Developing Voice

August 27, 2010
from notes on drafts:
[Develop your voice
your singular voice.
Huh?
But I have many voices.]

at last stanza:
When I'm dead will the things that I've said (written) still matter?


Developing Voice
"The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you."
          Thomas Lux, "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently"


The black & white home movies of the early sixties
silenced my infant voice;
until the reel-to-reel recorded it again one
Christmas morning singing Jingle Bells into the taste
of the aluminum microphone.
A decade later, the tape had stretched its vocal chords
and was no longer recognizable.

I once lost my voice
in high school, auditioning for a role in “The Fantastiks.”
I sang one line and then it just stopped...
as if someone had flicked a switch or a fuse had popped
and I didn't have a penny to fix it.

I found it again
proposing pacifism, debating doctrine, singing psalms;
and again on the sidewalks for the unborn, the uninformed;
and again parading prophetic in ecstatic glossolalia utterance.

There's the voice my children have heard.
There's the voice my grandchildren hear.
There's one for the dog.

My wife knows my voice
          when I'm setting up a bad pun,
          when I'm up on my soap box,
          when I'm asking a question
          or broaching a sensitive subject.
          There is one only she knows
                    when our door is closed
                    or when we're not talking.

I have a telephone voice
and a cell phone voice:
they are different.

It actually goes up
          about half an octave
                    when I'm waiting tables.
This phenomenon seems to affect most servers.

When I try to talk to you,
what if
what if I stut...stut...stutter;
          suppose my syllables slip into lisp;
                    perhaps the words no longer exist.
And what if we don't speak the same language?
¿Y si no hablamos el mismo idioma?
Where I come from, we don't have an accent.

And when my lips are peeled back from my teeth,
and my tongue has been eaten by worms,
will my voice still be heard in the heads of my kids
when they speak to kids of their own?

The Mentor and the Page

August 17, 2010
One and the same?

The old poet licked his thumb and turned
his crinkling face to face his page,
catechism burning his lips.

Teacher, when will I be a poet?

When all is beauty and grotesque in the same syllable.
When question marks become statements;
     commas, colons, and periods the movement
     of your chest, your lungs, your diaphragm.
When each breath taken becomes a metaphor
     for each breath you take
     and your lover merely a symbol for love.
When every heartbeat pumps a slant rhyme.
When what you see is what you hear;
     what you smell what you feel.
When every moment becomes a title, each experience a line, all memory a stanza.

The aged wordsmith pricked his thumb and bled,
an inkling of narrative published
on the novice' ear.

But Sir, when shall I become a poet?

When the space between the lines blurs with the ink upon the paper.
When your limbs grow into trees rooted in the heart of the earth
     and toner circulates through your veins and your blood speaks from the ground.
When the secrets of the universe are inadvertently hidden
     between the lines for everyone to see.
When rhyme needs no reason; no, nor reason to rhyme.
When time is not measured in meter or minutes,
     and timeless morphs to cliche.
When your only rush comes from the cutting of words into lines
     on the mirror surface of the page to be snorted through a gutted pen
     directly to you brain.

The wizened bard flicked his thumb and fingered
the bleached page before which
each penman bows his head.

Father, I want to be a poet. When?

When nothing is sacred.
When everything is sacred.
When black and white are just shades of grey with an e.
When gray with an a is merely the merging of black and white.
When the footnote leads the header.
When your pen instructs the paper
     and the poem becomes your teacher.
When your inquiry is no longer when
     but why.

In anguish, the young poet selected all.
And when questioned concerning his intention,
clicked “YES” and cursed all to the Trash Bin.

Natural Selection, Naturally

August 13, 2010
Science doesn't answer all of the questions.

