Maybe Tomorrow

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A week’s freezing cold didn’t bring me
the numbness I need. Always before,
lack of sensation was my refuge,
even before north winds turned my eyes red
and the single digits froze each fingertip
a deathly white, white as the snow
that slapped my cheeks with raw reality
this morning. Maybe tomorrow.

The snow was our canvas, upon which
we painted winter-wide murals and
our ever-whitening portraits, from those
two feet and a chubby snow angel
to the broad icebreaker paths we’d carve,
leaving wakes of winter, like rustic frames
in our personal galleries of year after year.
I could just stay alone by the window,
watch it fall, pile, blow across the grass,
jealously watch scratchy weeds break the trail
we once blazed in the bedsheet smoothness.

But I can’t. I must move along, muck up
the natural perfection with my pen-nib boots
writing this diary entry for one,
the same painful one as yesterday’s.
No cold, time, or any vacant expanse
of paper white are numbing enough,
still can’t dull the pain of this life’s winter,
eyes red and fingers wrung deathly white.
Maybe tomorrow. Please, maybe tomorrow.

I don’t want to keep writing these poems, but I can’t seem to lift out of this damn dark ink well. Maybe tomorrow.

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22 thoughts on “Maybe Tomorrow

  1. Joe, it is a beautiful poem. I can empathize with that desire to feel numb to the pain of changes in life that we cannot control. In the past 7 moths that I have allowed myself to write poems on a regular basis I have found in doing so a bit of catharsis, and am starting to realize that poetry helps us process in a unique and creative way. Sometimes its necessary to write about something from every possible angle, or to write about the same feelings, even though we don’t want to. Looking forward to tomorrow …

  2. oh. This is so beautiful, but incredibly sad. You’ve brought tears to my eyes. I feel your pain, but admire how you’ve managed to convey it without reducing it to the maudlin. Lovely read.

  3. A poem which captures so well that sense of loneliness and sadness, feeling bereft. Never apologise for the kind of poetry you write. We all need to write things out of our minds and hearts at times, till we are done with them.

  4. This is not a dark poem at all. It sharply brings in to focus facets of solitude. Sadness yes but not sadness of a pessimist. We await with breath abated for that lucid warmth to seep back in your verses & that feel in heart!! I loved this poem.

  5. Pingback: Maybe Tomorrow | lynnejbo's Blog

  6. It’s amazing how it always seems like we want what we do not have at times..at least for me..as so far I have only worn shorts in my Florida town..

    But oh..oh.oh..how I long for snow…

    IN fact I love it so much I can remember the three times it really fell here..once in 1973..1977..and 1993..considerably so….

    So far in the past is that dream of snow..i dream on with my shorts and Sun..but oh again..how i do love snow….

    But yah..we get the hurricanes..which is also is no picnic..in the sun…

    So yes your lovely words in what seem as some despair for you..are words of hope to me ..to see some more snow..my friend…

    Happy Thanksgiving is all I say now..so I do hope you have a greatest day…

  7. It’s one of the cruelties of poetry that we are better writing in darkness than shouting in the light. It’s like Thoth handed us the pen and said, the good news is that worlds will flow from it. The bad news is that the most eloquent ones will be exactly those no one would ever want to live on. Go figure. I loved the metaphor of pen-nib boots making ink-tracks in pure deadly snow. – Brendan

  8. I am deeply sorry for your pain. I hope it gives you comfort to know you offer others words for the grief that they might otherwise find unspeakable. May it be that amidst the severest external winter we reconnect with the internal flame that cannot be snuffed; that the savagest ice brings the bite that pulls us from the deathly numbness of monotony, and that the deepest freeze must thaw in time. I will pray for your tomorrow x

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