regret

Regret is the bereaved cousin of hope,

With feathers both gray and dreary.

It is never what you hold,

But always what you lack.

 

It is

... the job you left

... the choice you didn't take

... the woman you didn't kiss

... the risk you would not face

... the opportunity you missed

 

It is the once-in-a-lifetime that will never come again.

 

banana nose

I've had a copy of this ever since my college freshman year, in 1988. It's stuck with me through a series of e-mail accounts, floppy disks and disks not-so-floppy, and through at least three computers. I have no idea who wrote it, but I post it here for everyone else to appreciate it as I have:

 

Buzz off, Banana Nose; Relieve mine eyes
Of hateful soreness, purge mine ears of corn.
Less dear than army ants in apple pies
Art thou, old prune-face, with thy chestnuts worn,
Dropt from thy peeling lips like lousy fruit.
Like honeybees upon the perfum'd rose
They suck, and like the double-breasted suit
Are out of date; therefore, Banana Nose,
Go fly a kite, thy welcome's overstayed.
And stem the produce of thy waspish wits:
Thy logick, like thy locks, is disarrayed.
Thy cheer, like thy complexion, is the pits.
Be off, I say; go bug somebody new,
Scram, beat it, get thee hence, and nuts to you.

color blind

Yesterday I read my younger daughter a book of poetry by Langston Hughes.

Rachel sat on my lap, lost in the cadence of "The Weary Blues," warmed by "Aunt Sue's Stories" and deepening as I read "The Negro Speaks of Rivers." This little girl, who has trouble sitting through a Bible story, dived headfirst into the Harlem Renaissance and let the current carry her far downstream. When her mother came home, Rachel couldn't wait to tell her about  the book of story poems we had read.

I never cared for poetry until I discovered Emily Dickinson, well into college, but her discovery -- at the age of 4 -- isn't what touched me most.

No, what I loved most is the way Rachel saw her life in the art that accompanied Hughes' poems. She saw a black woman in a headscarf, telling stories to a child cuddled in her arms, and she felt the connection immediately.

"Look, daddy. It's mommy holding me!" She saw the family that stood next to "My People" and knew at once that they were her people as well -- her father, her mother, her sister, and herself, all painted in black.

To Rachel, the color made no difference, nor did she seem to see that it should or even could. And I thought to myself, "Maybe there's hope for us yet."




Copyright © 2007 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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take three

I saw a house today that made me weep.
In happier times, it had been a shelter.
The wind would blow and the rain would fall,
But those who lived there felt no cold,
And knew no fear. The floors were sure
Beneath their feet, the walls secure,
And over their heads there hung a roof.
Living there made them strong.

Now its name is Desolation.
The walls had seen everything,
And now they tell it all
With wordless sighs borne
On empty winds that slip
Down barren halls like ghosts.
No one sings to the tune
Of freshly baking bread.
No one gathers around the table,
No one says grace, and no one speaks.
Those who live there wear heavy clothes,
Hoping to keep themselves warm,
And huddle all alone to give themselves comfort.

Alone, they seek refuge from what once gave them shelter,
And find together that their greatest strength
Has become their greatest source of grief.
You are strong as a tree and as mighty as an oak
That has been eaten from the inside.
On the day that your strength is gone
And you break from the burden you will not give voice,
I will be there for you, even if this house is gone.

Copyright © 2007 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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take two

The house is falling apart
Once the walls were sturdy and offered support,
Once the roof was solid and it gave me shelter
when the rain fell and the wind blew.
The floors were sure under my feet.
I was at home here -- secure, safe, and comfortable.
Being here made me strong.

Now I bundle on clothes to escape the drafts,
And I shiver as the rain comes through the roof
and invades my sleep.
I seek refuge from what was meant to give me shelter,
And find that my greatest strength
has become my greatest source of grief.

You are strong as a tree,
mighty as an oak that is eaten from the inside.
On the day that your strength is gone
and you break from the burden you will not give voice,
I will be there for you
Even if this house is gone.

take one

My house is falling apart

I saw your tear today
It was a tear you hid,
A tear you didn't want to say

Death keeps touching you
William
Pam's sister
A.J.
The grief that others feel gets into your head and breaks your resolve.
You are strong as a tree that is eaten from the inside.

On the day that your strength is gone,
And you break from the burdens you will not voice,
I will be there for you.

what the hell

Hell is a blanket that will not keep you warm.

Hell is unrequited self-love.

Hell echoes like an empty mailbox on Valentine's Day.

Hell is winning the first baseball game of the season, and the last baseball game of the season, and every game in between.

Hell is the distance between yourself and other people.

The way to hell is paved with no intentions at all; we simply lay it one brick at a time, unthinking, on a long, steady, lonely slope that we tread our entire lives.

a poem

There is a note on my brother's refigerator from about one year ago. It is a handwritten poem to his wife from their son. It reads:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I hope you will forgive me,

You did not deserve that.