Solid Ground

Every step I take
is planted firmly on the ground.
It may seem I am
bouncing from here to there,
showing up everywhere,
and at times
like I'm flying.

But every place I go
and person I meet,
I am guided by feet that
no longer have to be
on false fronts, leading me
to create imaginary faces
just to be liked.

Every time the church says
it's the solid Rock
where I should stand.
But this is not that type
of testimony.  Rather
this is a declaration,
a declaration of me,

finally me without having
to form a platform to perform
for I don't have to anymore.
Instead, I am home,
standing as I am,
feet firmly planted
on solid ground.

Convenience

Single woman
hedging her bets,
placing men in
compartments,
each male
serving a parti-
cular purpose,
never to extend
outside their box.
 
One for fun,
one for dinner,
one for outings,
one for sex,
or however
she chooses to
align it all for
her convenience.
 
But if one man
chooses his own
feelings over his
duty, her replies
turn cold, laying
down an icy path
for him to skate
back to home base.
 
His only choice:
stay or go.
stay and keep
his place for her
comfort or go
away, maybe for
another lady who’ll
appreciate him.

On A Hot Summer Night

 
You’re lying in bed
half-naked next to your
lover, counting the
beads of sweat collecting
on her chest.
 
The heat should make you
still, but after a mutual
look and a smile, you
move away from stillness
and into lovemaking.
 
The mix of
skin, sweat, and sheets
make the slow movement
of the digital clock on the
dresser disappear.
 
But as you open
your eyes to take in
another view of her, you
find yourself alone,
another dream
 
that was too painfully real.
The mix of
skin, sweat, and sheets
are not of love, but of
a constant tossing
 
and turning in your bed,
unable to sleep, awakening
to something unpleasant;
mind and body both miserable
on a hot summer night.

Home

“I never found a home in the arms of a man.”
            -Diane Keaton
 
 
I couldn’t explain to my friend
why I felt so pessimistic. 
She kept telling me there were
plenty of good women out there
as I tried to tell her
it’s not that simple. 
 
Maybe she believes in fairy tales,
or carries the power of prayer
in her pocketbook, or somehow
can see Lady Luck waving
her magic wand to find herself
a nice boyfriend.
 
Her cheery approach wasn’t helping
for I could tell a different tale,
one of feeling less than a man and
more like a commodity, simply
to be a male picked out to
play the role of man
 
in some woman’s stage play
of marriage.  It has unfolded
so much that I always
ask myself the same question:
What will I have to sacrifice
this time?
 
Maybe one day it all
works out, but I don’t wish
upon any stars.  I go on, but
always wondering if I’ll end up
like that actress, but instead
I find no woman’s arms
 
I can call home.

Tennis Is Not The Right Metaphor

You said
the ball was in your court
and you would
lob it back over.

I'm still waiting for you
to hit the ball back
so we can play this game
like it should be played.

A back and forth affair,
the exercise of
serving and returning,
verbal banter becoming

like rallies, our backhands
and forehands zipped
over the net as we
enjoy the court together.

But as I stand
at the ready, I see
nothing heading back to me.
This is not tennis.

This metaphor is a game
of catch.  So now I say this:
Throw the damn ball
or I'm going home.