"the right thing"
things aren't different
things have merely changed
and this time of year on the right kind of night
I can still hear those voices
from which I've been exiled and estranged
Same moon, different clouds
different fair, same crowds
never thought on my 28th summer I'd have to cover my ears from certain sounds
those whispers make me jealous
but I'm coming to terms
I know, 'I could've had it all'
the passage of time so elegantly confirms
not that 'it all' is anything I want
because it’s never enough, there's always more
yea, those hazy summers are just about all anyone could ask for
and I’ve lived a few
I've attached people to songs
and emotions to time
boundaries were pushed in that humidity farther than either of us knew
there was no right or wrong
in your yard of burnt grass
nothing is certain mid august
but our failure to see that none of it could last
from opposite ends of nowhere our circles crossed with nothing but foolish dreams and desire
between cigarettes and craving attention
saw that letter on your wall from someone who looked at you and saw nothing he didn’t admire
reminded me of why i was there
just another fan
another man behind the glass at your personal zoo
play the victim, that's fine
it's ancient news now and it's beyond me
but on nights like these
it hurts me too
always wanting to apologize to someone I barely knew
once in a while we'll talk
oh what time has done
'the right thing'
something we rarely do
'the right thing' made us all change places
against the wind we run
turning those small gaps into big spaces
behind power windows
catching glimpses of those that care and looking away from their faces
". . . reminiscing about summers long ago and the people who somehow will enter your life and serve as a benchmark for the rest of your days . . . there's everything before them . . . and everything after."
* * * * * * * * * *
“Late April”
By John Bates
Late April when the sun’s rays suddenly warm,
the snowmelt comes so fast that we’re awash in water
the little streams gorged
spilling over banks, into the woods, the wetlands,
a spring tsunami of water pulsing everywhere.
The air saturates, too.
Fogs drip every morning
so damp it’s like wearing a wet rag all day.
The frost goes out of the ground
and it’s mud season
when everything slurries.
Now little rivulets cascade through the hills
and rush on to Lake Superior.
Water spills everywhere,
everything running down, down,
all different sounds as the water
rushes over rocks,
rumbles over drops
and is a softness through the leaves.
Forest, lake, river all meet
mingling the mud and leaves and branches and stones
all in one pulse
that will last into mid-May when
the warblers and the wildflowers will announce a halt
to the trains of water
and everything will settle in its new place
ready for the green-up,
the transformation
of sun, soil, and water
into spring.
“I wrote this poem for a science/art collaborative exhibit last year (“Explore the Iron Hills”) that looked at the proposed Penokee Mine. I was envisioning the millions of tons of waste rock, rubble, and dirt piled high off the edges of the mine, and what happens every spring.”
