by Ken Robert on June 30, 2009
My mother’s told these stories at least a hundred times,
the ones ’bout how she knew that I’d lead a life of rhyme.
She says the radio was playin’ and the sun was in the sky
and she was washing dishes. I was only two feet high.
Had my hands around the crib bars and a diaper round my tush
when I pulled up with my arms and gave my legs a push.
A song was on the radio. It was a guitar playin’ man
and something in those chords made me want to take a stand.
It’s the dance she best remembers, the way I bounced and swayed,
and she says she can’t forget what she told herself that day.
She said, “Mary, don’t you worry none about that little boy
cause he’ll always have a song to fill his heart with joy.”
Hmmm, more to come.
by Ken Robert on June 28, 2009
I have not forgotten the man on the couch with his fists in his lap.
He was sullen,
broken,
downward glancing.
I have not forgotten the death grip with which he held his fears.
He was clutching,
squeezing,
never releasing.
The seal was tight and nothing came in and nothing went out,
no odor,
no light,
no recognition.
If he had released his grip, he would have seen
how misshapen and discolored his fears were.
If he had chanced a whiff, he would have smelled
their paltry and sour scent.
If he had only thought to examine them,
he would have understood.
Instead, afraid they might escape and devour him,
he watched his fists both day and night.
I sat beside him all those years.
Did he even know I was there?
I have not forgotten, but I did get up from that couch one day
to bid him farewell and begin my long walk down an unknown path,
because I was suddenly struck by the notion
I had somewhere else I needed to be.
by Ken Robert on June 25, 2009
The dissectors have arrived
and they’re here to analyze
that thing you found one cool, clear morning.
Bright, blue, and sweet smelling,
it’s a small piece of fruit
that you plucked from the corner
of your heart without much planning.
But now they’re here
and they’ve brought their pins
and scalpels and specimen boards.
They’re going to run their tests
and break the small thing down
into pulp and skin and seeds.
Let them, for when they’re through
you’ll still have your memory to savor
and a bumper crop of fruit to harvest
on a thousand carefree strolls.
by Ken Robert on June 24, 2009
My gratitude moves in all directions.
Outward, upward, backward, and forward
it flows across the landscape,
picking up stones and bits of sound
that it stores in a bottle
we tip when the sun goes down.
At night, when you’re sleeping,
it traces the outline of your shadow
and wonders what you’re dreaming
as it listens to you breathing.
It selects a moment from the day
and turns it gently over and over
to register the feel of being satisfied
with something so small and quiet.
Tomorrow, when I wake up
it will take me by the hand
and lead me down another path
and through another day,
and when I least expect it,
it will show me something beautiful
and ask me to remember.
Tagged as:
gratitude
by Ken Robert on June 18, 2009
Some ideas slip beneath the covers
and tell you stories as you drift asleep.
Others pinch and slap and kick you,
demanding that you get up, get up.
Then there are those that accost you
right in the middle of the cross walk
as you make your way from curb to curb.
And one day,
while you’re browsing the book shelves
and holding a steaming Styrofoam cupful
of Mocha Loco Whats-it-to-ya,
you’ll look up and see one looking back at you
through an open space in an eye level shelf
in the bargain section where they keep all the good stuff.
And, oh, those eyes.
They’ll flutter and pop,
and you’ll see that knowing grin,
and you can bet your bottom dollar
that this one is dangerous.
Tagged as:
Poems