Poem: June 30, 2019

Pantheon

Here's a poem for the summer gods:
for the river, muddy and inscrutable,
and running slow, father of heavy air
and mosquito, cool home to minnows;

and for the shade, dark brother who
hides but lingers to announce the slow
arrival of mother night, dressed in
fireflies, and dancing with the moon;

and for the rain that brings the garden
soil to life, that calls forth the worm
and cools the air, that pools for a time
before fading or clawing deeper home;

and for the storm, brother to the rain,
that pounds his chest and flashes his eyes,
that flickers in the distance like a candle
and knocks the branches from the trees.

and for grandfather sun, the open eye,
who watches and pushes us out through
ourselves, who fills every space, slows
our pace, and weighs heavily upon us.

Oh summer gods, we sing to you through
the ecstasies of cicadas and crickets. We
paint you with dandelion and daisy and
tiger lily and honeysuckle and lavender.

We drink you like clear water and wish
never to be absent from you, for you
make us young and capable, you cause
us to open like the petals of a flower.

Poem: June 29, 2019

Our Home Town

Strange 

that we should choose this habitat

with all the other habitats 

not difficult to get to.

People do it. 

They move their roots. 

Evansville, Indiana

seems so colorless and flat,

no crashing waves

or mountain ranges

to break up the monotony.

No breeze and clack

of subway trains. No buzz.

No narrow, winding streets.

No ancient ruins to create

perspective.

Just a river bend

and a corn field frame,

and the reality that this is where

our families live.

Not a place to pick

if you were going to pick,

a place where its been easy

to see it all, and everything

is easily predicted.

A harbor, to be sure, 

with many lotuses to eat.

Poem: June 28, 2019

Promise

When I am gone, I'll not be gone,
but will become like starlight,

crossing the distances
the living can't cross

to shine on you when you look up,

a small light to be found,
a wink in the void,
a quiet message sent
from a time in the past,

only just arriving for you to see.

Poem: June 27, 2019

Feast

Imagine the table like an ode
to gluttony, three full pasta bowls,
fettuccini in a cream sauce with
chicken from the grill, steamed
broccoli, then farfalle soaked in
red sauce, the tang of the tomatoes,
the basil and oregano, sweet like
you like it, and a sprinkle of cheese,
and then the penne tossed with pesto,
toasted pine nuts, kalamata olives,
sun-dried tomatoes and artichokes,
served, of course, with crusty bread
and olive oil and parmesan and
cracked black pepper, and bottles
and bottles of bright red wine.
A fat table, bigger than your eyes,
and all the happy noises there.

Poem: June 26, 2019

FaceTime

Through the window of my screen, you
lying there on the bed, the crisp white
sheets in your hotel room, your hair
splashed across the pillow, your eyes
relaxed, a smile like you've enjoyed
some wine, and I can see that the sun
hasn't gone down where you are because
of the gold light and the shadows on
your face and on your shoulder, and I
can see the green in your eyes, almost
as if I was there, hovering above you,
leaning there, coming in for the kiss.

Poem: June 25, 2019

Getting Ready

My daughter asks which swimsuit-
the turquoise or black, and holds up
both, each still on its plastic hanger.

I say turquoise. I like the palm trees.
And then she disappears, off to find
in the various odd piles of her room

the matching flip-flops and sunglasses,
the exact right bag and hat and towel
and book, and when did she become

so put together, so able to navigate
the arcane processes and rules of being
a female in this world? And when

did it stop being my place to chase
down all of the components and pieces,
to ensure my daughter has everything

I can even imagine that she needs-
a burden I can still remember cursing.
At least she let me pick the color.

Poem: June 24, 2019

Who Opened the Attic?

I like those crazy dreams
where there is almost too much
going on, like, maybe I'm
picking out tin wind-up toys
and candy because it's some
holiday, and I'm a kid, and
this is some part of a treasure
hunt in which at some point
I am driving a blue, 30s-era,
four-door sedan until I come
to the realization that this isn't
my car, it's Andrew's, and
anyway, my grandmother is
here when she wasn't before,
and I should spend time with
her in this circle of rocking
chairs until I see that Mom's
taken the last, bunny-shaped
sugar cookie, and Ron believes
that the cupcake he hid has
melted into the Bakelite radio,
but it's there on the shelf, so
why doesn't he see that it's
right there? There, where I'm
pointing. But it doesn't matter.
I walk away because out the
screen door and down the hill,
the sky is dark green, and
the ground is starting to flood,
and I think, "I can fix this."
And maybe I say that out loud.
I stop and wonder if I said that
out loud before I grab the
flashlight and the needle-nose
pliers, and that's the moment
when my body wakes up.

