Red-Haired Boy

Published September 19, 2012 by rlmcdermott

I catch it but
it will not stay;
this thing that
slips away so
easily–like sand
it cannot hold itself.

The red-haired boy
becomes a son,
becomes a brother,
becomes a friend,
becomes a lover,
becomes a husband,
becomes a man.

With him–
a smile is
everything.

He loves words
and so he married
an East-Coast girl;

they keep to
themselves–
blue on blue.

The cowboy who went to sea
taught us everything–

Devil Dogs,
Yankee Doodles,
Umberto’s Pizza,
Big Blue,
Bohack’s sneakers,
Zeusgazette.

Who writes poems about such things?

And so we fight,
and so we pray,
and so we believe;

he will defeat the
long slow thing
that wants him for itself,
our red-haired boy
whom we so love.

Soliloquy

Published September 12, 2012 by rlmcdermott

why them
why those
two girls
why that house
with the gray porch
and a mimosa growing
in the front yard

the old man
the apple tree
the factories
the gas station
the seven-eleven
the neighbor’s dog

nothing made
a difference

could you
hear them at night
could you
see them in the window
waiting to be seen
waiting to be loved

did you hear them
singing songs
writing poems
pretending to
be someone else

one heard voices
the other one
starved herself
hoarded pills
kept a butcher
knife underneath
her dress

she meant
business
that one

a cat has nine lives
a little girl has only one

Autumn

Published September 11, 2012 by rlmcdermott

Everything
happens
in the fall;
all loss
is in a leaf–
yellow and gold
to the ground.

Even
tall buildings
must fall;
three thousand
hearts and you
in one hour–
autumn.

Two things
juxtaposed,
whose pain
is greater
the leaf’s
or mine;

Falling,
falling,
falling
into the
bright
September
sun–
everything
happens in
the fall.

The Wounding

Published August 31, 2012 by rlmcdermott

waiting for something
that’s finally come
there’s an art to that
that wanting
the hard wood of it
no sound except
my own breathing

not sure if the
sound of it is mine
cell rubbing against cell
transfer paper against stone
names dates relationships
the artifacts of a life
my life dreaming itself

It’s all about death

Hieroglyphics on my skin
numbers letters signs
signs and wonders
all against my skin
burning into my flesh
words everywhere
none making sense
lost love
lost life
what mattered most was the dream

did I dream it all
family friends art life
was it worth standing still

is this what Eurydice knew
when she hoped he would turn around
not to go back
not to have to live again
the constant feeling of failure
the waiting
the questions
is it here
is it today
will it be tomorrow
how long
how much longer

and then it’s here
and you’re not afraid
just sad
waiting does that to you
and then the god touches
you on your shoulder
and says he has turned around

Late Bloomers

Published August 22, 2012 by rlmcdermott

if I told you I’d be there

would you find
the wooden bench
the white camellias
the cherry tree
would you ask my name again
and lift your face into the sun–
exactly as you did that day

would we walk along the garden path
beneath the overarching trees
and listen to the insect’s song
the thrum of things so small
that only lovers hear their
extracorporeal hum

we are too late for love
too late for all the silly things
the longing
the sweet regret
the silences
the sudden rush of words
and yet we’re here
too old to hold each other’s hand
too young to walk apart

if I told you I’d be there

would I wait alone
beneath an autumn sun
would I look up and see you there
beside me on the wooden bench
a white camellia in your hand