So...
          how did those bugs know
                    those other bugs don't taste too fine?
Then,
          how did they get the word out
                    to the rest of the swarm or hive
                              to change their spots or stripes
                                        to look like those other bugs?
First,
          they must have had one
                    heck of a research team
                              investigating the necessary DNA markers
                                        needed to evolve.
Perhaps,
          they thought real hard,
                    gritting their tiny little mandibles,
                              chanting “I think I can! I think I can!” until
                                        the right shades and hues popped out on their tiny little exoskeletons.
Maybe
          they just used Match.com
                    to hook up with the right
                              mates to propagate
                                        the appropriate gene pool.
However
          they did it,
                    them some smart bugs.

The Lost Art of Walking

August 13, 2010
Nobody walks anywhere anymore. It seems that the younger generation needs some form of transportation just to get around the block. But there's more to walking than putting one foot in front of the other. It's noticing things along the way. And it's a nice metaphor for life. Besides, even God enjoys a good walk (Genesis 3:8).

The Lost Art of Walking
Does not matter where you start or started;
comfortable shoes are wise, a bottle of water necessary;
any and all weather acceptable, sunny with a breeze preferable.

through the school playground littered with jungle gyms, swings, and slides
wads of paper tucked between the grass blades
chewing gum tattooed on the sidewalk
crossing over railroad tracks cutting perspective through trees
tight-rope walking narrow shoulders too close to oncoming traffic
soft shoulders sprinkled with litter like shed tears
full-blast electric hum, buzz of insects in the powerline cut
cigarette butts congregating against the curb
multicolored mulches
close-up, slow-motion landscaping
     every untrimmed branch standing out in hi-def, bold relief
question mark butterfly--what is it's taxonomic label in Latin?
deserted service station
     oily parking lot, empty abandoned cracked pavement fading lines
red clay, rocks, grass (carefully manicured this side, gone to seed that side)
anthills
back roads and small businesses you cannot see from the highway
there's a picnic table behind the firehouse
there's another one in the cemetery--go figure
sidewalks end

arriving home is like walking into your hometown
that you haven't been to since you were a kid
it's old and familiar and surreal and new

Baby Dreams

August 13, 2010
I actually started writing this when Serenity was an infant. I found it amazing that she was experiencing REM so early. Her dreams must have been amazing.

Eyelids closed in infant sleep;
     rapid eye movement
as quick as your heartbeat:
What could you
     be dreaming?

With eyes wide open you can't find,
     can't even focus;
yet visions flash in your mind:
What could you
     be dreaming?

Not old enough to even be young.
     Heart not awakened
to the good or bad; right and wrong.
What could you
     be dreaming?

Is your soul still connected
     by a heavenly cord?
Your innocence unaffected.
What could you
     be dreaming?

Serenity's First Birthday

August 6, 2010

I'll miss you when you're gone:

          pointy finger
          squint your eyes
          purse your lips
          slobber drool
          wobbley dance
          crab walking
          waddle down the hall
          peek-a-boo
          numma numma breakfast
          yay--clap, clap

I'll see you in the morning
for our walk among the trees.

Cacophony of Quiet

August 6, 2010
Just sitting in the backyard.

                    The sun rounds
the bounds of the trees.

crickets
crickets
crickets
crickets
crickets

whistle
          click
                    trill
twitter
          click
                    trill
chirrup
          click click
                    trill
          trill
trill

hidden frog
                    raspy zipper solo
amplified
                    raspy zipper solo
echoed
                    raspy zipper duet
in the next yard

squirrels
          lustily playing leaping
                              in the pine
piquing
          cross branches          cross branches
                              that crackle crackle complaints

                                                  as they pass

cicadas plug in
warming up with the sun
          the arrival of
          galvanic vibrations
          evolves
          lively revivals
          of vibrant vivace
          vocalizing volumes
          of verve

Stained Glass

August 3, 2010

Foiling
visuals of my mind,
moving pictures of my heart,
the virtual reality of my spirit;
solidifying divine revelation
with rust and sand and lead;
expounding liquid dreams
by fusing concrete realities,
hardened adjectives
for pools of light

unable to penetrate,
because the Windex isn't working
on the stained glass
darkened glass
glassy eyed
window of your soul.