The Mighty Viking

Who am I?

You ask me, with a voice so low it is drowned by the distant highway, who I am.

And I cannot say.

I use a thousand words, and smiles, and scowls,

And tell you who I love.

And who I hate.

And yet I cannot tell you who I am.

Who am I?

You ask me, though your lips move through the patterns of other words,

Your questions gently couched in questions of statistics and health.

Your Question sticks to your face, like a fear.

Half afraid I’ll turn out to be different than you.

Half afraid I’ll be the same.

Who am I?

If I told you, you wouldna believe me, you’d say that I’m putting on aires.

And that they do not become me

But aires is who I am, to you and to a thousand others

I cannot be other

I cannot be others

I cannot be anything other than who you say I am

Who am I?

If I lie awake at night, and puzzle at the answer

and at the midnight hour offer up my best guess.

If I fail the test will you turn me out into that dark night?

Will you give me extra credit for effort?

Will you correct me with a blood-red pen?

Will you announce to the world that I have failed?

Who am I?

Who are you? This game we play but never win.

While my answer is shouted down by the sound of the distant highway

Your answer is shouted down by your nature.

And after we both are spent by shouting, when we are reduced to nothing but hoarse whispers

A question only spoken in that tortured voice remains,

Who are we?

In each man’s heart and seldom shared

some passion burns and flares

in mine when silence takes me there

doth creak the rocking chairs

there’s nothing there of power

nor bold display of might

in fact the humble cane and wood

seem fragile, weak, and light

the symphony of squeaks and groans

syncopate with creaks of bones

yet still reverberate the tones

of laughing youth, and lover’s moans

the wood is etched, yet hid from view

with loving tools, and from that grew

a place for love to be so true…

a place to sit and be with you

In August’s sun, or April rain

we sit upon the supple cane

and touching binds our love in gain

in sickness, health, in joy or pain

there harks upon the heavens fair

the angel’s glorious aires

but sweeter still, without compare

doth creak the rocking chairs!

I do not wish to sweep this kitchen floor

unless, by my swishing broom, I can sweep you off your feet as well

The scrubbing of the countertop holds for me no interest

except, in inspecting its shine, I can chance to see the brilliance of your smile

gazing back at me, in love like when our vows were spoken so pure they felt like gifts from our angels.

The compost, which fills the corner bin, I’d leave it there to regrow as it will

but my heart hopes by taking it out to the pile in the corner of the yard

I let the anger I felt, the shame of having passed another day, not being the man you promised to belong to, of not being able to protect you from such pain

as we have felt sometimes

I’d take that compost out, if even one moment’s pain went with it

I feel no love for a fresh scrubbed pot

except, sometimes, I think about how scrubbing feels, and how radiance exudes from behind a fresh scrubbed child’s face

Because the mere whisper of radiance, regardless of its place or intent

makes me think of you, with that smile, and that heart that cannot hold inside its compassion

and it leaks out of your eyes in beams, and runs down your cheeks like tears

but it is not tears, and what and who it touches beams with being loved

I’d scrub any number of pots

for one drop of that radiant joy to fall on me, for the way your love feels on my chest, when you smile standing there held, where I cannot see you

but I can feel you, and know exactly how you look.

I put the leftovers away, tucked away for another day

and I wrapped a secret inside, carefully hidden

I hope you find it, but you might not

I kissed a morsel, and left that kiss for you to find

and for you to feel

and for somehow, even though it wasn’t quite right

for you to know, that I swept tonight, for you.

And hoped with each stroke of my broom, to catch you by the heel, and catch you in my arms

and deliver a matching kiss, directly to your lips

For that moment, I would sweep our kitchen floor, all night, for eternity.