Two Poems

Friendship Poem Makes Friends With the Definition Of

1.  A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts. [cats, all trees except Eucalyptus, the            moon]       2.  A person whom one knows; an acquaintance. [bodega clerks, dogs, birds, ocean, sun]       3.  A person with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause; a comrade. [artists,            redheads, the nearsighted]       4.  One who supports, sympathizes with, or patronizes a group, cause, or movement:            friends of the clean air movement.  [AIM, Bookcrossing.com, Hyundai Drag Racers            Oakland Chapter] A friend is a lover, literally. I love you times 4, literally. [As a friend I will tell you, the next 3 stanzas are boring.  Grab your juicebox.] The relationship between “friend” and “I love” in Latin is clear, as is the relationship between the Greek “friend” and “I love.” In English, though, we have to go back a millennium before we see the verb related to friend. The Old English word for “friend,” was simply the present participle of the verb “to love.” The Germanic root behind this verb meant “to like, love, be friendly to.” Closely linked to these concepts is that of “peace,” and in fact Germanic made a noun from this root, meaning exactly that.  Descended from this noun are the personal names Frederick, “peaceful ruler,” and Siegfried, “victory peace.” [Oh, and have you met my good friend Fred Siegfried? OR I am in love with the son of a peaceful ruler.] Would you like to share this pint of figs with me, friend? The root also shows up in the name of the Germanic deity Frigg, the goddess of love, who lives on today in the word Friday, “day of Frigg,” from an ancient translation of the Latin “day of Venus.” I find the day of Venus to be so melancholy. Meet me at the bank. You must be frantic with hunger. You adorn me.  I just noticed your friendship around my neck, my wrists, pinned up in my hair.  What aches to be braided, a friend assumes & braids it. “We’re here to hunt Not to write our memoirs.” -friend Assumption: carrots constitute art.  A friend would argue that they could. My friend says, “I hit the hat jack-pot!”  And so we wear hats. Drunk dials date you. We’re cyber screwing over these days. Without phone or computer. My friend says, “why would a mobster bother with a lobster?” As a good friend I take the time to illustrate the pure joy there. Poet be like mold.  Mold too, is friendly. My Bird About that bird I’d like to avoid I feel headless too until you arrive.  When something becomes similar something else is nearer. The first pigeon dissolved before I saw it, the second was blood, claw, playing chess loudly. So 2 are more present if 1 is dead. You don’t have a phone so I’m phony. Let’s go to the picture show & not talk about gardening or the morels that appeared two springs in a row. I gasp in absence, trying to be winged. I got all live stock. I got all live stock. I went through files so I could post birthdays. My fingers smell sweet in context a weird flower he knew looked good blooming, bloomed after he left.

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