Poem: June 23, 2019

First Real Job

The first year of teaching can be a real
shit show- 180 days of being the unathletic
kid on the dodgeball court, 9 months of
building the ark mid-flood. And everybody
tells you that they remember their first year,
and, boy, are they happy it isn't them, but
here's some old tools you don't know how
to use, and here's some advice that isn't you.
And whose bright idea was it to put you
in charge of thirty different versions of
the most complex machines on the planet,
for which you need to write the instructions
that will result in the quiet hum of a
functioning engine. Good luck with that,
when on most days you are still figuring out
how to read the map that they said would
get you from August to May, and whoever
said. "Don't smile before Christmas," was
making some major assumptions about
your inclination to smile in the first place.
I mean, I guess it would be amazing to
flash a cool smile in front of a firing squad,
but who do you know who could pull
that off? Who even has the wherewithal
to set their jaw and leave it set when at
any minute someone could come down
the hall and peek behind the curtain, and
all the exhausted hamsters running on
all your squeaky wheels would be revealed.

Poem: June 22, 2019

Otters

You and I, floating together,
my hand holding onto the edges
of your inner tube and laced
loosely with your fingers, smooth
and in quiet conversation, the kind
of talking with long pauses, but
with no interruptions, just lazy
observations- how blue the sky is,
how cool the water- and the others
are drifting farther away downstream,
splashing and careening through
the rapids, dancing over the rocks,
off in the distance, in another place,
but don't the clouds seem closer,
and doesn't the highway seem to fade
into the periphery like a dream as we
move in our own slow current down
the Little Pigeon River, just holding
on and wishing we could roll along
like otters, holding hands and drifting
through the sunlit afternoon.

Poem: June 21, 2019

Basic

This, then, is life:
Our lungs filling with
every deep breath in
the dark and quiet
moments, the rhythm
in our chests. It is the
colors and movement
we perceive, the sounds
that make their meaning
somewhere in our minds.

It is the heat we carry
like an extra weight
and the cold we turn
ourselves away from.

It is the taste of cool
water and the sense of it
as we drink. It is the echo
in our stomachs and
the tearing and chewing
of food. It is swallowing

and the emptying
of bladder and bowels,
the unacknowledged
pleasure of evacuation.

It is bruise and laceration
and loss of blood, sharp
and dull pain, swelling
and dehydration, the
formation of scabs.

It is the tears that
well up and slide down.

It is the narrowed focus
of sexual attraction and
pursuit, the pleasure
of proximity, perspiration
and pheromones, saliva.
The engorgement
of genitalia. Exertion.

All else is constructed.
All else is negotiated.
All else must be decided upon.

Poem: June 20, 2019

Do or Do Not

I am trying to learn to settle down,
to quiet my fast-talking inner voice,
the one that is always hustling,
that always has something to say.

I am trying to learn to linger
over the pictures I see, to do
myself a favor and enjoy the slow
read, the sustained and quiet sleep.

I am trying to create blank spaces
and learn how to let them be,
to empty my pockets and travel light,
to measure less, and deeply breathe.

Poem: June 19, 2019

Returning Home

There is always that strange smell
upon opening the doors to our house
after a week away- Is this what we
smell like usually? Have we somehow
grown used to the smells we picked up
along the way, or have our travels
somehow washed away the smells
of home from off our bodies? Either
way, the cats seem suspicious, but
I'm more concerned, as I have been
since I was a little boy, that we're
smelling the smells of the people
who hide in our house until we pack
up our luggage and drive away.
I imagine our dust family reading
our books, wearing our clothes,
leaving just the one glass in the sink,
returning over and over to the pantry,
annoyed at us, trying to say something
by hiding the cookies or spoiling
the milk. And one gets the sense that
they linger in the house even when
we've returned, making all our noise.
Best to open the windows, to light
a candle or two to chase them out.

Poem: June 18, 2019

Wasting Time

It's all there and needs doing-
the presentation slide deck, the calls
and emails, the car, the basement walls.

