We Were Younger

 

We were younger and optimistic 
              for our nation and planet.

 Pessimism is newer, 
              painful and useless.

I am in pain
              seeking a cure. 

We Were Younger

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2022 :: We Were Younger :: 2202

 

One January One

 

'just another day, but not.
'just another year, but, no, it is not.
'just another hope, but we know it is not.
'just more moments, so why momentous?
'just another opportunity that we both have and have not.
'just another day, but not.

 

 

One January One

Bob Komives

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fort Collins © 2022 :: one, one, two-zero-two-zero  :: 2201

Worthday Candle

 

         
mother and father
          hoped for good
          while
I oh I
          strove for better


          yet we found
          this final-seeming report 
here and here
          scattered around


          it says we
got and gave
          neither
more nor less
          of
worth and can
          than
one one other
          of
white and man

Worthday Candle

Bob Komives

 

 

 

Fort Collins © 2021 :: Worthday Candle :: 2105

 

A Morning Among These Days

As a morning among these days ends,
a few blocks from our home
a peaceful protest march begins and ends.

As friends and neighbors march,
we stay home to mourn
a sudden, profound grief for loss of a friend.

News of death came unanticipated as we celebrated.
Separate but included,
we participated in a grandson's Continuance
from his 8th grade to high school.

Before this joy 
(and for a third time in three days)
we awoke to a joy: 
news of a newborn among friends and family.

Joy
then joy 
then mourning.

(Half of one day.)

A morning among these days has ended.

A Morning Among These Days 

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: A Morning Among These Days :: 2006

Where is the Way?

An innocent man, Mr. George Floyd:
murdered by someone sworn to protect.
An old-old pharmacy called Lloyd's:
(where I shopped as a kid and once stole a Coca-Cola)
burnt to the ground.
A healthy baby is born
not far from where a virus patient has died.
A seed sprouts.
A beautiful, small bird nibbles at the feeder
as I grieve for the smaller and the larger community
into which I was born.
Family and friends grieve for their innocent loved one.
They are angry.
Angry neighbors protest and march, but ...
Near and distant strangers protest and march, but ...
Two astronauts get to orbit, but ...
They and their families feel proud and relieved, but ...
A grieving nation seeks a sliver of space
a sliver of time to feel good.
New parents can only rejoice.
They do rejoice, but ...
A family tries to grieve together, alone, but ...
A gardener sees the sprout
but feels drained of all power to rejoice.
Everywhere, a smile feels irreverent.
A tear barely dampens the mask.
Exercise fails to exorcise.
Sleep brings no more than another day.
Where is the way?
Where is the way?
Where is the way? 

Where is the Way?  

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: Where is the Way? :: 2005

11:59

Know that fourteen lines from a forgotten little day early in Covid's Time wish to grow (with regret and gratitude) toward a thousand days and hundreds of lines among which you still find a line and more about you.

11:59PM, April twenty-fifth, 2020 

From playing bridge with you on the web, 
to reading the Life of Mahatma Gandhi with you 
     and watching a fun movie,
to our conversation over sprouting clover, 
to our socially distanced beverage-and-snack around the patio, 
to my shouts and your responses across the street, 

to our digital exchanges, 

to our greetings and smiles as you passed by, 
I had a great day today.
Please

(if you can identify)
hug yourself 
and accept this humble "thank you." 

11:59

Bob Komives

::  Fort Collins © 2020  ::  11:59  ::  2003  ::

Ganas

Yesterday's easy task,
—a bother to do—
—important to do—
remains undone.
Yesterday's task,
—yet more difficult today—
—yet more important tomorrow—
Dismay.
Task has grown.
I have withered.

Ganas

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2012 :: Ganas :: 0704

Moment of Exception

'tis useless to feel useless,
not helpful to feel helpless,
ever more weakening to feel powerless,
spineless to cast blame.
Yet is it not healthful to allow this moment of exception?
I listen in isolation as people I do not know die
isolated from those who do know and love them.
I read of others (too-distant to be neighbors) 
now torn apart then cast together by a tornado.
I watch a tragic movie, 'Planet of the Humans'
feeling useless, helpless, 
powerless--except to cast blame.

