"Like Darwin Among
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I only see her when she's out,
the woman across the way,
pushing her lawnmower
that has no engine,
the grating of squeaky wheels
and its slicing of tufts
by whirling, rusty blades
the sound of a dozen haircuts.
A fumeless symphony
and the grass wafting fresh
and green.
Day and night
through my windowsill
and all is as it should be:
cat eyes narrow into slits
at the first burst of light,
squirrels play tag,
bumblebees collect, send static
throughout the afternoon,
dogs howl at three-quarter moons
and backyard Copernicans
marvel at the shadows
on lunar scars.
A couple kiss and rock
on gently swinging seats,
embrace, sigh into sleep,
and dawn comes back again,
announced by startled yawns
and singing larks.
As Spring yields to Summer,
tulips slump head-first,
vibrancy fades, reds go rose,
goldenrod yellows, joining
the ordinary around us.
There's my neighbour
riding his bicycle, dodging
an oncoming milk truck by inches,
Ms. April May receiving delivery
twice weekly, half a quart,
that and measurements
long thought dead still heaving
one last breath or two.
(c) 2005 Andreas Gripp
The broken bits of pencil
only spoke of your frustration,
and it wasn't from the headlines,
the Pax Americana and all things
pertaining to Bush.
Your seething led you to my door,
to the greying goatee clippings
left unswept. To the empty bottle
of rye I'd purposely hid, miserably.
To every quip and inane joke
expressed at breakfast.
The Cream of Wheat is burnt
and I should have made it myself.
You play it taciturn,
and I go out for a jog,
feigning smiles to the neighbours
in case they heard us fight.
Darling, do a crossword puzzle,
just for me. Squeeze in words
not yet invented.
Damn the dictionaries
to a mangled heap. Scribble
"I never loved you anyway"
and find a synonym for lies,
in your thesaurus,
before that too is discarded
as my heart in seven down,
twelve across.
(c) 2005 Andreas Gripp
or Oliver's Awakening
at Lee-Anne's Potluck
No, that isn't how it happened,
you tell me as you pour our drinks
beside the fire. It wasn't the
hit-while-riding-the-bicycle
thing at all,
that's yet another unfound rumour.
We toast to mental health
and you give the proper setting,
the moment when he snapped,
your friend,
and how that actually made him smarter:
Wes Davids reading beatnik fiction,
carrot coriander soup simmering
a percussive accompaniment,
Jenny Chang on the violin,
lamenting war's not dead,
it never dies and all of our talk,
simply that.
Pick a Preston lilac
and say you haven't killed.
Boil eggs at Easter
and persuade that peace prevails.
Call the five-and-dime
tout de suite
and cancel your reservation.
There's work to be done.
Give the postman return to sender
and throw your bills away.
Tell the boss to fuck himself
and the suits to shove it twice.
Grow your hair down to your feet
and trip on the stairs to the church.
Tell the children of God
that you love the witch
and the homosexual,
that Esau got a raw deal,
that the Gospel of Thomas
isn't Gnostic,
that it's OK to doubt now and then,
that teaching their kids
to kiss the trees
isn't idolatry,
turning princes to frogs not so bad
considering the weight of crowns,
of gold and of thorns.
(c) 2005 Andreas Gripp
On Valentine's, I didn't think
of hearts but of shamrocks,
of St. Patrick and the lush
and Kelly greens of the Irish
and the luck that clovers bring.
Leave your beating, blood-filled
organ at the door
and your chocolates, flowers with it.
Let me pine for almost Spring
and a romp under leaves,
through grasses.
You can have your snowy day
and diamonds, pearls, to go.
You can have your lover's kiss
and your night of heated sex --
No, I'm lying.
Forgive me, Triune God
and Mr. & Mrs. O'Shea.
Your time has not yet come
and I need to hold and be held,
love and be loved and make love
and dream of Dublin another day,
another month when the vestige
of red has melted with the white.
(c) 2005 Andreas Gripp
the Gods