So much of life builds upon itself.
Do one task and create three more,
complete a job and there's a void

that we feel we need to fill,
some restless part of us that won't
be still, cannot be indefinite.

Even at the beach, I plan and
divide my time between sand sculptures,
and wading a bit, and searching for shells.

Even resting is on the agenda,
something to be completed, a box
in need of a check mark or X.

We've evolved so far, we fill
our lives with foolishness, we pace
the spaces where once we hunted food.

Poem: June 17, 2019

Heartbreak

And in some terrible moment
in a hotel in Valdosta, your daughter,
who collapsed in the parking lot,
blind from the dizzying effects
of standing too quickly after
traveling too long, and the blood
pooled in her legs, something
often invisible, but now so red
that you see it bright as anger,
something she lives with everyday,
that she has inherited and that
makes her heart race and causes
her to pause and face down
a hard reality, the threat of genetics,
when talk turns to the future and
children, and "why would I take
that risk?" And it's painful to see
your daughter, one of three
precious arguments for your life,
crying on a hotel floor, handed
a fight you cannot fight, and
whispering into her knees,
"Sometimes I hate my life."

Poem: June 16, 2019

Magic Kingdom

Main Street USA

Step through the tunnel
and step back in time to find
Walt Disney's childhood.

Adventureland

Dole Whips and Pirates,
the back side of water and
all the birds sing words!

Frontierland

Splash and Big Thunder,
the Country Bear Jamboree,
Tom Sawyer's Island.

Liberty Square

The Haunted Mansion.
Lunch at the Liberty Tree.
Picture in the stocks.

Fantasyland

The sword in the stone.
It's a Small World after all!
Ride the Carousel.

Tomorrowland

Space Mountain and Buzz.
At night, the People Mover.
Laugh Floor if there's time.

Poem: June 15, 2019

Reading through the Night

It's a form of gluttony.
To take a taste of some
great book, something
you didn't know that
you were craving, but
ten pages in and you
know you are going to
eat the whole thing
more quickly than you
can enjoy it, racing to
an end you wish would
never come, chewing
through characters,
inhaling plot, and
swallowing chapters
whole like a ravenous
castaway with some
new flotsam arrived
upon your shore.

Poem: June 14, 2019

The Runaways

Between the ages of twelve and twenty,
I constructed many fantasies with friends
in which we'd run away together, and,
like pioneers, create a new and private
life in faraway and bucolic lands. Maybe
we'd raise sheep and knit sweaters beside
the sea in Ireland, or buy some acreage
out west along a quiet tributary in some
valley only dirt roads could reach, and
we would see each other coming home
at sunset, a silhouette beyond the fence,
in overalls beneath a purple sky, and
we would find our places at night, making
music, creating artwork, or reading books
on the porches or in the barns. Away,
of course, away, and somehow making
good in a world we hadn't trained for,
safe beyond the safety of our homes,
keeping forever the company we kept.
But no one runs away like that, no one
breaks loose of their magnets, jumps
free of their path, and returns having
sailed a sea, climbed a mountain, found
Eden in Kashmir or in the hills of Italy.
No one comes back to tell that tale. If
they return at all, it's to recount how
dreams can fall apart, how sailboats sink
and sheep can stink and farming fields
is hard, so we all chose the paths most
traveled, safely within the borders of
the map beyond which there are monsters,
with lovely children and health insurance
and holidays off and single-family homes.
And rarely do we wonder, if at all, about
the few who left and who never returned.

Poem: June 13, 2019

Childlike

I love that you still love
a butterfly house, a tent
in which to wander amid
the flowered gardens and
see so many delicate wings
pass before your eyes, and
perhaps feel the things
briefly when they land
for an instant on your hand.
I love that you still wonder
at their stages and take such
pleasure in the way they dance.

Poem: June 12, 2019

What's Lost

There's a Rubik's Cube in Julia Child's kitchen
in the Smithsonian Museum. I understand
they reconstructed the kitchen exactly as they
found it. Down to the last detail, down to the
Rubik's cube to the left of the sink, unfinished,
so I wonder who's toy this was. A child's?
Certainly, a Child's, but a grandchild's? And
wouldn't they want it back? Wouldn't it be
maddening to come visit your grandmother's
kitchen, where she prepared those meals, those
wild, rich family meals, to see that kitchen
exactly as you remember it, to see the toy
you left on the counter as you rinsed an apple
or poured a glass of water, to see the place you
would return to, there, just behind the glass.