Moment of Exception

Bob Komives 

::  Fort Collins © 2020  ::  Moment of Exception  ::  2003  ::

When I Need a Visitor

When I need a visitor:

     By day,

     by season,

     with no qualm

     no hesitation,

     with license from all authority,

sun comes into my home

to play a play that gives me joy.

      

When I Need a Visitor

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020  :: When I Need a Visitor  ::  2001

Seams of Ambivalence

Ambivalence has seams I but faintly see.
Do they
(as they seem today)
let exiled excitement seep in?

Or the other way.

Do I watch 
while precious, small store
seeps, seeps away?

Seams of Ambivalence
Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2018 ::  1801

Night's Sound of Rain

Night's sound of rain
     on roof and skylight
calls back rhythm
     on tin-tile-thatch,
     on canvas-nylon-wood
     on twigs and leaves--
          old and new.

Night's sound of rain
calls upon concern 
     for those who want tomorrow dry,
brings celebration 
     with those who crave it moist,
brings new and repeat anticipations.

Night's sound of rain anticipates 
     morning's first step outside,
     impossible to remember smells
          of vitality and growth
          of burstings and birth,
          of aging, disrepair, and putrefaction,
          of renewal,
          and
          of perfumes that beauty hides when dry.

Come.
Come.
The hour has come.

Rise up to it! 
 

Night's Sound of Rain
Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2017 :: 1710

Shoulder Touch

simple hello

complex goodbye

show of friendship

request for support

request for passage

passage granted

fantasy suppressed

fantasy induced

distance reduced

distance demanded

granting forgiveness

forgiveness sought

perfect understanding

absolute bewilderment

guidance offered

guidance needed

request for delay

authorization to proceed

too much noise to speak

too much silence to break

Such a simple gesture

and complex receptor

are the touch to the shoulder

and the shoulder to be touched.

Shoulder Touch

Bob Komives

Fort Collins (c) 1994 :: Shoulder Touch :: ,9428

Cyclist's Reflection

Datelines
Place-lines
Signs

... September twenty-nine ...

"Brandon Gap"

"Nine Percent Decline" 

Precious are moments and places

where

when

agony turns well to pleasure

Cyclist's Reflection

Bob Komives

                          Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Cyclist's Reflection :: 1612

Evening Begins

downtown, down stairs
table alone
excellent jazz
mellow, crisp, near
and, at my reach
mellow, crisp beer
Belgian grand cru
Rodenbach sour
sipped to enjoy
( proper cru glass )
half of half gone
evening begins
evening begun

Evening Begins

Bob Komives

                          Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Evening Begins :: 1606

Anticipation Without Expectation

We live, we love; we work, we wait
on the expanse of fate we share,
in humble alcove with intimate few,
and
somewhere alone,
but for our anticipation
       without expectation.

Anticipation Without Expectation

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2019  :: Anticipation Without Expectation  ::  1903

I Make No Note Of Faces

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

Out the door into the sun,
I give my plants their inspection,
pull a weed,
admire a bloom,
ponder our next collaboration,
walk west
    (a few beer glasses on the lawn next door)
past the young spruce
    (thirty feet high)
that challenges my right to the sidewalk,
past two spindly green ash.
    (replacements for lost elms)

