You and I

have history.

Are we a legend,

or did we merely

live out a

predetermined

sequence of events,

that resulted in

the sad story of us?

We’ve both had

our fair share

of slips

and

poor decisions.

Perhaps we will reunite

somewhere out there,

somewhere other than

this bitter-sweet earth.

But probably not.

When we danced

in that crummy kitchen,

it was transcendent.

Yes, transcendent

because

beautiful you

pulled me in so close.

So close, I was able to

breathe in all of you.

If I knew our

best moments

and random triumphs

were fleeting,

I would have cherished

them more than I did.

There were moments

I wish we could relive,

moments I wanted to

last forever.

And then there were others

I’ve spent a lifetime

wishing away.

I couldn’t keep quiet,

because the telling

kept me sane.

And yet the truth

did not

set me free.

Instead, it set

in motion

a roller coaster

of cruel denials.

Set in motion by not

one,

not two,

but three of you.

I cared not for

two and three.

Just the one.

I’m sorry,

I couldn’t change

the moments

that destroyed us.

As you know,

those moments

were in someone

else’s hands.

We crisscrossed

in and out

of each other’s lives,

a few times.

In all but one of those times,

something always told me

we would see each other again.

But not the last time.

In dance,

you chose me.

But in life, I know

you did not choose me.

What I don’t know

and what I never asked

is if you wanted me.

I imagined over the years

that you did not.

I wonder now,

If you regret me,

and I wouldn’t blame you

if you did.

Because we both

got tangled up

in all of it.

And you know what

it is.

Because it

happened to

you too.

We are more alike

than you or I

care to

admit.

So many times,

out of anger

you did not choose

your words wisely.

If it wasn’t for you…

You probably didn’t know,

but those five words stung.

The stinging was real

and as painful

as getting a tattoo,

although I never got one.

Or maybe I did.

A tattoo of us,

etched forever

on my broken heart.

If you’re

reading this poem,

then I know

you

still care for me.

Hate is

synonymous

with love,

so

thank you,

for being

out there,

somewhere,

looking me up.

I look you up too.

If you’re

reading this poem,

then you’ll know

I’m afraid

we’ll miss

our chance

at one last try.

One last try,

before we die.

If you’re

reading this poem,

you should know

that I’m here,

waiting for you.

And for those

who just happen to be

reading this poem,

seize the moment,

and reach out to

you-know-who.

YOU

are terrified

by what

makes

America

great.

YOU

want to regulate

my uterus,

but regulating

your gun

is too

personally

invasive.

YOU

white

Christian

Republican

nationalist

who

pathetically

brag

about

revering

Jesus

guns

and

babies

think

YOU

have

power

over

US.

YOU

right-winger,

neo-confederate,

alt-right,

skinhead,

Ku Klux Klanner,

forget that

Jesus

was a

selfless, radical

Jew

who defied

oppressors like

YOU

and protected

the rights and

dignity

of the

oppressed

like

US.

YOU

who violently marched

in Charlottesville

so

YOU

could

save America

by

uniting the

white right,

chanting

“You will not replace us,”

and

“Jew will not replace us.”

YOU

neo-nazi,

anti-semitic,

confederate flag bearer,

dare to expect

Jesus to save

YOU?

Perhaps

Jesus

should send

YOU

to “Camp Auschwitz.”

YOU

care

about

babies in the womb,

but once they’re born

YOU

care not a whit.

YOU

claim

to

love

babies

but

YOU

do nothing

as babies

are shot to death

every minute

of

every day.

YOU

patriots

who despise

Jews,

Blacks,

Democrats,

and

LGBTQ,

fantasize

about

hanging

US.

YOU

are

laughably naïve.

Because

try as

YOU

might,

YOU

are

already

being replaced

by

all

of

US.

This is your birthday poem,

but I was never good at rhyming.

The matchy-matchy timing stunts my creativity,

my wordsmithing,

and forces me to lay down words

where they don’t belong,

stuffed next to other words that

aren’t the right fit.

Timing isn’t always everything,

but maybe in our case, it was.

All those years ago, you told me you were haunted by one looming question.

Who do I want to walk hand-in-hand with along the beach when I get old?

It prompted me to ask myself the same darn thing.

And it haunted me too.

