The Other Side of the Coin
I look at her face and see juts of energy, even anger, as she speaks.
No sprig of hair rests on her cheek to ease those sharp features.
Her spearlike slingbacks and tightly clasped blouse
express the seal of her mind.
But when she walks away, I see what she hoped to hide:
her fragile neck—the baby curls fleeing their bleak knot,
her amorphous back—the blouse, so rigid in front falls, in soft folds behind.
Her mellow calves, as smooth as balloons.
But most of all; her pink, round heels—as tender as a child’s.
She has no idea what she gives away when she turns.
It makes me sigh to see those futile efforts
and I wonder why she tries.
The Door to My Mind
Thoughts rap on the door of my mind, pressing their eyes into the peephole.
Alright, I sigh. Come in, if you must. But leave your shoes on the porch. You’ll not stay long.
And clean up after yourselves—don’t make a mess.
They enter, pushing and shoving with alacrity, or shuffling dully.
Some pass straight through and depart, hardly noted.
Others take a seat, flouting my exasperation.
I tug at them vainly, but they settle deeper.
Feet up. Unheeding.
What are thoughts but itches in the mind?
Let me not scratch them, and they will take their leave in time.
We Are the Sky
How are we not the sky?
It envelops and enters us through our breath, our unsealed skin.
How are we not the rain?
It shares our blood, and all that is fluid within us.
How are we not the sun?
It stokes its flames within us and keeps us vital. It feeds all that feeds us.
How are we not the Earth?
We are bound to it, never rising from it for long.
We need no connection. We are but one.
"СВЯЗАННОЕ ЧТЕНИЕ" POEMS BY BOB ROWE: To-Do List, Talking With God and more»
изображение: Pixabay
