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“If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?” Mary Oliver
The little girl taps my knee, pointing up,
“Look, Mel, it’s God.”
I bend my neck back, my face upward to geese winging in chevron formation
against the broken clouds and the sun’s rays, pale yellow.
I am stopped short
She sees God.
Can I?
I am no match for her 5-year-old hope.
And, I am certainly no match for this image
Of the geese, the girl,
and God in the rays of the sun.
I turn again to the sky,
Full of the questions that come to me mostly on spring days.
If Sylvia Plath Were a Valley Girl
Dad – I totally don’t get it.
I mean, when you kicked the bucket
I was way bummed.
I was thinking, “As if! Like, oh my God!”
So, I went to the mall
And met a bitchin’ version of you.
His name was Ted. He was totally awesome;
he was tubular.
And, so, like when he asked me to marry him, I said, “Fer Sure.”
But, I was sooo bummed
Because, dad, he turned out to
grody to the max, a classic barfbag.
Like you.
I thought about doing myself in
But, seriously, dad
I couldn’t kill myself without, like
Totally messing up my hair
Or my nails
Or my face
I mean, gag me with a spoon.
So, whatever, dude.
I’m totally over it. I’m through.
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2 comments:
Mel, *snaps fingers in applause* that last one gets my Fucking Funny award for the day.
The first one struck me as nostalgic. But a nostos to what?
Maybe we need to respond to poetry with poetry?
Answers to Answers
I am standing on Peet's Hill above Bozeman, MT.
In the early evening on a Saturday night the university district is alight with semester's end.
Somewhere out in the shadow'd sky of blue I hear geese. Main street is a strip of pearls, as if the earth itself had been cut open, and out of the wound a brilliance. Directly below
a police car
has pulled
someone over for
speeding.
How is this any different from the night above Los Angeles?
An angel the size of the sky rises and draws his
fiery sword.
Watch, the man on the hill raises his bottle in salute.
I love you, Wayne.
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