Poem: June 11, 2019

Sometimes I Think About the Other Dove

Sometimes I think about the other dove,
of arks and floods and mated pairs and love.

They must have thought they'd won some lottery
as they flew into the last menagerie.

And for forty days as they took their guilty rest
with those left behind still beating in their chest,

they knew, at least, the comfort of shared grief
and could warm themselves in a promise, in the belief

that the last of doves might also be the first,
their hatchlings never knowing want or thirst.

Blessed like the camels, the kangaroos and ravens,
to be paired and safe within their floating haven

until the man took one dove in his hand
and sent it in the darkness to find land,

and so the other dove was left to wait-
the only animal without a mate.

What was it like to perch there all alone,
your only other lost to the unknown?

Did comfort cease? Did millet lose its taste?
Was their promised picture now erased?

How cruel to have to imagine pending grief
until your love should find the olive leaf!

Poem: June 10, 2019

Pieces

We are all collectors of the things we know.
We store them away, some in cabinets or drawers,
some on shelves. The useful ones we carry
in our pockets or hanging from our belts.

And my collection will never be the same as yours.
And your collection can never be the same as mine.

And even if they were, we wouldn't use them
in any of the same ways, or at the same times,
or with the same conviction, or to the same purpose,

except, perhaps, on Trivia Night.

And we are never much more than our collections:
the things we've found and picked off of the ground,
the things we've put away for later, the first things
we reach for, smooth with age, molded to our hands,
and the things we choose to unknow and replace.

It is by these that we come to be defined.

The tools determine the job.
The clothes make the man.

Until some of us throw open the doors like carnival
barkers, shining spotlights and inviting the world
to gaze in wonder upon the oddities, the great
and majestic articles we keep in our collections.

While others lock their collections up in chains
like misers, dragging them about like weighted rope.

Some can be forgiven for being haunted
by what they know.

But the farther we travel, the more we collect-
more keys on the ring, more apps on the phone-
the greater our use, and the less we're alone.

Poem: June 9, 2019

Cat Commands That Seem To Work

...Scratch up the wallpaper.
...Knock shit off the counter.
...Shed.
...Put kibble in your water bowl.
...Ignore me.
...Pause in the doorway.
...Get up on the table after I just said no.
...Make my feet hot at night.
...Stink up the basement.
...Be insistent.
...Sit on the computer.
...Steal the LEGO head.
...Don't let the house fly out of your sight.
...Scratch the hell out of my arm when all I want to do is love you.

Poem: June 8, 2019

Full

The world, of course,
is a feast to be eaten.
Everywhere we are,
is a wild garden
of dripping fruit, ripe
on the vine, easily
plucked and sucked
upon, sweet and sticky,
something you smell
as you walk along
with your devices,
your infinite menus,
with which you call
up the next course,
and the next, delivered
to your door, an
on-demand avalanche
of blinding delights,
designed for every
palate, every region
of the tongue. So much
to consume, one
hardly ever moves.
And isn't it easy
to become the meat,
the fatty treat that the
world around us eats?

Poem: June 7, 2019

Flight of Passage

Waiting in line for two hours
and the Florida sun unavoidable,
a barrage, until someone gives up,
and the line moves and we find
some shade, a bit of wall to lean
against, and no one is talking
much, except to point out the kid
who fell asleep, or to comment
on how long the line is. How long
are we willing to wait? But there
is some joy in being here together,
all of us. Riley, too, escaping,
processing the break-up, wandering
his inner landscape. And isn't
Sophie so happy just to have her
siblings around, to have a full
house. Even this hard waiting
in quiet proximity has its pleasure.
And Annie wonders aloud if
conjoined twins feel weird after
they are separated, and the guy
in the purple shirt, standing
in line alone, seems to know
something about that. He might
be a doctor. He's from somewhere
in Pennsylvania where they had
a local set of conjoined twins
who used a cart to get around.
No one asked his name or if
he was a doctor or why he was
there alone. There is something
about waiting in the heat. Hundreds
of people in this line, in the sun,
noticing and wondering, and all
of us some kind of alone.

Poem: June 6, 2019

For Annie on Her Birthday

I celebrate you because you're mine

and because you fight for others
and for yourself

and because you find your pleasure
in small and simple things
like Amish cheese and Internet memes

and because you are kind and like
the music I used to like

and because you are curious
and clever and quick to pick up
on a joke, and mostly quick to stop

and because you know your own mind

and your love is true and fierce

and I see myself in your grey eyes.

