a note*

Everything I post here I have previously published on the many other blogs I have had. This is a place for my favourites to rest. These are the wings that taught me i could fly and that there is life waiting, far beyond the ridge.

If you care to comment, just drop me an email at grayhawk77@yahoo.com

rick

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

love letter


in this, the time of I pod and 4g,
Amazon versus Ebay
and 0 to 60 in five-point -two
i think of her, when i think of her

she's that old station wagon
and no seat belts on the kids
as she swaggered down the road
like a cow plump with milk

she's the tapioca my grandma made,
her mashed potatoes,
all that on the old white porcelain stove
chipped and blackened
before instant and microwave defined perfection

she's those four channels on the TV that mattered
and the national anthem at midnight.saying goodnight
Tony Bennett when he sings
and Marilyn Monroe when she smiled

she's a plaid table cloth for a summer picnic
a cloth diaper folded and downy
the four poster bed with feather pillows
and that photo album of black and whites

in second period math, John
reaches into pocket
and blindly, yet like lightning
fires off a hamburger

and in the library, Tammy vibrates
dampens down and smiles
mt u @ 3 by rvr
oh! love so swiftly sweet!

thanks to Steve and Bill
even oceans are crossed in an instant
bridging boredom to loneliness
and web cams to lost modesty

theaters sit empty while
dates are now hook ups
and wiki
has burned all the books of lost relevance

and it is now i think of her
as now i think of you
her sticky fingers
that have to be pried apart

her black skin with gold tattoo,
smooth and without blemish,
and when she speaks, and oh, how she speaks!
she sounds like a tap on the shoulder
prelude to a kiss

of course she still wears a ribbon
and must fly or float to cross vast oceans
and 0 to 60 comes in minutes
-not seconds

but now when i think of you
and of my love for you
and of a letter to send you
i think not of the droid, or even hotmail
but of her, stout and mortar
the old Underwood too long silent

it will take me all night
a dictionary, a brandy, and a lamp of oil
to tell you of my love, my dreams
for us
and of what your beauty
means to me

and in that time
a billion loves will be bartered
arranged, completed
and deleted without trace

but when i think of you now
and the love i feel in this swollen heart,
i think of her
and the time she keeps
in her ink that becomes my blood

so let us my, Darling
just this once
love in the ancient way
before instant
so that we may remember
that love need not be raced through
just because it can be