I Make No Note of Faces

Bob Komives

At the corner,
I do not meet the neighbor who yesterday said,
“Open that umbrella; it's not a walking stick!”
I did as I was told.
    (I was off on a long walk through the rain.)
I smile at this reflection and cross the street
enjoying the aromatic, chromatic benefits
of yesterday's twenty-hour soak.
I pass by the day-care center where kids play
and by the fraternity where they still play.
    (Though sand-filled volleyball court stands empty.)
Another street to cross,
I appreciate the new stripes and dashes
    (white and yellow)
that now give the street more authority over me
and over the cars and bikes that cross my path.
As I leave the curb
a white car accelerates.
    (from the traffic light one block to the north)
I jog a couple of steps,
then slow to a walk,
then stare that nuisance into deceleration.
On the far side,
I enjoy again one of the nicest houses in town,
valiantly and proudly holding its beauty
    (and its look of home)
in a block that has searched for identity
the twenty years that I have known it.
Along the wrought-iron fence
    (too low to keep in the great dane)
I wonder why the dogs stay inside.
Past another blue spruce and across an alley
I approach the avenue.
At the corner on my right
is a once-gas-station adult bookstore.
    (well-kept)
To my left,
is a once-mom-and-pop once-pizza now-pawn shop.
    (well-kept, but kept ugly)
Now I confront the barrier that divides east from west.
Beyond lies a square mile of university.
It is nine-thirty.
With no pause
    (by me nor by the traffic)
I cross four lanes and set my own path
across the broad, damp lawn on the other side.
No students toss frisbees this morning.
Few cars sit in the parking lot
that sits in my way
and sits where Old Main once stood.
    (where rumors linger as to how it burned)
Up and over
    (a not so “crooked stile”)
I cross the Burlington Northern track.
    (no train in sight)
Into the old heart of campus
I skirt one quadrant
of the grass-filled, tree-lined oval
past several pieces in a set of buildings
that await recognition, preservation and maintenance.
    (an historic district)
The buildings sit on land
that one hundred and fifty years ago
had not sprouted its first crop of wheat.
Here,
my walk joins the walks of others.
They do not quite hurry to where they choose to go.
Perhaps they too feel
    (after four weeks of rain)
that it is more important to notice than to hurry.
    (Noticing does slow us down.)
We hurried out this morning.
    (into the sun)
We'll be damned if we'll now hurry in.
I note this rhythm.
    (strange, but)
I make no note of faces.
This is a day for smells and for colors.
    (And this is a day for spaces.)

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1998 :: I Make NO Note Of Faces ::  ,9512

Homestyle

Quiet, patterned home,

our homestyle.

Noisy, frenetic, unpredicted home,

our homestyle.

Homestyle

Bob Komives

Worth every return--

both styles.

Home of quiet patterns

is timeless,

liveable day-by-moment;

each day down-plays its import;

each moment important in its

lack of momentary,

taste of eternity,

slow-fill of energy.

Unpredictable, frenetic, noisy home

makes memories;

gifts surprises

to expect but not anticipate;

drains energy while energizing;

crazy, yes,

but so it is.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not bore you in our calm.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not ignore you in our frenzy.

If our home is today a bother,

return next week for the other.

"Homestyle,"

spoken yesterday: fast-and-choppy.

"Homestyle,"

whisper it today: softly, smoothly.

Please join us,

make yourself at home;

let our style embrace your own style--

homestyle.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: Homestyle :: 1104

November Trilogy

November Four: Steamed-over Window

November Four.
At random point
among countless droplets
a large drop has formed.
Trailing clarity above,
consuming droplets below,
it grows,
accelerates,
descends.

November Trilogy

Bob Komives

I saw it as a dark stripe,
one among a few
in bright translucence
on steamed-over window.

Now,
I notice it to be a slit,
a narrow window,
inviting attention
into a slice of the world outside.

Looking elsewhere along the glass,
I see nothing,
a diffusion of light,
a confusion of focus,
encouragement to give attention inside.

Now, distraction,
peripheral movement
beyond a transparent stripe.
I look through to a place
that is nowhere else a place.
Something sits there,
something stands there,
something happens,
somebody passes,
something inspires a thought.

With the thought
attention turns to reflection,
back through translucence
to a place
and a moment
alone
in me.

Until,
beside me,
I notice again the glass.
My stripe has faded,
gone from transparent to translucent.
A few over-sized droplets
hint at where my view had been.

Now,
nearby,
unpredicted,
another drop,
another slice of clarity,
new place outside,
new thought inside.
Translucence becomes transparent.
Thought becomes reflective.

