October 27, 2010
She's got mine!
Serenity sat with me this morning,
reached for my clipboard of notes and blank paper.
Awkwardly holding the mechanical pencil
in her left hand,
made stabs and swipes at the college rule:
the scribbles are getting bolder.
Fingering the letters of my name
printed and taped to the metal clip,
I explain she is of a select few
who call me Grandpa.
Gazing at the work of her hand
she wraps her arms around the stiff board
and hugs the page to her tiny chest.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Drool
October 21, 2010
Sometimes I feel like this is what my writing looks like.
Serenity held the paper and pen
like one who had waited a lifetime
for just such instruments;
rubbing them together like two dry sticks,
anticipating a spark
to set her little world on fire.
Turning the pen over and over,
her thumb unacquainted with opposing,
the button did not click, and yet
a long string of drool issued forth
leaving its mark upon the paper.
Sometimes I feel like this is what my writing looks like.
Serenity held the paper and pen
like one who had waited a lifetime
for just such instruments;
rubbing them together like two dry sticks,
anticipating a spark
to set her little world on fire.
Turning the pen over and over,
her thumb unacquainted with opposing,
the button did not click, and yet
a long string of drool issued forth
leaving its mark upon the paper.
Pool of Serenity
October 20, 2010
You can look at this 3 ways.
I have an old water fountain
now filled with pebbles and rocks
that Serenity likes to play in.
She'll take the stones,
one or two in each hand,
and walk about turning them,
then tossing them,
then returning for more.
You can see the holes where she's been.
You can look at this 3 ways.
I have an old water fountain
now filled with pebbles and rocks
that Serenity likes to play in.
She'll take the stones,
one or two in each hand,
and walk about turning them,
then tossing them,
then returning for more.
You can see the holes where she's been.
Dancing On the Grave
October 6, 2010
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.
Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)
So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.
You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.
Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?
This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.
This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.
Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.
Annette's Song
The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.
Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.
And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.
Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.
In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.
I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.
And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.
YES!
YES!
YES!
Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.
Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)
So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.
You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.
Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?
This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.
This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.
Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.
Annette's Song
The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.
Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.
And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.
Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.
In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.
I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.
And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.
YES!
YES!
YES!
Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wet: morning of September 30, 2010
September 30, 2010
Serenity is a fount of inspiration!
It rained last night and the earth is all wet;
too wet for little feet,
too wet to be absorbed by a single disposable diaper.
So you return the favor and press
drool soaked lips against the window pane,
giving the world outside a sloppy wet kiss,
your diaper drooping below sea level.
Serenity is a fount of inspiration!
It rained last night and the earth is all wet;
too wet for little feet,
too wet to be absorbed by a single disposable diaper.
So you return the favor and press
drool soaked lips against the window pane,
giving the world outside a sloppy wet kiss,
your diaper drooping below sea level.
Poets' Dilemma Delight or Just Another Tuesday Night
September 24, 2010
Inspired by the poetry of Billy Collins.
Can't we just mean what we say?
Does each line need to hide meaning?
Why can't we just sit down to dinner
our plates spilling peas and carrots into each other, or
on rare occasions, asparagus lying parallel or perpendicular;
mashed potatoes, mine overflowing, yours barely covered, with gravy;
these beside various pork chops, or as generally is in this economy,
quick frozen chicken breast, fulfilling its duty as the main course;
all without the fork and the spoon doubling entendre?
Is it possible for us to sit on the couch
and watch TV for just an hour or two, commercial breaks included,
just you and I and perhaps a comforter on top and a pillow between
in the glow of thirty-six inch diagonal, non-HD wonder
without it having to mean something before we go to bed,
read a book, snuggle, and sleep?
Is it all meant to mean something
other than what happens in that moment
on the page?
Inspired by the poetry of Billy Collins.
Can't we just mean what we say?
Does each line need to hide meaning?
Why can't we just sit down to dinner
our plates spilling peas and carrots into each other, or
on rare occasions, asparagus lying parallel or perpendicular;
mashed potatoes, mine overflowing, yours barely covered, with gravy;
these beside various pork chops, or as generally is in this economy,
quick frozen chicken breast, fulfilling its duty as the main course;
all without the fork and the spoon doubling entendre?
Is it possible for us to sit on the couch
and watch TV for just an hour or two, commercial breaks included,
just you and I and perhaps a comforter on top and a pillow between
in the glow of thirty-six inch diagonal, non-HD wonder
without it having to mean something before we go to bed,
read a book, snuggle, and sleep?
Is it all meant to mean something
other than what happens in that moment
on the page?
The Living Word
September 23, 2010
Lord, I live
by your word.
My life is in the spoken sentences
and paragraphs from Your mouth,
not the black and red ink on
rice paper that can be burned to ashes,
added to the pile;
but by Your voice that etches
the tablets of my heart,
by Your breath that permanently
marks my mind,
the breeze that brands my soul
as Yours
I live.
Lord, I live
by your word.
My life is in the spoken sentences
and paragraphs from Your mouth,
not the black and red ink on
rice paper that can be burned to ashes,
added to the pile;
but by Your voice that etches
the tablets of my heart,
by Your breath that permanently
marks my mind,
the breeze that brands my soul
as Yours
I live.
poesimania
September 22, 2010
poesimania
The first one's free.
They said it was an acquired taste;
fine wines painting impressionist portraits
upon nurtured taste buds.
