Desideratum

Roget spent a lifetime

in pursuit of the right words.

Unrelenting, obsessed with nuance and symmetry,

from his methodical eloquence

he birthed the thesaurus.

I lack his singularity,

living instead in surges of passion,

volcanic eruptions of words:

intermittent bursts of dangerous brilliance,

more often blown smoke.

But this I share with Roget –

a lust for words and

a conviction that my lexicon is

not yet soaring enough for the tragic

beauty of this world.

Roget: chaser of perfect clarity, the unattainable horizon.

And I, a writer who fell in love with the spaces between words,

who learned to live by the rule: If you can’t improve upon silence, don’t.

Deep in my own quietude, I lost faith

in the potency of imperfect prose.

And then you

with words like an awakening, an inhalation.

Now pen to paper, I am searching once more

for the consummate interplay of syllables

to convey desire.

I turn to my brother Roget

who offers me only this:

wish, wanting, hope, desideration.

There is thin comfort in the purity of lists.

Such orderly words are never enough

for me, you, and Roget,

lovers who always want more.

~~~

Birthday Pantoum

on the eve of my forty third birthday

i thought to catalog all that happened

while i was forty two, a grave task

meant to propel myself toward a better next year

i thought to catalog all that happened,

the good but mostly the bad.

i meant to propel myself toward a better next year,

by honoring, cleansing, and making way. but i resisted.

the good was there, oh yes, but mostly the bad.

it was a year with too much heartache.

i meant to honor, cleanse, and make way. but i resisted.

maybe some memories are better left untouched.

it was a year with too much heartache,

and that year is over. let it lie.

maybe some memories are better left untouched.

time now to place hope in new beginnings.

that year is over now, so let it lie

in the grave of forty two.

time to place hope in new beginnings

on the eve of my forty third birthday.