Tiger Step

Look at the man who was looking at you,

everything about me screaming, not ready

Every day, makes it a little bit more true

always awake with my hands unsteady-

And I can breathe deep now with these borrowed lungs,

they pretend I am strong and growing tough but

in reality they give me just enough

to make it through the day

and they say

baby steps will get you where you need to go

even if they are slow

but I want to take a tiger step

and leap into sleep

with massive paws and killer claws

so that when the man is looking at me, I don’t look away

I stay and say

this is just a game I play

I like me this way.

where with each paw I can move them all.

 

Playbill

I wear it under my skin
the layer that holds you out
and holds me in

Part of me
an enemy
that protects the sin

That I should still love
after all this
and miss your kiss
and know your skin
like kin

That I should
for a moment long
to hear the song
of your lips if I could

I am not a moment’s notice
except only to condemn
a girl who doesn’t care
about pleasing them

Perhaps I lack the will
to be better in the eyes of those
I tried so hard to guard
against, a playbill
of a life
a drama
that no one chose

I’d like to make myself smaller
Something less would take shape
and I could forget about the…

Lady Amalthea

I don’t remember the way your voice sounded when “I love you” was in capital-

I tried to lock it in so I would never forget-

regret
regret
regret
regret

and when I hear our song not on the radio-

but on CD I think how sad that “we” is now

me
me
me
me

and that I’m too narrow minded or stubborn to put a capital there

and own that I am only as strong as as long as

I selfishly declare, “I don’t care.”

Insomnia Poem

It isn’t fair that when
I close my eyes the place where
sleepy fields of jumping sheep should be
instead I see a long dark road that leads to
the place I imagine your door
you are sleeping peacefully behind
and I am bolted to the floor staring at the space
that I know was mine
and I feel like I am out of time and somehow, lacking
the simplest of chemicals and hormones
enzymes and all those squishy inner things
that make me smell like breeding to some other being
and maybe that is why I still love you
or why the sheep are off to play
and I lay here day after day and wonder if I were born
with my x and y in line, would you be mine?

-

Out With The Old

~Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That’s the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.~

I’m going to be alone forever.

Revere Poem

poets waste a world of words
describing love and lust
and other unrequited ways we are
united
but I have a love affair with air
and sand
and anyone who can speak a word like
“trust”
without having to fight it

to hear them speak
you’d think
each has drunk
from a golden cup
and the blood they tasted was more than just the wine
but I would find
that even a bath of the ways they speak of love
would come upon me shallow
and without the hallowed reverence
that they embody so

it isn’t for lack of yearning
or putting out the fires of
real or imagined desires
I just think the drink they spill upon their lips
tastes bitter on mine
by repetition or design
I just cannot abide to fill myself
to drink to my health
then step away into a life of decay
where my boxed dress and veil are preserved finer
than the vows I say

it’s easy enough to settle your hopes and your bets
on a good enough reality
of the real dream you kept hidden somewhere
but just like lies, or wine, the air will reach it there
and you will end up alone
if not empty hands then in the empty walls you’ve created
to hide your regret
for the things you didn’t get

but I’d rather never build the wall or take the drink
because I won’t sink alone
if I’ve never gotten used to a home that is filled
with more than my own sacred expectations
I’ll keep the sand and air and they can keep the drinks and veil
my ship will sail another way
and the poets can speak not of my great love
but to the purpose of my heart
and how I was smart
and how my hands were never empty
always full
because I keep them still

Crayola

You’ve always been the color
and I have been the lines
sometimes you stray out of time
and swirl around me in all your defiance
but you always come back
nestling darkly into the edges of me
filling and flooding and leaving a stain
of your name.

I’m thinking in order to become
a new thing
a drawing,
or words, or some other inked mark
I need to spend some time in black and white
and even though I’ll fight myself
for a little color
I’ve got to resist the spark or your mark.

I don’t know why
but you’re not as bright as you once were
and maybe because you are harder to see
I want you more
to fill me than you ever did before.

Sometimes I wonder if no one can see me
without you there to fill me in, make me appear
present me in your way,
create the pattern that makes the color of my eyes
or swirl of my dress
or my very subtle caress-
will I disappear without you near?

Ode to Neruda

In my sky at dawn, you are a ray
and your warmth and light are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, man with heart ablaze
and in your life my infinite dreams bloom

The waves of my soul dyes your blossoming.
My sour countenance is sweeter on your horizon.
oh reaper of my evening wheat ,
how solitary I believe you to be today .

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the dark ,
morning, and the wind hauls on my widowed breath.
Hunter of the depths of my wood, your plunder
stills your patient regard as though it were Heavenly.

You are taken in the breath of my dawn, my love,
and my rivers of music are as wide as the Mississippi .
My contentment is born on the shore of your eyes of amber .
In your memory of mourning the land of solitude begins.

