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.
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