Petals Weep Fall
for Leslie & Stephen Saiz
are there no children
nine years of marriage
is life a long honeymoon
honey dripping from the moon
since time began
from they first met
life like a honeycomb
from bees stolen
honey from a hive
bees mad as could be
couple off and running
having stolen the joy of life
how carefully guarded
what they cherish
will not give back
joy which living together is
joy of being one
joy of seeing her
wearing against her white skin
nothing more
than her long black
Mexican-black
hair
man who could hold his drink
and not stagger, not blink
she has what it takes
to sober him up
to keep him this way
or that way
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
8:10 a.m. 30.05.08
for Leslie & Stephen Saiz
are there no children
nine years of marriage
is life a long honeymoon
honey dripping from the moon
since time began
from they first met
life like a honeycomb
from bees stolen
honey from a hive
bees mad as could be
couple off and running
having stolen the joy of life
how carefully guarded
what they cherish
will not give back
joy which living together is
joy of being one
joy of seeing her
wearing against her white skin
nothing more
than her long black
Mexican-black
hair
man who could hold his drink
and not stagger, not blink
she has what it takes
to sober him up
to keep him this way
or that way
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
8:10 a.m. 30.05.08
posted by Obie Quiet at 1:19 AM
3 Comments:
this makes me smile when I read it. Thank you Obie for capturing for us such a special time.
Oh, Leslie, I have your voice as if in a jar, like butterfly or gold fish - like some insect or some fish to look at - to watch swim about or flap about whenever I wish.
I have your voice to listen to, to look at, to savor whenever I wish.
I have your voice in a dish - like Jell-O, like ice cream, like TCBY.
I can eat it with dessert spoon, my tears falling in it, added to it, because, though hearing from you is a drop of rain, I want to be drenched in the rain, caught without umbrella, without cab to get home, you falling on me - on everything, over everywhere.
Remember you and me and Reina in Havana, chatting, walking together, Stephen and who else was it, who all else, after dinner, somewhere way behind?
Did the rain not begin to fall? How warm your eyes were. How warmed I always was when you smiled.
Habana Libre like a great big woman for me to run to, away from you. In what direction was happiness? How torn I was - like paper - on it a poem life itself was writing, wrestling to get right.
I am a little boy, this assignment in a book for you to mark.
This is such a beautiful gift. I read it with a smile the size of the sky and tears glissening in my eye.
Very fortunate you are Les.
Besitos para ti!
Roxanne
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