The Good "Q Lee"
An Ode to ADHD
When my clothes destined for the good "Q Lee
That find homes in dark corners for two weeks, maybe three
In piles usually two, but like the weeks, sometimes three
Finally make the journey of some 38 feet
from the bowel of my closet to my car's back seat
only to find that the piles and the weeks
have now become one on my car's back seat
and will see the city sites for another few weeks
But when finally I greet the good people of "Q Lee"
still sear hing the pockets for whatever might be
lost or gorgotten, hidden, unseen
i say as i sort shirts, jackets and jeans
to the good Q Lee handing me my receipt
Remember? I always leave it hear
by the time i return, one time it was a year
the ticket will have found new life as a bag
recycled two times, the first, a luggage tag
small bits of paper, like bits of loose change
only add to the confusion, i know it seems strange
so Mr. Q! Lee this is what i'll do
I'll leave that ticket right here with you
So when I return in a week, maybe three
it'll be right in there in that little box--no need to sign the sheet
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Passion
It is as desperate as a breath unmet
Keen and strong to disappoint anyone but its love
No deed can undo its singleness of mind
It moves to a river run through a valley of certainty
Though God's gift, it is a march toward insanity
Unless soothed by its savior...
A touch, a word, love made, anger met, a kiss my breath, your breath
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Today I sang to the River
(This poem represents my coming to terms, emotionally, with Hurricane Katrina and the profound affect she had on the lives of everyone who calls New Orleans home.)
Today I sang to the river, and she did hear my cry
In the bosom of her waves she held bits and pieces of my sorrow
She danced with my melody, and her ripples conversed with all that I said
As sure as I would stand before each morning, she had been calling me
Today I sang to the river because a heart overflowing finally knew
And only she was big enough to hold all the tears, all the secrets
My soul found a tender moment of release
I exhaled, pinched myself, woke up from the dream and she carried me through
Today I sang to the river as I had never sung before
And my tears met the rolling of her waves
There was no judgment, though deep and mighty she ruled
Enough power that judgment need only the truth
Today I sang to the river, and all the trees along the shore quivered at the union
For like me they were not of water and had shared their own sorrow
The rocks echoed her refrain...that a hedge protected me
Because of me, In spite of me, it was with me
Today I sang to the river and reassured in the rush of her tide
That there is a God on high, and the quiet voice deep inside
That loves and honors, protects and comforts, listens and heals
Today I sang to the river, and today she heard my cry
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A Beautiful Woman
A beautiful woman takes that which men call reason and renders it an excuse
The calm cover on my face is the practice of manhood, but only a clever ruse
Hiding the unsteady rhythm of a fluttering heart
I'm blind to the mountain beforeme, but even her fragrance is seen
And how do eyes see a lover's mist? In what way do angels describe dreams?
I am a student of her design. I am prisoner to the look in her eyes and the shape of her lips
The swell of her chest, the small of her back, my eyes have made a thousand trips
Around her face, along her neck, and on the way I rest my mouth where infants play
And between my lips her love rises erect and willing to enjoy this way
From an honest man she produces a thief, and the violent one is made weak
She is made to fall in love with. Her eyes sparkle with it. Her lips all but speak it.
Her hips can't hide the hunger that such beauty demands
She is Eve. Virgin and vixen, perfect in the extremes
She has her way with life...for life loves her way.
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Great Art
This one quality seems consistent with great art
In all its forms, from sublime melody to the perfect left hook
It is subtlety, a feeling of reservation, understatedness
But it is at once passionate, like the doe panting for the water
It's as if there are secrets it seeks desperately to contain
But a bit spills and is known
It is "the Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile"
Great art doesn't consider itself, yet considers nothing else
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A Rose Sat Meeting With The Sun
Today a rose sat meeting with the sun
Somewhat nervous, this new friendship he'd begun
While still green the bud had known the warm embrace
Now, with gloom and glee the purple knot and the sun meet face to face
Duly impressed, "you are larger than the eyes can see"
Said the bud, explaining further, "considering your proximity"
"Why hold you so tight, let the other ones know of me"
Spoke the sun to the bud. "I'll just warm them and let them be."
"My petal-sum friends should rest another day or two
After all, it's important that we look our best for you"
"Did you know?" said the bud, "concerning the order of our life
Our master planned that we bloom by day, and rest with you at night
He said, No one will see you when the moon lights the wanderer's way
So go in, rest the night because short are your days
And each hour that you find rest, moon to sun
Comes an hour of 'light time' that you will have won"
"But it seems," spoke the bud, "that once my fragrant friends appear
And they meet with you, sun as I'm doing here
So impressed, nay, be it awe at your affect on them
That they wait through the night. They refuse to go in"
But dark carries a chill and of course everyone knows
The shade and a chill are no good for a rose
And if one were inclined to look in on them
You'd see roses shiver, each there on its stem
Yet, for a day or two they awake at your pace
And bloom full of beauty, delivered by grace
Now the days of a rose are somewhat numbered and fixed
The original plan said we should bloom five maybe six
But alas said the bud as the very first rose did to
We've suffered the moon while waiting for you
And the days of our bloom though they should be more
Were bought by the night waiting at dusk's door
And as the rose sighed a dew drop, concluding its story
It gave in to the sun for two days of glory
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I Remember Red
I remember red. It hushed the other colors. Strong and warm--able to be overbearing, but never so. Red. Respected by all the other colors. Blessed of God this red. A favorite of many. Red, it had no enemy. It was fertile and alive. Hinted of what green was to be. Strange, that red. It never tried to be anything but...red. Royal in a way all its own--like purple, but...It would be easy to dislike red...if you were another color.
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The Bouquet
In the cool, sweet sun of morning, as is our usual way
We strolled on toward adventure at the breaking of this newest day
There! He'd spied it, over there! A weed it was on a vine
To him twas' a treasure exacting no measure, you see, his purpose in mind
On further we paced when down low did his eyes spot a purplish thing, hidden, disguised
He picked it and next to the others it lay, another word in a growing bouquet
Then a ared one, faint and alone, a nondescript yellow, touched by blues mellow tones
A pink with no passion, then an organge unaware of the sight it did fashion for this little one's fare
And what held no meaning when standing as one was all and everything to my bride's second son
For in his hand held the potion for a smile like only a mother can do for her child
The sun could have poured raindrops and run like a star. It is of no matter, she had all of his heart
He didn't understand it and she needn't say. She just smiled and accepted his little boquet
