Author: kmarieclark

Spring Fever

head tilted
slide horizon
tip toe puddles
It rained all April.
.
We climbed up a ladder,
tightly wound
like he slid into a hole
from the ground.
.
An envelope licked, held shut
we were close,
his hands drove down
a bare neck, a
soft shoulder
.
Molding clay,
softly rolled between the palms.
.
The chalky taste of the moon
caught in our throats.

Love was in the Rivers

Rivers he took me to at the small shores of Virginia each year.
Every year at this time we were closer to being older.
Being older as wiser and similar people.
Similar people, older, wiser, changed and refreshed.
Refreshed in the semblance that the river could never lose its name.
At least the name would always be the same.

Summer of 2006

I thought dating someone new

could stand up to my looming memories

sailing in Annapolis

New Jersey shores just north

where candle evenings were

buried in the sand.

.

Criss-crossed blankets were over, a lot

of time passed since then.

Memorized hips and feet felt like new,

kisses too were changing my memories.

.

I wondered if time could pass this

and replace it with new people

never knowing me then

these memories dying

were hard on me now.

.

I looked for new qualities

possessed in the realms of a new person,

not you,

writing me letters,

likewise,

not mentioning any one else

you were forgetting,

.

so we could

say we did

keep going.

What Good Friends come With

fresh breath from the winds of winter

the first frost finds a hot coffee among it

a quaint little school where we sent our children off to learn

to meet other children

set among hills in Virginia

.

one day of my childhood

where I remembered boredom as a great thing

breakfast on my grandmothers porch where my sister and I built puzzles

or looking up at a magnificent blue sky

from within the shade of Louisiana

.

the first time I saw an Italian villa within the grove

the gardens of England

or saw my best friend get married

.

the small castle town in France

where a woman fell in love

an age when I could explain what friends meant

who they were

where they would belong

experiences that passed through

when I moved and found the first person to belong to

.

when I learned to dance and was asked

for the first time

it was learning him

everything I’d forgotten

seeing the sun rise up

.

early in Como

my sister and I woke up

to breathe the air and walk

.

it was buying gifts

in Switzerland shops

for my loved ones

when I realized more than anything

in the world

I enjoyed thinking of them.

Meeting New

It was a beautiful night

When five friends met for the first time together

Under a sky setting from red to purple

On top of a second story balcony at the foot of a city

.

Judged by appropriate conversations aloud

They told of the history in hopes,

The determination in dreams,

The lost parts of things forgotten

The riots, the taboo, the marches.

And then today

The streets with new fountains,

The stores, the shops and people moving in

The competition, the thoughts, the argument,

Compromises and inspiration

The stories told were reflected on their faces.

.

Words were in the possession of great meanings

Night toasted what was left in silence

The old friends now laughed and let their eyes hang lazily around them

The cradles of sleep began holding their memories

Sincerity had formed in the hearts hopeful that

Anything kept, hidden, or missed was not lost

When they left

Somewhere in the darkness of a half-shy moon.

Move Finding

Our life is not calculated in weight

for it is the burden to carry

all physical nonsense.

.

We must clear out our lives

and pack what we must take.

.

That which we wish to do

is scattered about

a house with many doors.

.

What is this life

of family

the parts of their ownings

and the things we have hidden

in drawers of closets

and boxes up high?

.

At last we shall forget

what one contains

there are too many

all grouped in a row

for a place in our youth

or a time for existence.

When we jump off from all we know

So slowly we are breaking
so sad in our descent
that we must meet again
in the quiet sunshine of a London morning.

We continue along this drive
spare to see home
the slow creak of the door
so many houses we go though
phases of childhood
extreme socialisms
wishing to fit it all in
the tiny room of one house.

Ordering things in such a manner
for the weeks and days to come
when things will be calm again.

Packing to leave
a life that is half through
happy gazes, iced faces
and glowing cakes
now that we know them.

We have many places to leave
soon to have one
to come home to.

My First Taste of Europe

It sounded wonderful
to travel to border cities

upon lakes or rivers

and waste a day of it.

Gravel swirled on faint stone paths
in the trees of a park
when I followed the laughter
to watch people dance.

The ducks of Lucerne
went swimming for lunch.

I knew of some things after I left
like the mountains
when the clouds lifted.
The wine was delicious
gracie, thank you
sitting next to someone new
trying to speak to them

I woke up to a fine conversation
Irish coffee and drink
off dark waters of a distant lake
very black, pouring open

myself, I began to understand

with speechless words

words of wisdom and comfort
standing for something
but jumping off from all
known.

The sun rose around me
bringing houses and streets

old men walking

closer to my new world
I noticed the presence
of days and weeks and nights
that had never been there before

that allowed the existence of

something new to come to

something old that began to describe me.