Seasons Of My Heart: Fall
Published March 13, 2013 by rlmcdermottFlowers Painted On An IPHONE
Published March 13, 2013 by rlmcdermottEurydice’s Complaint
Published March 13, 2013 by rlmcdermottI ask for gray;
he gives me blue.
I ask for light;
he gives me night.
A willful god,
my god he is;
this god
who all the gods resist.
I write him poems;
he writes me songs.
I am his lyre;
he does me wrong.
I cannot stop
this love I feel
it turns my heart into a wheel.
I turn and turn
and only see
that turning brings me
back to me.
What kind of love
is this that stings
and brings me
to this narrow road?
We climb and climb
and never see
an ending to this misery.
He looks ahead
and I am found.
He looks behind
and I am gone.
We are a paradox
this man and me–
a story,
a myth,
a mystery.
A Sailor’s Fate (For SJ)
Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermottshoes by the door
a red cap hung
on a coat rack
a giant’s jersey
a man’s ring
a loved painting
we are nothing
but gestures in
these moments–
what does grieving
have to do with death
the moon
the cherry blossom
the blue wisteria
cannot stop the bird’s fall
everything goes to ground
and we are weeping
in the middle of a bright afternoon
taking pictures of ourselves
to remember we are still alive
we leave
the people
we love
in the places
where they lived
and say goodbye
to red-haired boys
as gray battleships
Bataan
Missouri
Wisconsin
come in from memory
and we bury
our love at sea
Writing Poems In Tokyo
Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermottcan you find them
laying loose on the ground
letters about color
color about words
words about you
what a fool
I’ve been to think
that language
can save me
that love can fall
from the sky
and make poems
out of glass and steel and concrete
an old man sat beside me on a traffic island
somewhere between Tokyo Station and Ginza
he smiled
I threw a word at him
he caught it in his hat
he knew me for what I was
someone who would always be waiting
Words
Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermottI am thinking
a poem can save love
a poem can save a life
I open the book
I close the book
the man across the hall
is crying out blue words
I do not speak his language
knotted words are
tightening in his chest
what keeps the
secret of a heart
a poem
a song
a picture
folded in a well-worn wallet
who are these women
and what do they mean to him
I open the book
I close the book