Although you never specified what beach, or how many beaches,

or the beach location.

You, the one who was so prodigious at planning,

had no plan.

Yes, yes, yes,

we chose to walk the beach together for the rest of time,

although time was on our side back then.

And even though I walked Myrtle Beach with you in full burka-like regalia,

we walked it.

Even though you walked way ahead of me in total embarrassment,

I wasn’t far behind.

And admittedly, the sun is not my thing, so the beach only works for me

in the rain,

or the clouds, or the dark.

And okay, I also have a water phobia, which I’m sure

you did not take into account when you asked yourself

that life-altering question.

And neither of us ever expected the life storms that often

engulfed us like tidal waves.

The seismic swells were way more than

we were prepared for.

Those rolling breakers pushed so much water onto the beach,

it was unwalkable and left sand and sediment,

when the waves washed back out.

But we weathered the storms and the tidal waves

didn’t we?

Because yes, the tides transported the sand

and the sediment,

and reshaped the beach,

and the shoreline.

But the terrifying rogue waves also created

unexpected estuaries.

Beautiful and productive watersheds

that protected us

from the full force of the waves

and the winds

and the storms.

Even though I was on one side and

you were on the other,

I realize now, in the twilight of our lives,

that your beach was a dream,

but the answer to the question

was real.

And that, unlike books,

we are not headed for a happy ending.

Not because we don’t want it

or don’t deserve it.

But because the waves are churning up our beach,

our circle of life,

and the saga of our ocean.

I know now that our sometimes pebbly,

sometimes sandy shore

is a fateful,

frightful, beautiful mess.

An enduring and extended metaphor

for us.

back in the day

before us

I thought I needed

the perfect man

to help me fix

my broken self

my knight in shining armor

in the end

I found

an imperfect man

who gave me the courage

to repair my own broken parts

and armor myself

I heard somewhere
that butterflies are
signs from heaven.
Proof that
our deceased
loved ones
are close by.
So, I designedly
planted
not one
but two
butterfly bushes.
One in the
front of my house
to protect
and one in the
back of my house
to behold.
Front and back
to guide
my
loved ones
to me.

Robert Frost’s poem “The Secret Sits” is one of my all-time favorites.

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Secret, with a capital S.

It’s a simple couplet; just two lines of poetry that rhyme, but brilliantly speaks volumes to me.

I’m sure it speaks volumes to you as well.

And I’m equally sure that how and why it touches you is entirely different from what Frost’s poem means to me.

Its poetic rhythm is in anapestic trimeter; a rhythmical combination of anapest: (A foot of poetic verse consisting of three syllables) and trimeter: (Three iambic feet within a single line of poetry).

Three.

Tri.

In the middle.

If you try to be me, I’ll try to be you.
Then for each other, we’ll know what to do.

If you look at me through my eyes,
there will be no need to wear my protective disguise.

Because you’ll be able to see that my inner child is in fear.
And the reason for my insecurities will be crystal clear.

You’ll see that I’m not nearly as strong as I appear.
And you’ll see that I feel more and more pain with each passing year.

Then it will be your turn to take off your mask.
And you’ll have no choice but to tell me your true feelings when I ask.

I’ll see that when you want to cry, you scream.
I’ll see that you, like me, are not as tough as you seem.

I’ll see that you are going over the brink.
I’ll see that you love me much more than I think.

When you look at me reflected in your view,
the picture is distorted by my ego—and yours too.

Look at me without the deep complexes of our past.
Open your heart and relate to me at last.

Let’s open our minds—I’ll become you, and you’ll become me.
And I’m sure we’ll be shocked and saddened by what we both see.

I’ll see that you need understanding and to belong.
You’ll see that I understood what you needed all along.

I’ll see that you are weary of the games we play.
You’ll see that I pray for you to love me every single day.

If I see your suffering and your unrelenting pain,
I will never again be so quick to place blame.

If you see the reasons why I cry and complain,
you’ll see that the two of us are very much the same.

If I am you and you are me,
we can finally end this torture and agree,

to work on improving the relationship
and make it the very best that it can be.

And maybe we can finally live together
in peace and harmony.

So let’s trade places.

Let’s open our eyes and see
what happens to the two of us

when I become you
and you become me.