Making Room

Watercolor by Carrie Schenck Haberstock, Canaan, Maine

posted September 2002

Fire

The magic light
behind your eyes
finds me
and moves me
to grow.
I may even glow.

Fire, water, earth, and air...

Sparkles fly
and fires cry.
We light
a controlled burn
this time.
In and out
we breathe
the deep, sweet air
of this journey.

Fire, water, earth, and air...

I burn hot
but steady.
Warm yourself
by my side.
I am shelter.
I am food.
I am clothes
you look fabulous in.

Fire, water, earth, and air...

Elements earthly
we adopt
bones and skin
tongues and tush.
Righteous casings
for souls on fire,
here to dance this dance
the steps planted
in our cells long ago.

posted May 2002

Making Room

We keep tidy little closets
Tucked away in the recesses of our hearts
There we dump our sorrows like socks
And hang up our well-pressed hopes

Understand this is not a public venue
This is our secret hiding place
Where our pasts stare back at us
While our futures tread water

Until the Big Spring arrives
Gentle storms in tow
The shutters fly open
The drawers all dance

Something more powerful than we know
Takes a hold and will not cease its grip
Until all the outgrown outfits we harbor
Are freely given

We learn to let go
Of what no longer fits
We adopt new looks
Finding them perfectly tailored

Our new home has no closets
We keep it all out in the open
Nothing and nowhere to hide
The truth is all we wear

posted March 2002

What If?

What if I had kissed you
that time after filling you with talk
at My Brother's Bar?
We walked to your car
and there you stood
open to my advance.
But where oh where
in the world was I?

What if I had been a man
at the office
instead of a boy
and talked to you
instead of shunning you
because I was told to?

I have answers.
No one can live off questions alone.

We would have had different lives.

Right now,
you might be scratching my back
as I worked on a different piece.

Tomorrow,
perhaps we would board a plane for the tropics
where my hands would work
the hard to reach places between your shoulders
with 45 SPF.

Is it too late
to consider what may have been?
Is it a wasted gesture to write a poem for you?
Is it futile to broadcast my sorrow
and embarrassment?

It is never too late
as long as there is breath,
one can use it
to care for others.

David Burn | Poet, Critic and Storyteller