Large barrel-like bottles of table whites and reds
lead to Chardonnays and Merlots
soft, supple and complex...
brimming with plush cherry...
and jammy blackberries followed by
hints of vanilla and spice;
samplings of Pinot Grigio
opening with seductive floral
and lemon aromas, followed by notes
of mineral and tropical flavors;
glasses of Reisling
made in an off-dry style
accentuating delicate notes of...
stone-fruit flavors...white peach and apricot...
deliciously mingled with hints of Anjou pear
and bursts of jasmine;
a bottle of Trivento 2008 Malbec,
a bright carmine red
whose plum and raspberry jam aromas
mingle elegantly with vanilla notes
from the 6 months aged in French oak barrels;
to a case of 2001 Nebbiolo,
garnet-red...with ruby reflections...
scents of roses, vanilla, roasted hazelnuts,
licorice and spices...
pleasant touch of tar and
oaky notes in perfect equilibrium.
All served with aged cheeses, wafer thin crackers,
and fresh fruits upon a tray of silver or Malaysian bamboo.
What they didn't say
was that once acquired
required constant feeding
like heroin or crack
crawling up your spine
chasing monkeys without wings
things that go bump in the day
days without end
nights with no sleep
creepy, crawly flesh
less like a man than a worm
squirming through your veins
raining on your parade
a charade of death walking
in a daze of confused words
and guttural phrases spewed out
through black and broken teeth
spittal running down the jawbone
of a diseased mind
I'll find it this time
I swear I'll pay you back
just one more
please, God, let it make sense.
I buy chapbooks like dime bags
and hide them from my wife.
poesimania
The first one's free.
They said it was an acquired taste;
fine wines painting impressionist portraits
upon nurtured taste buds.
Large barrel-like bottles of table whites and reds
lead to Chardonnays and Merlots
soft, supple and complex...
brimming with plush cherry...
and jammy blackberries followed by
hints of vanilla and spice;
samplings of Pinot Grigio
opening with seductive floral
and lemon aromas, followed by notes
of mineral and tropical flavors;
glasses of Reisling
made in an off-dry style
accentuating delicate notes of...
stone-fruit flavors...white peach and apricot...
deliciously mingled with hints of Anjou pear
and bursts of jasmine;
a bottle of Trivento 2008 Malbec,
a bright carmine red
whose plum and raspberry jam aromas
mingle elegantly with vanilla notes
from the 6 months aged in French oak barrels;
to a case of 2001 Nebbiolo,
garnet-red...with ruby reflections...
scents of roses, vanilla, roasted hazelnuts,
licorice and spices...
pleasant touch of tar and
oaky notes in perfect equilibrium.
All served with aged cheeses, wafer thin crackers,
and fresh fruits upon a tray of silver or Malaysian bamboo.
What they didn't say
was that once acquired
required constant feeding
like heroin or crack
crawling up your spine
chasing monkeys without wings
things that go bump in the day
days without end
nights with no sleep
creepy, crawly flesh
less like a man than a worm
squirming through your veins
raining on your parade
a charade of death walking
in a daze of confused words
and guttural phrases spewed out
through black and broken teeth
spittal running down the jawbone
of a diseased mind
I'll find it this time
I swear I'll pay you back
just one more
please, God, let it make sense.
I buy chapbooks like dime bags
and hide them from my wife.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Heart of God
September 20, 2010
There is not a soul alive
that has glimpsed the complete beauty
within a conch shell.
Broken by the crush of waves
and washed smooth by sand
gives a partial and wholly different vision.
The only way to truly comprehend
the smooth darkness of its bright curves:
crawl inside.
Can a man know the tenderness
of a mother nursing?
Neither can remember
the comfort of the infant
suckling mama's breast.
It must be lived in the moment of innocence.
To my knowledge,
no one alive has survived
the internal winds and pressure of a tornado
whipping about seemingly out of control;
dust and debris flung about on the outside,
while molecules of nothingness fill the eye.
But wouldn't that be an experience.
There is not a soul alive
that has glimpsed the complete beauty
within a conch shell.
Broken by the crush of waves
and washed smooth by sand
gives a partial and wholly different vision.
The only way to truly comprehend
the smooth darkness of its bright curves:
crawl inside.
Can a man know the tenderness
of a mother nursing?
Neither can remember
the comfort of the infant
suckling mama's breast.
It must be lived in the moment of innocence.
To my knowledge,
no one alive has survived
the internal winds and pressure of a tornado
whipping about seemingly out of control;
dust and debris flung about on the outside,
while molecules of nothingness fill the eye.
But wouldn't that be an experience.
Ghost of Serenity
September 20, 2010
You're not dead.
Just not here.
Where'd she go?
Don't wave bye.
Blown kisses
fill the air.
Echoes of morning jabber
tickle my inner ear.
Toys are scattered across the floor.
No one is playing.
I eat my Cheerios®
alone.
You're not here.
We're not alive.
You're not dead.
Just not here.
Where'd she go?
Don't wave bye.
Blown kisses
fill the air.
Echoes of morning jabber
tickle my inner ear.
Toys are scattered across the floor.
No one is playing.
I eat my Cheerios®
alone.
You're not here.
We're not alive.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Reading the Bible by Moonlight
September 15, 2010
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.
Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega
Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.
I actually attempted to read by moonlight. It was early morning, the moon was full and bright, but not bright enough.
Reading the Bible by moonlight
words are blurred and smeared
on a not so white surface
only thing clear the white space
the margins that surround ink
jot tittle blend indistinguishable
from alpha and omega
Dawn, increasing clarity;
words are ordered in steps.
O's are opened, I's made straight;
more white space is evident
in the pores of the P's and the Q's:
each letter clearly delineated.
Even the punctuation is comprehensible.
Love Poetry
September 14, 2010
1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
of the lines.
2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.
1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
of the lines.
2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.
When I Was A Child
September 11, 2010
Reminiscent of a simpler time.
Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
little league baseball,
Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.
Reminiscent of a simpler time.
Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
little league baseball,
Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.
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