Expecting
My wife is expecting
me to be the man I promised to be
when I told her
“even when we return to dust,
I am certain our molecules will be holding hands
creating something solid
like we always have.”
My wife is expecting
a sober husband soon. One
who tears through expectations
like a bullet through glass, shattering
them to the pieces which hold them.
Using uninhibited talent to destroy
mummified ambition.
My wife is expecting
a father like a feather, connected
to a body to give flight
and graceful to the wind when time
relieves the entity by fight or maturity.
A father who remains
protector through living’s muck.
My wife is expecting
our first baby soon. A soulful daughter.
A mystical soldier. A moon-drop gypsy.
A baby raised by infinite hands and claws
and paws. A rhapsody marching
against revulsion. And damnit,
I hope she glides.
My wife is expecting
our daughter to grow like a magnolia,
blossom like a lily,
and gleam like a rainbow. And when we relax
blushing our cheeks with wine,
we’ll accept her as tree eating soil;
breathing miraculous air.
My wife and I are expecting
our daughter to chisel her way
through the mine, to appreciate each chip
as a sacrifice for her continuation.
We expect ourselves to gradually recoil,
as independence consumes her movements,
like grease to water.
Today as the only Today
When I walk on eggshells
they crush beneath my feet-
I move forward.
The swimming pool never ends,
endless laps- infinite arms.
Beneath the floors:
all the miracles which hold us up.
Beyond the roofs:
soft velvety spasms
occurring as frequent as vibration-
calculated movements of time.
I skate on fine ice; quality,
like the reclusive heart of glacier.
When I’m thrown under a bus,
I relax my muscles and accept life
as a fearless whirlpool
grabbing it’s surrounding, forcing
them to the unidentified end;
the wheels bounce from my soft cavities,
I leap up and ensure the passengers
walk unharmed.
I push my rock to the top
of the mountain. When it rolls
to the bottom of the other side, I remain,
sit and meditate upon the apex.
There are only two options
until you laugh,
only two eyes until you see,
only two you and me
until we break down
what we’re built of, realizing
our souls ramble like Louis’s trumpet,
the rest: becoming.
Ash Cliff
We all sprinkled a little ash
over the cliff. Illegality is only relevant
without a watchman.
I sat on Deadman’s Leap.
It was peaceful. The ashes covered
the cliff like ground chalk.
Our circle was peculiar,
thus is Open-Invitation.
But death is peculiar.
There he was, smothered against the face.
There he was held to his special place.
There he was; what was.
There I was in a meditative pose
unaware I would see him spread
against that rock.
Wind plays tricks. So do fiddles.
So do ponies, as they say.
So does sight.
When the wind lifted bits,
I remembered an old prayer
then descended.
–Maxwell Redder
