Ode to my thoughts at midnight

 

Stop this swirling!

Don't cook fears so burning hot

if you want them gone by dawn.

And what a waste of calories!

Thinking should have a noble purpose.

Lock out whatever chills your spine, 

whatever kicks you in the heart--

anything too bold for this late hour.

You know tomorrow they all might go

--and gladly and better so!

Poor agitated mind, stay in the mild zone.

End the day with ease.

Let precious waking time feel not so brief.

Cook thoughts of pleasure and strength.

Please.

For long life's sake.

Why I write poems

A poem plucks me from the day to day

into bygone places--

        in all their glory or distress—

but compressed--liquid flushed--

only glucose in the soft skin

of a raisin 

      pressed onto my blank page.  

I look at the mess up close,

      sometimes for the first time.

A poem can pounce from a scent

and hurl me back 

        to the high school gym.

Or leap from a song and suddenly 

      I am cutting my wedding cake again. 

I can feel it, see it, be it 

     one last time. 

Attraction

At 15, I am introduced

     to my cousin Rudy, 24.

We sit across the table smiling,

    our mothers beside us chatting 

in their mother tongue.

    My teen eyes unprepared for  

his Santa Fe blues and

    my browns retreat.

But a force rises from the ground 

     to push our atoms together, 

commanding my eyes to seal 

     onto his 

and injects a poison that 

     makes it impossible to blink

and I worry our mothers 

     will see this conjunction--

this inability to act--

      and understand.