Poet & Teacher

Paradise is to the desert
as an oasis is to a therapy patient/
a bored child to uselessness.

The existence of an analogy
the happenstance of a desire
does not fulfill need.

A complimentary color
does not make two things match.

The history of the individual
the psyche we built of a past
does not come in pairs.

Solutions are challenging.

If the existence of paradise fixes nothing,
it does not make it any less appealing.

If a nuclear bomb offers no solution,
is it not like the societal craving to be “in shape?”

My body was yours
once. I felt so little
your hands
drove my fathers stick shift,
could move me swift, one armed
and trying to champion
the art of frozen vegetables
you too, young
with mystery,
attempting authority
like jumping waves.

The ocean roars
of unknown,
sand pipers
scurrying its edge
crab crabbing
the border or safety.

What else is there of today
but intention?

If only we had wings
for skirmishes
with what could be,
if only there were no need
for a plan.

For the love of crabs
we cannot see
the depths of ocean
phytoplankton to whale
complete
(the way we played
in the shower
head to drain).

The piper grasps
that waves do not repeat—
I am just coming to understand this now
I am happy
but wonder
if

seagulls leaves no footprints in the sand.

That we were once
might not have been
but for knowing
you too must think of me
when you notice the ocean

or that the world
is connected.

That naughty piece of hair
you noticed
is sticking up again;
hydrogen bonds too crave attention.

Carry on
miniscule elements
amalgamate my desire

to be seen.

If you were told to hold up the sky
Would you do it quickly, willingly comply?
Or would you have something else to do,
Burdens common, the greatest seeming undue?

And would it be heroic to walk away?
Not to worry oneself day after day?
Why take on more strife just to gripe
When the world spins on regardless anyway?

Whose skies do you hold?
What complaints are your gold
That you treasure in lieu of greatness?
Let go of your burdens unfold.

By the docks on Third Avenue
you try to teach me
to drive stick.

Twice into third gear
I switched
when you confidently prodded me
towards greater Brooklyn.

You sat faithfully casual
by my side
until a bus turned
too wide
and I had to reverse,
stalled instead
immediately cried
with you shouting to turn back
on the car
to shift again
the bus horn serenading
our dispute.

I listened and shifted into reverse
and into first too,
across the street
then pulled over and said,
“never again.”

We switched roles then,
continuing the two steps forward
one step back
of daughterhood.

Me perpetually
in the back seat,
safe.