This River I Step In Is Not The River I Stand In

This river, this river
this river flows into me
out from you
and no
it is not the river I stand in
it is the river I step in
into, over, through
on my way to someplace else
somewhere else
someone else

I step over you and you
in turn
step back and I am taken aback
confused and lost
in deep waters
waters not my own
unfamiliar waters
dark, cold, forceful waters

this river I step in pulls me downstream
with such power
I long to release myself
into it and let it
carry me away…

resistance takes all my strength
strength set on remembering

this river I step in is not the river I stand in

the river I stand in
is much
much
deeper
yet not as cold
in it I stand alone
and am only carried away
by my own steps
towards
you

~ c.p.grisold

© 1998

The Second Day of Spring

I’m tired of writing poems
on the weather
trying to tell you
about the robins
yesterday on the lawn
around suppertime
or the wind
warm for once

Even if it is
the second day of Spring
I never believe you when you say
the forecast calls for sun
not until May at least
when these winds die down
and the ground under the robins
is less muddy

~ c.p.grisold

© 2006

On Tooting Bec

There’s parakeets in the Common
(Sea horses in the Thames)
Crows on all the branches
And rain that never ends,

White swans upon the water
Crack’d conkers on the ground
Great burls on ev’ry tree trunk
And pigeons all around;

I walked the trodden pathways
Past fields and ponds and woods
Looked up at leafy heavens
And remembered all I could.

~ c.p.grisold

© 2009

Tooter in the Garden on Thanksgiving Weekend

I am aware of her awareness
Her knowledge, her acceptance
Of finiteness
Of the sun that penetrates
Black, white
And my pink skin.

She rests her head on cool brown earth
I, mine, on prickly verdant lawn
With one hand on her back; we exist
Together, breathing in the autumn
Ingesting the sounds
Of birds and traffic

In the unseasonable warmth.
She looks at me through lazy, longing eyes…
I sigh, and through her eyes imagine
Taking final sighs, final glances

Of a cat in a garden
And I by her side
Meaningless in history
Yet everything in hers.

~ c.p.grisold

© 2004

I See Toggles Everywhere

I laughed when you told me you were bringing a toggle jacket
Said toggles just aren’t for me
But now that you’re gone I see toggles everywhere
Think every man that wears them is you

I want to buy a toggle jacket
If I can’t have you I can dress like you
Can be my own toggle
Fall in love with myself in the mirror
Hear my old British accent
See my own eyes and smile

The things I sought in you I will seek in myself
Philosophical artistic creative carefree

Maybe I wasn’t looking for you after all
But was looking for me
Maybe you were my mirror
And what I saw in you was just a reflection of what I couldn’t see in myself
That voice those eyes and smile

If you were my catalyst what was I to you?
Do you think of me when you see buttons and a zipper? Maple leaves? Niagara Falls?

I bet you don’t

Maybe you sought in me what you are still seeking in yourself
But you just can’t see it yet
Determined mature grounded authentic

Maybe I won’t buy the jacket after all
Reflections are never what they seem
And I see toggles everywhere
But toggles just aren’t me

~ c.p.grisold

© 2013