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In the way-worth and the side-spent,

in the way,  I break,                in the way, I  lend,

in the way-sought and the way I went,

                                                              move aside.

 

In the way of horns and motors,         in the way of musings over.

In the nights and the songs,       in the weekends and groans,

I remain low on guesses and turns.

 

I have fingers lost in search and cold-fishings.

 

In the back way,          in the water way,

in the way of more, I have crept too long in the striving.

 

What more has been decided?

 

In the before-ways,                 in the after-ways,

in the breakaways,

I will only say, soon. I said, soon.      

            Soon.

 

© Umansky 2014

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I will be wide-flung in the next

 

uncollared

                                   

                                     lingering.  

 

           

there will be no need for signing in

 

I just want to grace it.  I want to swing heads blind. I want to de-clutter the expectation. I want to objectify the past. I want to cast the plunge.  I want to sun the hours. I want to courage the empty and then, scat away.        

 

 

 

Love slips

 

This would cause an end, or broaden waters, but the moment                    passes.

 

 

I am not seen in what turns.

 

 

I am one of yours

 

                                    and yours

                         

            and yours.

 

           

 

We can share the filth.

 

 

I’ll lift              

You’ll lift,        

                        till, we lift off.

 

 

The stone of a moment  is a foot beneath    

 

© Umansky 2014

 

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Don has the authority and Peggy has the emotion, but that’s in the past. She wears the pants and Don is crying alone in his apartment. Peggy lives in the not-knowing, each breath a gasp. Don lives “in the now” and “the know.”

His failures are a ladder, and she climbs it wrung by wrung.  Her hands reach up but her feet hesitate to follow.

They are two parts of a stumbling whole. Their pasts, a splintered truth.

One small tear at an ankle, could bring them to their knees.

 

When Peggy needs Don, he is glad to be needed, but it is the needing that desires, not the work.  The needing is a haunt

Peggy asks, “what do I know about motherhood” and Don takes a moment.  He simmers in their intellects.  He lets her stew.

She looks at him:  “you love this,” and he does, but not in that way.

He loves what she is capable of.  She is Manhattan. She is growing and growing. Her arms are pulsing with the blood of the next century.

When they dance to Sinatra, it is like every childhood memory  they wish they had, except she is not a child and Don is not her father. 

There is a tenderness there, in their package of equals. 

Their sale is not dependent on their cleverness.

Their sale is not dependent on their skill.

Their sale is dependent on their love.

 

And when Peggy puts her head on Don’s shoulder, and the moon outside is wide-brimmed, their love is pinned in the stars of the city.  Their love is based on their independence.  They both only know one way, my way.

 

© Umansky 2014

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Read them, here.

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My copy of the January issue of Poetry Magazine came featuring three of my #GoT poems.

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Let us count that you regard

            and I regard

 

the changing of the tides

the sea of the last

            We are tenaciously taking the tides

            in favored abandons.

 

We are contempting the contemporary

            or co-tempting the contemporary

            into a kind of sin.

 

We are doing more than channeling

When we laugh

When we strategize

In-my-day, I was a believer

            In-my-day        in my day

            In-my-day        in my day

 

The dial-up had a certain purr

That ruffled my roost.

That’s lost, now.

*

Now, you, you, let alone with the golden.

Let the golden wilt and wild.

We can construct the past

Potshot the pristine

 

Here, coordinate my sprawlings

Together, this could  be  nostalgia

© Umansky 2013

 

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