Look around you...now look again

Ars Poetica

I will write of the things I know best
And a little of the things I do not know at all
Stand in a field full of wildflowers
And I will show you something ugly and unexpected
You will never look at fields full of wildflowers
The same way again
I can make you rethink the English language
And the origins of life
All in one stanza
It may not make sense
But its poetry, my dear,
It is poetry

The Birds in Winter (Revised)

The birds were kept outside that winter
In unsuitable conditions for tropical birds
But inside we had more vital issues
Than the overwintering of some birds
Grandmother was dying in the back room
It was drawn out, almost dramatic in its slowness
We sat in the stiff, formal den
Listening to the rasping that was Grandmother’s death
While outside the birds’ fluttering breaths
Become shorter and sadly shallow

The day of Grandmother’s funeral
Came bleak and pale
We mourned with the other attendants
Although we had already been grieving for some time
Returning to the house for sandwiches and tea
We headed to the back to check the birds
And there found them motionless
To comfort ourselves we said that it was meant to be
That the birds carried Grandmother’s soul up to heaven
But we know that this was not the circumstance
The birds’ wings remained stiffened to their bodies
Eternally frozen in ivory splendor

Dear Dad

Revised version of "My Tarnished Heart"

Dear Dad,

Missing you here.
How’s the weather?
Did you find Grandpa when he came?
I think of that night so often.
I want to know what you were thinking
Letting that drunk bastard drive.
What were you thinking in those last minutes,
Seconds, milliseconds of your life?
Did you laugh? Did you know?
…Did it hurt?
Its been twelve years now almost.
I don’t want the day to come
When you’ve been gone from my life
For longer than you were in it.
How do I explain to people
That even though the hurt is gone
It never is?
How do I keep a smile on my face
When I walk down the aisle on my wedding day
With my mom on my arm and not you?
You’ve missed a lot but if you came back
I’m sure it could be the same, or almost the same.
You’ve never been replaced, you’ve never been forgotten.
But I sure miss you a hell of a lot.
I sending this up to you on a wing and a prayer…
(Literally-I’m tying this letter to my pet bird’s leg)
Hope it makes it.
I wish I could hear you laugh again.
I won’t say goodbye, because I’ve already done that,
A few thousand times.
So…
I love you.

We shaped the landscape and the landscape shaped us

The apartment we live in is not a home
It is more of a transition point
Three years in the making, and counting
We reside on the ground floor
Where we can see the daily activities of others
Whether we like it or not
The guy that lives above us is strange
And his washer is unbalanced
And makes a terrible racket
It sounds like a buffalo
Is going to crash through the ceiling
But our dog barks loudly sometimes...
A lot of the time
So it's an even trade
Our neighbor to the left
Has a chipmunk living under his patio
I wonder if he knows?
We don't have room for all our stuff
So blue storage tubs double as a table
And the actual table doubles as a TV stand
And the table that doubles as a TV stand
Also doubles, or should I say triples, as a kitty litter box shelf
And the cat spills kitty litter
On our triple threat table
With his little kitty paws
But we laugh here, and enjoy time with friends
And we don't worry about spilling on the carpet
Or removing a door to play beer pong on
This is just one lily pad
In the pond of life

Red

It's a bright beginning-of-summer day
And the young girl is dreaming.
Dreaming of end-of-school,
Of lips stained popsicle purple,
Of splashing in the local pool.
She thinks of sleepovers with friends,
And camping with her family.
She walks home from the bus stop,
Not more than two blocks, on the sidewalk,
Under a bright green shade of tree leaves.
She waves to a man who waters his lawn,
As his dog barks from the backyard.

It's a bright beginning-of-summer day
And she doesn't know that this day
Will be the last of her childhood.
The end of boogie monsters
In the closet, and shadows
Lurking under the bed.
Her shiny chestnut child's hair,
Caught up in a high ponytail,
Brushes against the backpack on her shoulders.
The bright red backpack,
That will be all that is left,
To identify her body.

All he can see is darkness.
The plan is unfolding,
Just as his Other told him it would.
But the Other did not warn him
About the blindness.
Still, he feels safe, he knows, knows,
Knows,
The Other will help him,
Will guide his hands when the time comes,
If they are doubtful as they were last time.
Stupid doubtful hands, never listening
To him and his Other.

All he can see is darkness.
He drives down the empty street,
Wishing he could turn on his lights
To cut through the darkness.
But the Other says no, no we are close.
He pulls a small hunting knife
Out of the glovebox and cuts
Down the inside of his own arm.
Cleansing himself, making himself pure.
The darkness starts to clear
And he catches a glimpse of chestnut and red.
Blood red, and the Other says now.

Chapter One

Inspired by Joy Harjo's poem "Remember"

Remember the little moments in time-they are the most important.
Remember the caress of your mother's breath.
Remember the way the sky loks before a storm, purple and angry and beautiful.
Remember the gentle paws of small creatures.
Remember the feel of clean sheets, sliding smooth against your skin in the dark.
Remember the sound of your lover's laugh, candid and truthful.
Remember the final forlorn pile of snow, brown with spring.
Remember the feel of the first flakes of snow, melting on your nose.
Remember to say I love you, everyday, to everyone you love.
Remember to stop and watch horses run, and children play.
Remember the feel of a strong embrace from one who has been away.
Remember the lessons you have learned here in your place.
Remember the wisdom you have earned.
Remember that life is a succession of stories and this was only Chapter One.
Remember.

Drawing Dreams

Inspired by Brenda Jones' Artwork

Don't get heavy on me, Brenda
Your cake is almost done
A fish flies down from a world above
And becomes just another wrapped up thought
The table creaks under a bounty rich in abundance
A meal of kings, of queens, of a child
A child sleeps and draws dreams
While the pope, trailing white, climbs out of the picture
And leaning down, blesses her with a whisper