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.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Wholly You (A Confession)
August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.
It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.
The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.
Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.
And now when we make love, no wait,
the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.
The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.
It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.
The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.
Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.
And now when we make love, no wait,
the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.
The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, August 23, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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.
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
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?
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?
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