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Cardinal Love

I host many song birds,
but never enough.

I steal them from neighbors
with lavish tax-relief offers,
free food
and housing
in exchange for their relocation
and entertainment.

I love them all
but especially red cardinals,
him with her.

They hang and fly together.
An integrity couple
more than the robins
and sparrows
and bluejays
and finches I have flinchingly noticed.

I’m not so sure how mourning doves might compare
with red rapturous cardinals,
him flashy patriarchal
and her graceful matriarchal
sharing worms and seeds
with a bilaterally grateful kiss.

Sometimes,
watching them carry on
from tree
to garden sea
to nested night to be,
I feel alone
longing to belong
mutually beloved,
paired
and not so autonomously impaired.

Kissing oneself
and our own past life investments
in mistrust of goodbye
without farewell
is better than no healing kiss at all,
yet falls awesomely short
of cardinal couple kisses.

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Saturday Night

It’s another Saturday night
ending this week
as started
alone again.

I came here
almost two years ago
to my retirement hermitage
but oddly,
and often uncomfortably,
shared with my hurt kids,
mental and physical illness
adopted and then adapted;
an asylum for the perpetually incontinent.

Cars pass by.
Sometimes a loud motorcycle
or two or three or four
or even more
here on the southern boundary
of a county seat
in a State
where rural counties
have been disenfranchised
of political purpose.

Our largest employers
are two tribally owned casinos.
One across the Thames River
flowing past our backyard retreat.

Our second largest income producer
may be the County Courthouse
where attorneys and police
collude to extort voluntary donations
from poor young adults
red and yellow,
black and white,
guilty of speeding
and texting
and smoking medicine
without a license
in Great White Father’s sight.

I have been listening and watching
for what this half acre is.
We are not as rural as I had hoped,
with State highway 12 too near my front yard,
but this place is also not urban
or suburban.

What it is not,
whom we are not,
seems more clearly articulated
than any positive definition,
refining our becoming quiet place,
alone together,
shunned by healthier neighbors.

It’s another lonely ending
anticipating yet another not new beginning
tomorrows stretching out alone
long retiring shadows
on this southern edge
of a Connecticut County Seat
without apparent purpose
or co-defining meaning.

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Evening Rainsong

Alone again
yet evening rain falls
cooling fresh breeze voices
anxious for everything,
angry about nothing.

Nothing to do about rain falling
as sure as gravity
of dripping issues
landing in my lap,
splattering naked children’s sleepy heads
and innocent soft shoulders.

Into each life…
Yes,
yet eventide rains inside voices
wet down dwindling life
of tiring consciousness.

If I could not read or write or speak
who would I sing with in new found leisure?
Scattered lyrical thoughts
of painful rain
for evening’s loss of light,
and dawn’s dew drop evaporations
raising praise for might
of rain rising up yet again
to grace some other’s night.

We each sing with rain dying alone,
a humanic nature feeling trapped
alien emigrant returning home
to Earth where all creations fail and fall
to rise again singing through new voices
and hues,
spectral rhythmic
dances of songs and cries
each our lived together owned,
rising up new throated sounds
disintegrated symphonies
of song sung out
toward tomorrow’s rain clouds
capturing moist radiant waves,
wet sounds of song
well-lived yet bound.

I hear too complex songs for living,
polyphonic evening rains
falling down alone
to rise again belonging songs
evaporating praise,
leaking radiance
gathering together.

Into and through each flowing melody
of rebaptising life
dirged this night alone
yet heard as well-sung rain forever.

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