Galatea Steps Down

Galatea Steps Down

Grief showers
chilled her
to immobility
there in the middle
of a crowded city sidewalk.
I’m lost without him.
     Don’t know where I’m going.

No medical emergency,
it was a sorrow spell
where street sounds
turned to hissing
a static in the senses.
     I cannot move…
…like a statue…like Galatea.

Now, for this living Galatea
there was no longer
a Pygmalion
to smooth her into life
with his strong, warm hands.
Is this what dying is?
     Am I invisible?

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, LADY!”

The rough jostle
shook her mind
back to awareness,
and city sounds and colors
merged to coherency.

She resumed walking.
     Steps…just my steps.
     I’m taking steps…
        down from the pedestal.

Bonnie Marshall

Lost and Won

Lost and Won

Close calls. Errors.
So they lost the game.
Brave smiles. Hand bumps.
“Good game,” down the line.

Parents know the drill.
“Get ’em next time, Tiger.”
“So, are you hungry?”
“That play at third was close.”

Coaches know the odds.
“We need taller pitchers.”
“Not bad for ten-year olds.”
“Fifth inning was a killer.”
“God, those kids have heart.”

Yet, they played more than baseball…
they played timidity and risk
indifference and commitment,
and cowardice and courage.

Kids…parents…coaches… knew
there was an incremental lost and won
that wasn’t on the scoreboard.

Bonnie Marshall

Either Way…

Either Way…

 Blowing out flaming bits of wax on a cake,
    now that’s ridiculous.
Go ahead and snuff out all those years. 
   Good riddance.
Not enough breath?  Too bad.
   Now you won’t get your wish.
 
How about…something different…
   something like a hope cake…
There are no candles. People take turns.
Birthday boy says something like,
   “I hope all the gifts you gave me are expensive.”
So on down the line…
   “I hope you forget I owe you twenty bucks.”
   “I hope you forget I called you a jerk, even though you are one.”
   “I hope you know I love you.” 
 
 It could end up all teary, or in a food fight.
Either way…

Bonnie Marshall

Without a Window Curtain

Without a Window Curtain

Hesitation…last cautious moment 
  before I commit to “Publish.”
I asses the risk of openness,
  and costs of minor revelation.
There before me in my line of vision
  is the familiar Apple icon
    that brought on this apprehension.
It is the impetus for thinking,
  that when brash, impulsive Adam
    relinquished Eden…and anonymity,
     more was lost than ever gained.
Then through an open window
  I hear a J. S. Bach concerto
    played by a nearby neighbor
      who loves Bach as much as I.
It interrupts my spiral
  of dismal introspection
    and paranoiac wondering.
I listen to the order of the chords,
  as Bach’s authority and balance
    gradually restore my confidence 
      that authority and balance are achievable,
        and that not to risk is to lose identity.

At the Door

At the Door

Pain came to make a visit
   and would not go away.
Unwelcome and unexpected,
   it tried to extend its stay.
When they asked me to assess it
   on a chart with unsmiley faces…a choice
      between minor headache and giving birth…
         I said it was root canal.
So I swallowed pills and gave up chocolate,
   and generally felt no better,
      until I made its life so unpleasant
         that finally it went away.
Yet when I’m alone or it’s late at night
   and the house is very quiet
      I try very hard not to listen
         for its knock upon the door.