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I wrote this poem for Kippi for her birthday (I know, I'm a little soft in the head; that's just who I am).
“There are things that I know that only make sense to me,
Such as, how the cold rain draw lightning across the skin
As you dance manically among the puddles, through crisp breezes
Heavy with moisture and life and reminders that life is best served wet,
And how faces elude you in your mind when you look at them
But pester you when you don’t, flooding your mind with useless names
And pointless notions of being thoughtless, tactless, and crude
When all you want is to remember an old face you once thought rude.
There are things that I know that only make sense to me,
Like, how old leather reminds me of overstuff chairs that litter
Offices of those that make such casual decisions, such as “should you get that mortgage?”
“Should your insurance claim be paid?”, “Will you get bereavement time to visit your dead aunt’s grave?”,
Time-honed scents of cigars and bourbon, shared in hushed meetings
Of those that deal in poverty, but never known it; that tally power for personal gain
Without the personal knowledge to wield it, who speaks for the public good and the private gain
(Even though, the private gain has always cost the public peace, and shackled us in chains.)
There are things that I know that only make sense to me,
Such as, how I can be drawn to eyes I have never seen, lips I have never kissed,
Warmth that radiates and perfume the air with a strut that steals glares,
And beauty that captures the soul, stirs the loins, flusters the mind, stills the air
In a way never imagined before and not believed now; magnificent, glorious, unlike no other;
And yet I stand, conflicted and broken by a love felt but not known, given to another,
Puppy love that is neither innocent or quaint, but painful and longing, for I adore what I don’t have,
And I’m happy she’s there for me to dream of her again, in longing thought, my comforting salve.”
