I tried to emulate her style. It did not work so well for me, but I still love her poems.

Here is Lucille Clifton’s poem, “won’t you celebrate with me”:

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

The song that is playing right now, “Loretta Young Silks” by Sneaker Pimps, doesn’t remind me of anything in particular. I wonder if someday it will remind me of writing this.

I hadn’t thought of you in a while, and
right when I saw the lanky brunette
swivel sideways in her plastic seat
to let someone out, I thought of you,
your skin and hair and bones,
so taut and shiny. You were the
epitome of “girl” in my world and if
I had a crush on you –
    we all did –
it was because I couldn’t take you apart.
I couldn’t see your separate parts.
You were effortless
and your cigarettes always lit the first time,
and I hated your perfect breasts
framed by your crisp denim jacket.

After we fought,
and after you left because we fought,
you became the woman on the train,
older and harder and still unwilling
to get up for anyone, to move or
to be moved. She swiveled and I saw
the back of your jacket, smelling of
Tide and smoke and grain alcohol, of
pride. Of what I thought you would give me.
Of what I thought I had earned.

– Halsted M. Bernard

These words are mercenaries.
They slouch outside the back door of this poem,
clouds of frosty air billowing around their heads,
belts and boots glinting in the flood lamp.

When it is time, these words slip inside,
carrying a box or a knife or an envelope.
The hallway is dim. The recipient waits.
A noise, half-sigh, half-groan, escapes.

Perhaps nothing happened. The front door swings open;
these words stumble out, playing drunk.
They cross the street and their posture straightens.
As the moon lifts, they head for the next poem.

– Halsted M. Bernard

Despite all the wonderful prompts, this poem did not originate from one; it has been rolling around in my head all day, and must be let out.

garnish
me with
more than
green
[read more]

Enthusiasm cored,
unborn, glassy,
turgid: that moment
between the noise
you do not want
to recognize and
the opening door.

Once taken aback, you
cannot take it back.
The door swings
away from you,
pieces of stomach
scuttle like marbles
down a ramp.

— Halsted M. Bernard