A Long Perspective

c. FEWalls

This is the poem to carry with you for emergencies,
like the spare batteries and extra gas you pack
when you drive into the wilderness.

When you discover you are lost,
you can press any word in this poem
and walk beside calm waters.

This poem does not have
water, food, shelter or energy bars but
courage is hidden in every line.

Before you crumple up this poem,
(feeling danger in every direction),
remember Love’s gift to you:
your next breath.

FEWalls

She walks toward the librarian,
pausing, breathless, from
the long climb to the library.

Outside the fog hides
the golf course,
inside the library, shelter, warmth.

She says to the librarian,
“Here, first time,”
pointing around the room.

She says,
“Show me, please, this book,”
pointing to the paper in her hand.

Printed neatly in ink
the paper says,
“Grief and Depression.”

She says,
“Help me, please,
if you can.”

“When you can do this for me?”
“You can do this for me now?”

FEWalls

c. FEWalls

The breeze from the ocean

touches the curtain,

pulling and pushing.

The woman lies on her side

in the bed by the open window;

the muggy air breathes in and out.

In her fortress, she waits for her lover

and his sure hand

on the curve of her body.

She will roll over soon

reach for the blue rose,

loosen her dark hair.

Somewhere in Santiago de Cuba

a man puts out his cigarette,

closes a door and

drives toward the woman

as the gulls

fly up before him.

FEWalls

Just hedge a bit, he said.

Love can be bloody or sane.  No need to

say the truth, cruel as it may be.

Be kind.  Sanctify the moment, m’dear.

Be blasé.  Be real.

Leap into the next moment with abandon.

Laugh at fate, at destiny! Embrace

change like Heraclitus.  Feel the

joy spinning at the top of the Eiffel Tower, at

the 360 degree view.

In the labyrinth,

you are stuck with dead –ends

and disappointments.  Remember Paris,

and the fun of being with the statue

of Cupid and Psyche, the lovers

forever in their embrace.

FEWalls

© FEWalls

The sparkling woman dances with the man,

flask in his pocket;

she closes her eyes and smiles frantically to the music.

At the microphone, Annie sings the “Girl from Ipanema”

and then the “Waters of March.”

The bar is a belly in turmoil,

inhabiting the dragons,

Huff and Puff.

Outside.  There is no outside.

The bird with the red throat

trills from the painting on the wall.

The guitarist and Annie duet themselves

to the clatter chatter.

The woman who sparkles knows where this is headed.

FEWalls