In these countless droplets
I find rare reflection of everyday mind.

.

.

November Five: Below The Ankles

November Five.
Alive in a long, warm autumn.
A walk across the college campus.
Feelings of being over-dressed and over-aged.
A day to look around.

Who wears his cap bill-back?
Of which tribe are he and she and they?
Who wears her cap bill-front?
Of which tribe are she and they and he?
Can I trust conclusions from years of observation?
The Bill-fronts have come back
(from near extinction)
to dominate.
Have they prospered by conversion?
in-migration?
propagation?
war?
No matter the explanation,
a more obvious observation:
    the hat on my head is popular
    only among dermatologists.
Conveniently too warm,
I stow hat into pocket
and join the inconspicuous tribe
(yet populous tribe)
of No-bills.
This humble act pulls my eyes down
to where I happen to notice feet,
two, three pairs of feet,
walking and standing
(to my surprise)
on the thonged sandals I know as flip-flops.
Surpised,
pleased,
these artifacts too avoid extinction-
after tenuous years of survival
inside a few shower rooms,
outside on lonely July beaches,
and, of course,
here on a warm November day
on my two feet.
They survived verbal abuse
from cross-foot-sandal tribes,
from friend and family.
During its ascendance
the cross-foot became more rugged,
more varied,
expensive-
kicking humble flip-flops from the landscape.
But today I see three,
four, five young women of fashion
wearing sturdy, expensive flip-flops.
They signal a re-born trend,
and acknowledge me as leader.

I walk off campus,
more alive,
newly aligned,
and rejuvenated below the ankles.

.

.

November Six: Indian Summer

November Six.
Closed up,
gaps filled,
steel in our resolve,
food in our tins,
ready for months of eating from pantry,
we are seduced
to go back out
open up
to the heat outside.
Overdressed again for morning.
Underdressed again by evening.

Warmth and sun after an autumn-dark frost,
we call it Indian Summer,
not knowing why,
but surely a tribute:
     we give worthy names to glorious times.
Indian Summer lingers this year,
three weeks at least.
Each day is too short to be borrowed of summer.
We steal it from winter.
And, oh, what reward for thievery!
The more we steal
the briefer our penalty.
Except,
until,
we begin to admit our winter worry.
Having postponed complaints of snow and cold
we worry about the inevitable onslaught
that must build in anger and severity
each pleasant day it is kept away.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to fear of snowless winter
confused trees,
expectant garden,
open land,
too exposed,
too dry.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to wanting a spring
that we know must follow winter.
Oh, Indian Summer:
      we love you.
      You are warm and illicit.
      We always welcome you.
      We thank you for this beautiful afternoon
      and for this perfect evening
      when you may sneak away
      and stay
      until you hear us petition
      for our seduction
      next year.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: November Trilogy :: 0206t

Inebriation By Optimism

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

There was to be mist and then sunshine.

but we worked dry all day under cloud.
All morning
we seeded hope's anticipation.
After noon,
weeded patches of doubt.
They predict no rain for tomorrow;
we may stand dry again without sun.
Yet, as we relax together this evening
(weary and worried for our work)
we sip from good harvest past.
We rise in lightness and confidence.
We speak of sun and rainfall to come.
With few hours to enjoy before sleeping,
inebriation by optimism has begun.

Inebriation by Optimism

Bob Komives

Fort Collins :: (c) 2001 :: 0104

Day of Success

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

Yesterday, our day that started well,
ended better,
brought success
not perfection
but good enough to compensate for past delay.

Day of Success

Bob Komives

Today,
our day to glory
not worry,
but ponder why we chose to worry.

Success came as it had to come
by way of gift
     we did not give
     could not control,
     could not expect,
     but did accept
     from others who assumed success
     and (by their simple gift of faith)
     made success
     all
     but
     in-es-capable.

Tomorrow,
our day to try again
to be again
humble and optimistic.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2001 :: Day of Success :: 0102