Daily Archives: March 14, 2016


Originally posted 3/14/2013.

Maybe that clock of yours is sick,
or maybe time itself is ill, but 
either way, trust me — it’s not time yet.

You’re going nowhere,
not at least until the daffodils in the front yard
are fully up and open.

There’s bad television to watch yet,
lots of it, enough that we could get tired
of watching and go for a walk.

You can’t go until we’re both tired of bad TV
and we decide that even a walk up and down
this terrible hill of a street is better than that.

I know I’m right. That clock of yours 
is sicker than you are, or time itself is what’s ill — 
you’re going nowhere until the daffodils

have bloomed twice 
and we’re in great shape from walking away
from bad TV.  Then once we’re in shape — 

not this spring but next — we’ll replant the beds
out front and get something
other than daffodils in there;

I know you love that yellow but face it,
everyone’s got daffodils.  When we walk
the hill, you’ll see all the daffodils

in all the yards.  You’ll see — 
the robins are back.  You’ll see
the sodden trash of after winter

and how much still needs doing.

Just listen to me, please:  your clock
is sick and so is time itself.  Please
don’t agree with them in their fever.

Please don’t agree with time,
with how it’s burning you up.  
Say you’re going nowhere, please.  Say

the only place you are going
is to the couch to watch bad TV with me
until it’s time for our walk.  

Say the clock
is delirious, is making a huge mistake,
is too sick to be right. Please.

My Body Steals This Poem From Me

Originally posted 3/19/2014.  

Tonight my body’s not working right
and I’m trying to keep it
from writing this poem.

It’s trying to steal itself from me,
attempting to work in first person.
I respond

butter pat,
maple sauce,
meaty arms of morning.

My body brushes that aside, barricades itself
in my hand, takes my intentions hostage
and demands the poem as ransom.

I balk at this and make
a counter offer, 
a good faith gesture with 

iron pendant,
bronze cuff,
stone talisman,

but my body rejects it
and again demands control
of the first person.

Defeated by my body’s insistence
upon its version of this moment,
I find myself once again with

elm tree,
granite slab,

late afternoon shade

no longer standing firm
on their own but chained
by my body to meaning.

My body scorns my hope
that I is not the only true word.
Perhaps I should agree and

let my body rail and fail its way
into this poem and all the others
I have not yet begun.

I am not at peace with this
but not at a loss for words,
exactly; no, 
I still have plenty

of those but my body
will surely steal them
and ground them in its own venality.  

My will being as weak as it is,
I fear I will not be heard
in the midst of that

so I sit and shiver
within, silent, watching my body
own me.