poem: Parts Missing

I.

Dan, in half a week, it's your birthday-

Been thinking of you, a lot these days.

You should have seen me Monday,

my new space in the office

of upper management; used shoes,

my best [only] suit

and a scared smile- while at home,

I wash my body with water

heated on a camp stove. Light years

away from fitting in. They have no idea,

except, I think, they do. It shows.

All this preening and fluttering-

instead of impressing the mate,

the one who gives your reviews.

Equally deadly. More than half

crapshoot. We know.

You would laugh, we could laugh,

for days.

II.

But that isn't what I wanted to tell you.

I need to know something-

all this climbing and running,

leaving to move up. Am I still

someone you know? Or has there

been too  much, too far-

in-between? Does the girl

you remember who hiked barefoot

through nettles- does she exist

when I wear heels? Is it acting now

when I lay under stars

and look for you among them,

or have I stayed real?

From where you are,

can you see me, and am I still

someone who you want

to know? Does the light of fairies

and wonderful spring miracles

still apply when you live in a land coated

in dust? I always wished

you could have known me here.

This place- it would have suited you,

I think. Pleased you.

III.

And, Dan, don't be mad. I met

someone. I tell you because...

well I need to tell someone. I

wish I could introduce you-

you'd like him. He fell into my life

like a hurricane. He reads obscure

philosophy and gets answers

from trees, like we do.

When I sit with him, he makes

me feel, like you did. Safe.

Unalone. Like you, he has no idea

what to make of me, do with me.

One day, two awkward feet

forward, each day.

Like dreams that tumble

from the sky, some assembly

required. Parts missing.

We sit half a city

from each other, each wanting.

Not the thing, not the act.

Just the person.

IV.

Like the veil between you

and me.

Always present, forever a

half-life away. We can cram that

in a peace pipe, smoke it,

call it Destiny. For lack

of anything else. I loved you

because of what I saw in me

when I gazed through

the mirror of you.

Is that not the endless story

of things, though?

And, my dearest friend

I wish... I still could know

what you see.

When you observe me now:

parts found, parts missing

parts standing still, too scared to attract

any kind of attention

at all. Parts in synch

with the motion of fluid dynamics,

too. An object at rest

would be studied to death

around us, I am sure.

Would you still know me, today;

Would you know me, complete? Has

enough time passed, could you give

my hand now to the best bidder,

have I earned

your reprieve at last?

How do I stop missing, searching for, 

your particular brand of knowing?

Reviews

[Corset]

Your poems are such always such a trembling bird in the palm of the readers hands, it is impossible not to feel what you are feeling, your talent to "move" emotions unsurpassed by any writer I know. I wonder if you will be publishing as well? That is one book I would love to buy as you always seem to write from the heart of me, the things I do not have the talent to express so eloquently and with such dire force.

[Donald Meikle]

This has such a way so many ways of open hearted touch and feel I am simply awestruck with it. My daughter glued together a garden fairy, we still have it. The iron in the water has turned her brown.

[Emily B]

I can't imagine that it is even possible for you to be unreal

[Ken Simm.]

This holds so much I am afraid that I will miss something in my reviewing. That I will misplace an emphasis or a pertinance, (is there such a word?) So I will content myself, (almost) with a pithy comment about the wonderful structure; the superb use of the subject matter; the brilliant and moving painting with pathos, (not too heady mind) and the fact that this flows like a stunning waterfall falling down from your beloved highlands. If I can think of one. Oh and I should mention something about how the material, (story) is so obviously personal with absolutely no shades of hearts or sleeves.

[W.k.kortas]

I see Eliot here, almost Prufrockian at points, and much of Yeats with the notion of the man and the mask, and perhaps a wee little bit of Ginsberg as well. This poems deals elegantly but not wholly dispassionately or academically with weighty notions--who we need to believe we are at our core as opposed that person we need to be to sustain ourselves in the world of other people, of loves past and present, of moving on without leaving what is best of ourselves behind. Your work has always been exceptional, but this is literally breathtaking.

[Rick Puetter]

Ah Marie!

It is because of poems like this that I love to read your work. You have such (apparently) a clear view of your life, and that doesn't mean you know or understand everything. But you seem to know what you don't know and what you'd like to find out. That is the best that a person can do.

"...Does the girl
you remember who hiked barefoot
through nettles- does she exist
when I wear heels? …"

Yes, Dear Lady. You are still real. You're the same person, just in heels. It's not acting. It's not more or less acting than any other part of life. Who are we really, anyway? We are always part hidden from ourselves, and life is an act of discovering not only others, but ourselves.

Yes, we will always meet people that hold a different mirror to our souls. Some of these images we will love, others hate. Which are the distorted images, though? Well really they're all real. Each mirror shows what they see. These visions of others are real. But we are not 1-dimensional. We have many aspects. We are all these visions, and our spirits dances, weaves, and changes. Will we know ourself in the end? Well we're not stationary. We're shimmering beings and shift with the light.

Yes, Marie, we move on. We respond to what's around us. That means different people enter and exit out of our lives, and we can do naught but respond as best we can. We will clutch at this, then the other. This doesn't make us false, just human. Seize what value and merit you can from life. Keep your eyes open (not one of your problems) and live.

Nice to hear from you through this poem. Another intriguing write.

My very best regards. Live well, Marie!

Rick

[Marie Anzalone]

Dearest Rick: always such a treat to wake in the morning, and find a review from you! You have no idea how much you have helped me hone my craft, analyze life, and generally feel... accepted... around these parts. Going on five years now, and how well you have come to know me. I appreciate, and meditate on, your words here- for quite some time. Thank you for sharing your insight.

[Rick Puetter]

My deepest honor, Dear Lady!