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You probably know
This isn’t pretend for us
We chose, left those
And love became a friend to us

You probably know
We couldn’t run away
Time froze, heat rose
Our bodies became one today

Life slows
Love grows
This isn’t pretend today
Probably

You Probably Too

Probable is from the Latin verb probare, to try, to test, to prove.
The Latin probābilis literally meant “capable of standing a test.”

You probably too were reborn
by being born—for is it not
written that the origins of all
never cease but last so that what is
must always have some enduring
always that upholds it within?

And by the same token it might
be hard not to emerge from this
without being reborn somehow
even though so many of us do—
what they can to make it so
as if the universe and God

were running on blank slates
and nothing was ever to continue
or retain anything from what life
itself needs to add up to anything
and to carry on—or just to be
what life is—as long as what is

cannot afford to be what is not
for neither God nor the cosmos
can be without being everywhere
at the same time and knowing
always all, keeping it all together.
Therefore, even the past does

always somehow continue, while,
like all else, playing with us hide-
and-seek and even if forgotten
or unseen by us—the past does
persist inside our cells and paths
and thoughts, bidding its time

to catch up with us again—either
as a devil or as a God or a chance
or a necessity—for all, you too,
is made of Chance and Necessity
depending where on the map,
at which point, you happen to be.

But as you are, you probably too
are not meant to know it all
for, generally speaking, both God
and the universe are usually kind
and don’t want you to know or do
more than what you deserve or want—

within the limits of God’s own needs.

“Predictable”

You probably will not like this;
you probably never will.
The only reason I show you
is because I’ve had my fill

You probably never did this,
and probably don’t want to now,
But I want to show you,
So next time you’ll know how.

You probably will ignore me
As is usual for you,
And never know what you missed
And never have a clue.

But I’ll waste my time again,
Which is what I do each day,
And leave a gift of value
For you to throw away.

You probably know this,
I am sure I can't hide.
That when I feel your kiss,
I become cross-eyed.

You probably know that,
my love will always grow.
Since our very first chat,
this love will not plateau.

You probably know how,
the road of life can be sad.
But, if seeds of love we sow,
we will forever be glad.

You probably think I'm old
My grandchildren do
My grandson asked me a question
When I didn't have an answer
He asked me if I knew anyone older than me
Still alive that I could ask

He'd probably be surprised
That there are
My grandson does not understand
That I'm not all knowing
That life does not bestow
Knowledge yearly
To be absorbed, passed on

He probably doesn't know
That my soul is still young
I don't understand why it's so
I don't have an answer
But there's not a wrinkle on my
Old soul
It's remained childlike

He'd probably be surprised
To know I find this
Secret fountain of youth priceless
That the questions regarding matters of the heart
Do get answered with the passing years

Those are the questions I can answer
Those are absorbed to be passed on
But one must ask
A very old person whose soul has remained young

You probably ~ have been caught up in all the confusion of our world around us; each day another ..... something.
If you raise your head above the tangled weave of noise and mass confusion.......there is a quiet place within.

Listen...the inner you, will lead you there.

You probably don't know the real me.
You know my easy smile without knowing the heartache beneath.
You know my cheerful laugh without knowing my crying soul.
You know my sparkling green eyes without knowing the tears they withhold.
You know my self confident walk without knowing the self doubt that runs rampant.
You know my chameleon exterior without knowing the the the interior it camouflages.
You probably don't know the real me.

Your words bring back the confusion of love ~ from some, long ago, far away distant place ~
I can scarcely touch it with my soul, my heart. And then, even better ~ I remember the touch.

Rewrite


You? Probably. The one.
So I write,
doubtless,
eyes wandering.

Later humility touches the back of my hand.
A little thought caught in the rain, now relevant.

How does that work?

Earth sprouts a flower in iambic pentameter.
Abruptly, you’re an English-speaking liar,
drawing complex story plots,
confusing the most devious social workers
into verifying destiny has changed…

genogram
flawlessly
monitored.

Forgiveness accomplished.
Released.
Memory?
A shaving mirror
or a toothbrush.

Your face was crescent-shaped,
a bent worm dried atop cement.
Without blame,
it’s pliant with soft petals
sewn into a different life.

Clever how it works,
wet ashes falling like moths
approaching the end of their careers,
having never seen light.

And the new language?
An umbrella,
reshaped by a storm,
dry roof, wet Davenport…

a poem turned inside-out,
bruised fingernails, corpse-like expression
a metaphor easily forgotten.


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