POETRYrepairshop v06.09:105

At Work by ROBERT JOE STOUT

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ROBERT JOE STOUT At Work A boy sneaks out--blue-eyed precocious little Guy--and finds a place within my space To play. I nod, amused: he looks like who I used to be, then realize that the room Has changed and I'm behind the corner Of a sofa in the house where I grew up Recording hits and outs--my baseball game-- Content, alone, far from the what-to-wear And who-said-what among my parents' friends. But not alone. There's someone there. I talk To him, we play, compete. But he's not real! Who told me that? He's real to me! My pal! My friend! He laughs and I begin to shout At tigers thrashing through dawn redwoods, Stukas diving, Shiva waving many arms. Bob! hear someone calling, stop, return To office, writing, flat and cheated by his Leaving; yes! respond to friends and family, Errands, dishes, fix the roof--these and other Deviations from adventure, laughter, sharing, As I jive again in his and my real world Copyright 2006, ROBERT JOE STOUT, all rights retained

poetryREPAIRshop v06.09:105

Waiting for the Death by LYN LIFSHIN

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LYN LIFSHIN Waiting for the Death its sent e mail that its on its way video tapes, cd's. Who knows where death is, in a lily opening, in the palest cherry leaves? Is it hiding out behind the heart or the liver? Is it pink as a mouth or nipple? Heart muscles become flooded, floppy. Is this where the soul, slippery, the lovers you can't pin down is soaking up what it can in the stillness, somehow planning for a long trip? Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained

poetryrepairSHOP v06.09:105

The Divorced Father of Four Tells His Children About Relationships by ROBERT JOE STOUT

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ROBERT JOE STOUT The Divorced Father of Four Tells His Children About Relationships bobstout@journalist.com The Divorced Father of Four Tells His Children About Relationships You want a place where you can see In all directions, a place to let your feelings Disembark and stretch, like passengers Who need to straighten out the kinks And wrinkles of a too-demanding trip, Forget the object of their journey And get back to who they are--or were. That's love sometimes, just being who You need to be, not asking --Not giving, really. Once, on a mountainside, I heard a chortling--a bird, I thought, then realized it was a man Sitting on a stump, tears pouring From his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked. He shook his head, laughing So hard some finches in the bog rosemary Began to caw. "Tripped," he said. "Lost everything--wallet, glasses, all my keys--" He wiped his face. "My wife, she's gone, My kids, I've nothing left I thought, then suddenly It opened up…" What opened up? He laughed At me, a glee so intimate I felt it creep Along my spine. "Me, just me and what I feel!" What do you feel? I backed away. He blinked as though amazed, then said, "Given all these years of feeling what others wanted me To feel--or shouldn't feel, or couldn't feel, I…" He touched my hand. "Here's what I feel. I feel that if I wanted I could fly." Love is atman--energy--and constant change, There all the time. There, but not perceptible Until one stops and breathes, just breathes It in and feels things change inside And out. Change and keep on changing --That's the rub. You feel so much Your being can't contain it all --It's scary out there flying-- Till finally you find footholds, comfort, Rest…then wonder where it went For it's not what it was, it's changed And you feel lost. Instead of fighting To hold on, let go. Let go of who? And why? and what? and breathe, just breathe. Reach out and feel what fingers now can touch. Copyright 2006, ROBERT JOE STOUT, all rights retained

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