Poem: June 5, 2019

In Heaven

We will take long showers

and let the water rush

through our hair and down

our bodies like rivers

that follow the contours

of neck and shoulder blade

and small of the back.

And there will be white

towels, thick and full

and warm from the dryer.

They will suggest lavender

and sunlight and clean air.

And we will dry our bodies

slowly. We will take our time.

Poem: June 4, 2019

Denial

It's not my habit
to sleep in, to linger
in bed, hidden away
from the world
and all its noises, but

something
about this morning
and the position
of the pillows.

A strange impulse
to burrow deeper
away from

painting and
packing and
the glaring hard
screens.

I'll wait.
I can wait until the last.

Poem: June 3, 2019

Free Will

You can't tell someone how

to live their life, you can't 

even hope to understand

the primal, magnificent

forces, as ancient as 

the person themself,

that sometimes rage in

opposing directions like

tsunamis or hurricanes,

or that sometimes thrum

deep beneath a still surface,

a green pond reflecting heat.

Forces that can drive a person

to race headlong toward pain,

or harden into stone, paralyzed

and unreachable, folded

within the black core.

The Titans within

us are ours

to make peace with

or to master as we can, alone.

Their language is one we have

written, hummed to ourselves

since childhood, sometimes

hiding in dark places, 

sometimes dancing

in the streets.

Who could

translate words 

so old, so deeply

rooted, so specific

to their source? What's

the word for the fears that

close the blinds, or the hope

that spots the open path?

These are the sounds

that only one throat

can utter, and they

invoke one life

which is not

ours. 

They are not our words.

This is not our story to tell.

It's tempting to imagine

that one could choose

how someone else 

lives, to make

their decisions and

control the outcomes.

To define the terms.

But to hold such terrible

power would be to hold

the knife that cuts out 

a tongue, to imprison

another in impotent silence.

Poem: June 2, 2019

Song for My Son

I hope you do, I hope you do.

I hope you know when things are hard for you

I feel it in my chest, the chest that I

once held you to, I feel for you.

I hope you know I feel for you.

I know you are, I know you are.

I hope you know when things are hard for you

you're going to be okay. Yes, I believe 

you'll be okay, and you'll go far.

Things are hard, but we all go far.

The world's alright, the world's alright.

I hope you know that when things get tight for you

you'll still be alright, and I am here

no matter what, fight or flight, 

when things are hard, you'll still be alright.

I know you can, I know you can.

I know you'll find the path that fits your feet

and your place to stand, I know you can.

You'll be the man who makes his stand,

and I'll be here because I know you can.

Your light shines bright, your light shines bright.

Even in the darkness when the daylight dims,

you can stoke your fire. You can fuel your flame.

And your light will shine and until then

I will shield your flame from every wind.

You can count on me, you can count on me.

I hope you know when things are hard for you

my love is free. In a cold, hard world

with no guarantees, you can count on me.

I hope you know with certainty

I guarantee you can count on me.

Poem: June 1, 2019

If These Walls Could Talk

Our house could tell a person many things
about us, a story in still-life, in fair Indiana
where we lay our scene, A Tale of Two
English teachers, both alike in dignity say
the shelves of Shakespeare and poetry.

Busy people, always on the run say the
unmade bed and dishes in the sink. While
the cracked kitchen door frame, the leak
in the bedroom ceiling, the missing window
pane and the broken attic stairs are a Greek
chorus, wailing as one, These people were
never very handy. Never, never haaaaandy!

But the garden would tell people you love
the sunlight, you love to be outside, and
the games we have piled in the basement
would announce that we enjoy our time
together, and all the Disneyana- the ears,
the pins, the posters- would paint a clear
picture as to where we spend our vacation
time and how we spend our pay checks.

And so much, so much would confess
our ADD, our distractibility, our unfinished
and rarely resolved

The kitchen shelves, the cabinets and
refrigerator- so fully-stocked and rich with
options tell their damnable lies about
the healthy and complex meals we cook
with committed regularity (but the recycle
bin stuffed with pizza boxes tells the truth).

And the Amazon Echo (our dear Alexa),
she who stands her nightly vigil on the
nightstand by the bed, oh the stories she
could tell of our allergies and the symphonies
they inspire our nasal passages to make.