Kirk Lawson

Bumps in the Road

Three bumps, none large,
succession of each
tosses you the way a kid
hurls a rock over a bridge.

Holding on for life you,
neck broken, body paralyzed,
I leap like a flying squirrel
limb to limb tracing your path.

You relearn basic skills—
swallow, eat, speak,
use a grip like fingers,
navigate tight corners in your wheelchair.

Gone are deep muscle massages,
hip to hip bear hugs,
manly grabs squeezing,
intertwined legs rubbing.

Once indestructible,
you now vulnerable,
emergency room routine,
lifts, ramps, here and everywhere.

Prior plans a memory,
throw in my cancer diagnosis,
unexpected live-in nurse,
external grace masks internal cracks.

Still, your eyes glint,
smile thaws ice,
featherweight fingertips
tickle my forearm.

Navigating with
determination, grace
inspiring all,
especially me

Passing the spot where bumps
hurled us onto
a different path we move on,
fumbling, together.


Quieting

Snowflakes collect on a skylight,
random yet not
create a balanced
steady landscape

thousands of crisp flakes
stacked, layered, resting
each a part of a larger whole
adding up to

a thick comfort that
soothes and envelops
a cloak of calm
quiets the racing self

a hush takes my breath away
stops me from muttering
words that might harm
or create dis-ease

a salve that shields
my ears from noise
to pollute the soul
instead a healing music

a silence that prevents
anger from taking over
stems brewing temper
creates calm acceptance

a centering peace
that focusses my vision
removes obstacles
so I see clearly

reminds me
I am alive
breathing, feeling
seeing, grateful

blanketed in peace
and gratitude.


Ravishing

Clever, witty, Tennessee man,
moving to NYC to come out at age twenty-five,
earn a living, explore gay life,
come into your own.

Computer geek, problem-solving
detective-playing sleuth,
enjoying martinis and bitchy banter
after a day’s hard work.

Our one drag extravaganza,
you ravishing in pink satin gown
me Bob Mackey sheer black,
faces painted, wigs stacked, heels unsteady.

You fought AIDS hard and early on,
pioneer spirit and kind soul,
breaking your mom’s heart,
her ravaged son dying before her own.

Dear Cole, buried back in Tennessee,
each spring your pink dogwood petals bloom
inspiring our upstate home as
we dance and quip and cry again.


About the Author

Kirk Lawson lives in Ulster County, New York, surrounded by the Shawangunk mountains. He enjoys poetry as a creative dialogue to uncover and enhance meaning in living. He has been published in Discretionary Love, Months to Years and Thorn and Bloom. Now retired, Kirk also enjoys volunteer work, yoga, music, cooking, entertaining and theatre in his spare time. He is grateful to his husband Jim and their dog Leo for all they teach him each day.

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