A Requiem for "Homeless Bob"

Bob Wright populated a small stretch of sidewalk between Park Street Church and Park Street Station for all the years that I have lived in Boston, and countless more, I’m sure. Sitting quietly with two signs, “Smile, It’s the law,” and “Homeless by fire,” Bob didn’t solicit for spare change, but merely attracted people by his dignified presence. A seashell, filled with birdseed, often led smaller friends of the aviary variety to his side, completing his gentle, almost Santa-like look.

I walked by Bob for many months pointedly ignoring him, frightened that he might be a scary and crazy man, like others I had encountered, but his steadfastness coupled by the steady stream of business-dressed adults who were often found in discourse with him, worked away at me, until one morning- it was bleak and cold, I found myself by his side.

“Hi,” he said in a nonthreatening, non crazy voice, blue eyes twinkling at me, grey beard waggling cheerfully.

“Hi,” I responded, stepping forward by a force that wasn’t entirely my own, and pressing the $5.00 bill I had in my hand for my morning latte into his hand. “It’s really cold out. Can I get you a bagel or something?” I was shocking myself as I said it, but felt compelled to continue our discourse.

“I’m a diabetic, so no bagels but I’d love a cup of coffee.” I smiled and ran back across Tremont into the Dunkin Donuts. I got two regular coffees and made my way back over to his spot, handing him one and sipping my own. I stood there with Bob, in the cold, and we shared a coffee. We had our introductions, we shared our common experience with diabetes, he told me how he lost his family by fire, and told me all about speaking at Suffolk, my place of employment, to share his experiences with the homeless. I was enraptured by him, his soft way, his kindness and the way people stopped to greet him.

I met Bob many times throughout the past few years, sharing what money I could spare, and frequently donating my “collection plate money” to him on my way to the Paulist Center for mass on Sunday mornings (I decided Jesus would be okay with me not tithing to the church in order to share my money with a man directly in need.) One blindingly cold, raining spring morning, I found Bob sitting in his usual place.

“How are things this morning, Bob?” I asked him, handing him my $20.00. He held on to my hand, smiling at me, but somewhat more sincere- his leg was in a cast now, the diabetes making it harder and harder for him to get around and maintain reasonable good health on the streets.

“Pretty slow this morning, Shannon. You just doubled what I made the whole day. Thank you.” The look in his eyes was sincere, but it wasn’t desperate.

“Bob, why don’t you stay somewhere when it is cold like this? What about the Pine St. Inn?” Bob went on to explain so many things to me, so many, that I was late for mass. But I slowly came to the realization that God was speaking to me, through this man, and helping me to stay aware of the common need of all men. As Bob told me about the abuse the homeless can receive from the city of Boston, about having to exchange needles with heroin addicts on the common when he didn’t have enough to afford his insulin supplies, about how he would rather sleep on the streets than be treated as less than a person, I couldn’t help but hear the words from the bible echoed in his voice. Bob was not holier-than-thou-how could he be? He was merely human, a real human, with a real and lasting message to give to us all. The true Word of the bible, “That which you do for the least of my brothers, that you do unto me.”

Over the last year, I have been seeing Bob less and less.  I had heard he got a room near Ruggles, and I had hoped he was enjoying the peace and saftey there, and that his health was not failing him, but on Monday morning, I saw the news that Bob left this world peacefully on August 10^th, 2009. When I saw the poster demarking his usual seat in tribute, I was filled with sadness but also with a profound peace. It made me recall a special moment that we had shared together earlier in the year.

“Shannon, I have something for you,” he said, rifling through his bag and handing me a slip of paper. I thanked him for it, and as I walked up the hill, read what it said:

“Notice to the bearer: Should I, Homeless Bob, arrive at Heaven’s Gate before you, you may cut in front of me. Notice to St. Pete: AKA Gate Keeper: The bearer of this pass has exceeded in treating the homeless with respect. Signed, Homeless Bob, Homeless by Fire”

As I look at this pass now (I’ve carried it with me ever since), I cannot help but feel a mixture of sadness and joy. Sadness that this piece of paper should exist at all, that kindness to all people should not be an automatic response from all members of society. Joy because I know that Bob will have passed St. Peter’s gate long before I arrive, and that I will meet him again, there. And I can still keep this coupon, as it means a great deal to me.

Thank you Bob, rest in peace, and know that you’ve touched many more than just myself. Your legacy of kindness and dignity will live on.

After I wrote this, I did some digging and found others have  been inspired by Bob.

Boston Globe

Hearth Video featuring Bob

Bob Wright

Echo

A warm, soft lit cavern
With a secret door
Where no one has entered before.
Where invading forces,
Have pried loose the walls
And forced inside their radars-
You quiveringly lie
And silently cry
A tiny voice that is muffled
And much too shy-
The wet, secret part of you
No one knows
And you fear to touch it
Or comfort its cries
So it stays wet
And silent
Grinding up against itself
Anguish and rage
But so petal soft
Where each month’s gift
Should stay.
Folding over itself
A secret
A wish
One and one lonely
Too scared to just open
And say
“Oh yes, oh yes”
Your quiet garden
Ravaged but unreaped-
Don’t cry for her
Just tread softly
Between her legs.