After having just completed
My first good poem
I leapt to my
Feet in front of
My mentor and screamed
I found my voice
He grabbed my shoulder
And sat me down
Saying my dear boy
You’ve just begun to
Whisper and now forty
Years and thousands of
Poems I write with
The raspy voice of
Age preferring to whisper
Leaving the yelling to
The young and wondering
After all of this
Have I ever found
My voice at all
I just saw a
Photo of someone else
Who I thought was
You but I knew
Wasn’t but the pangs
Of missing you reminded
Me of just how
Much I really do
I could teach a
Master class in loving
Having done it often
But damn each time
That I finally learn
One I either pass
Or fail I guess
That learning to love
Is something that no
One ever graduates from
Because each new person
Is its own subject
Why oh why for
God’s sake why why
Are the best ones
Always so far away
Is it that distance
Denies what might be
Loving at arms length
Maybe when they’re there
The idea of here
Of actual intimacy of
The hot and cold
Of our running water
Remains what it is
And not the tepid
Temperature that relationships become
And just like that
It happened the hope
That had been buried
Deep in the ground
Erupted in yellows reds
Blues and pure whites
Like a cascade of
Spring flowers all yawning
Saying here I am
As promised after winters
Heavy blanket of loneliness
But will anyone notice
Oh hey hi there
Stop that it tickles
And then snap pluck
And off I go
Once again someone’s bouquet
*sigh
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 