Without Direction

Without direction a ship is lost at sea,
Without direction a bird falls from the sky,
Hungry.

Without direction a student drops out of school,
Without direction a girl is alone,
Lonely.

A Poem

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
–Anne Sexton

Quote I wrote 2 years ago

Wherever you may or may not be in life, just be there.
Someday you may miss where you are even if you dislike the position now.

Ode to the Coffee Maker

A humble poet, yet
A crafty mind, sat
At her desk to
Write a love poem.

She began,

“To the noise at dawn
Of deep gurgling,
To the spew of liquid
Into the pot,
To the stained edges
Of plastic and glass.”

And did not finish,
For the coffee was ready.

© 2007 Beck Forsland

DURING THE WAR

When my brother came home from war
he carried his left arm in a black sling
but assured us most of it was still there.
Spring was late, the trees forgot to leaf out.

I stood in a long line waiting for bread.
The woman behind me said it was shameless,
someone as strong as I still home, still intact
while her Michael was burning to death.

Yes, she could feel the fire, could smell
his pain all the way from Tarawa–
or was it Midway?–and he so young,
younger than I, who was only fourteen,

taller, more handsome in his white uniform
turning slowly gray the way unprimed wood
grays slowly in the grate when the flames
sputter and die. “I think I’m going mad,”

she said when I turned to face her. She placed
both hands on my shoulders, kissed each eyelid,
hugged me to her breasts and whispered wetly
in my bad ear words I’d never heard before.

When I got home my brother ate the bread
carefully one slice at a time until
nothing was left but a blank plate. “Did you see her,”
he asked, “the woman in hell, Michael’s wife?”

That afternoon I walked the crowded streets
looking for something I couldn’t name,
something familiar, a face or a voice or less,
but not these shards of ash that fell from heaven.

–Philip Levine
The New Yorker.

The Story

A grateful woman moved back
To the smaller city where
Friends were plentiful
She would not feel loneliness
Anymore

A willing man accepted a
Summer job across a state
To live to work to enjoy
And to leave in the end
Wealthy

An insulting week, groundwork
An appointment after work
An invitation in the quick
A manipulated game
A sporadic tour, friendship

Emotions only felt in
Print elicit from fireworks
Emo Bemidji Subway Chicago
Manitowoc St Paul Tea Garden
Washington Barnes and Noble
REI Rest Stops Hospitals Tents
An emerald green Audi and
A dark blue Ford
Traveling

Is there a one that feels
Spectrums of emotion and
Does not love the one who
Feels and accepts alongside
Supportive of the tears
Pain and frustration
Initiator of teases
Word play and fun

This grateful woman
Loves this willing man
And so does he to she.

© 2006 Beck Forsland

My friend

I noticed you the first day
The moment went before I knew
I drove through red lights but
You said you weren’t scared
Even when we ate with hands
Dirty from living while our waiter
Gave up on the number and accepted
The mess of card and cash
Finally a best friend and no
One to share with and yes!
Someone who is alike to me
Someone to be with as we
Drive for hours to see my
Love we defy the safe cold wind
To cook dangerously close to
Masks and painted faces
I know your story of
Pain but what you don’t
Know is that I see
You
The beautiful person you can
Be with me the one I know
Dark figures muffled in the
Background struggle for
Control so fragile it threatens
The same frame it holds
Yourself
This friend I write no longer
Is there as time changes I
Accept with difficulty that
I am not who I once was
Neither will you be yet
Once we ran through the darkest
Night
Once we were vulnerable
Once
And no more.

© 2006 Beck Forsland