Padre

"The dust by your side,

Has tried to catch a ride on your pantleg.

Papa?"

Straw hat blocks out the sun,

The meaning of a man,

The calluses on his hands.

We are so little in the shadows,

Of the trees that grow up with us.

"Papa?"

A.N.-If we are men, let us be men now.

Hiroshima, August 6, 1945 (Morning)

He turned to her

He drank in his life with her

His love and what not.

Ra Ra Ragamuffin

When they see,

Before anyone else,

What we all were supposed to be waiting for,

The prophets will weakly blow,

Through cracked skin and lips,

Weak and warbling notes,

And we will look up,

And look in the higher places,

The mountains and old trees,

But we foolish,

Ashamed,

Will not look into your eyes,

Or feel your body,

Until we can do nothing,

SitStandFloatFlyDrownDie,

But say we're so so Sorry.

Felis catus

Recently, as part of a pact, albeit a small one, I was assigned to write a rondel. So, naturally, it turned out to be about my cat. The one I don't love. And my family doesn't love. So now I care about her more than ever. 

How Important her last days should be!

My fading cat pads down the hall,

Hard-breathing slow and shivering all,

Wondering when her time will be.

Poor senile feline is ambling towards me!

Me who cares least of all,

How important her last hours should be!

My fading cat pads down the hall.

Fragile head rubs up against my knee,

The dying only want company small,

Familiar and warm, quietly calm,

Over glazed eyes my own ending I see!

How vivid her last minutes must be!

Apology

So sorry,

For the funeral,

For the lowercase letters,

For my improper tie.

On the day I die,

Number those born,

Write it on my stone,

Remember.

SadLittle

Sad. Little. Like a peeled orange on the ground. Citrus Fingers. The squeeze of juice and pulp through teeth. Old hands don't understand. Not supposed to. But could. No sunset. Still ends. Old guard faded navy blue wiped over the skycolor. Black tree silhouettes. Instruments, strings moving silent. Old pictures watch over. Voices through the walls. Voices over distances. Not hate. Age. Repentance fruit. The steady ticking of a bedside alarm clock. Like a timebomb ticktocktick.

Morning. Defeats. All of them.
Morning will hold you. Cradled like newborn calves. And show you the mountainside draped in herself.

History

I was instructed to write about what I saw:

Once,
After many years alone,
After many dinners at restaurants alone,
An old man adopted a little girl,
Loved her like he loved his books,
Shelves and shelves of old spines,
That bent and creaked like his,
They were his brothers.
He would sit beside her bed and read,
Story after StoryafterStory,
Till he was sure she was dreaming.
And when she grew up,
He parceled out all the land he had acquired,
From being so old,
Ten acres given for every year he had a family,
And he separated them with crossing lines,
Of steadfast spruce trees.
In the coattails of youth and the height of beauty,
She began to steal away,
With her own lovers - like his books,
Each with Story after StoryafterStory,
Till she found her Story,
And sold all the acres of the old man's love,
But the one his house was on,
And as the year passed for him to give that away as well,
He tore through the old wooden floor,
And in the center of the room he planted,
The last of the trees he had used as borders.
Their roots sucked deep from his love,
And when the old man passed away,
Everything was left to her and her new family,
But the one spot where the tree grew.
Years added one by one,
Like so many coats of paint,
The old man's house was torn down,
The land used for everything imaginable,
All under the sight of the tree.
It saw a boy's first kiss,
A marriage,
A new condominium
An old condominium,
A seemingly endless strawberry patch,
And then nothing,
But the dew and those driving by,
On the old highway beside,
So in that way,
The old man who had been taken up by the roots,
Had many more families than he had ever imagined,
And he wasn't even sad,
When after too many years for anyone to care,
His last bit of love was torn down,
And used for more books,
Exactly like those he had collected,
And in that way he was full,
And nothing but thankful.

Days

If together our lives are not filled with glamour,
Endless passion,
Greatest sacrifice,
May our love collect like rain,
Refilling stone bird baths,
And may we dunk our heads,
When we need to,
And wash over with devotion,
Like so many childhood baptisms,
Till light fade,
And arms encircle,
Till Rest come.

Dunes

The running desert,
Calls with its chains and its toils,
To the desperately safe,
To take away pleasures,
And find another mind,
Like the crashing of cymbals,
Cacophonous bliss,
The lizards forking tongue splits open,
All you thought you knew,
The desert,
Mother of discovery,
Will bring you whatever you care to see,
When your bones offer up last,
The life that so strove not to cling.

Figure

To lay down,
In burning rain,
Under the deep red,
Rusting porch groans,
Muscles standing out,
Like tight-packed thread,
We're not even trying,
Resting here,
The fat rain falling through the cracks,
Decorating his highrise cheeks,
He who would die in the war,
A war we are to stop,
Or allow,
We are the verdicts,
On your children,
Your loves and futures,
And it feels so light!
Wading through decisions,
That breed tornados,
And we'll laugh until innocence,
Leaves tears where the rain fell,
As we watch from indoors,
The boys splashing in the streets,
With what they are just trying to figure out themselves,
We are just trying to figure it out ourselves.

Gentle Sheets

I love you,
It was whispered,
It was summertime.
They didn't think of cliche,
Or childish or awkward,
But of You and You,
Mixing and not losing,
Until We emerged with the smoke,
From the open flue.
And it wasn't a game,
It sat between them like a strange child,
Big-eyed and Indian-styled,
As their movements came together,
And expressed like adults,
What only children really understand,
As much as we do understand while we're here,
On this wonderful,
Busy.
Patient.
Close-eyed Earth.
I love you too.
The sparrows are beautiful.

Night Lights

When sleep comes,
We emit signals,
Out past the streetlights and into the sky,
That bounce off the atmosphere,
And find their way all over the earth,
To everyone else,
And in this way we feel everything,
One a bright red warm,
Another blue serene,
So before I go,
I thinkthinkthink,
So much about you,
So much I hope it threads through,
My whole message,
The secret language of why,
And who I am,
Then when you seefeel,
The threads of yourself in me,
We won't miss a beat.

MeandYou

The red wine,
Brushing against your unpainted lips,
Is my favorite part of the night,
Where we stay in and unplug the phone,
Grab strings and bows and places,
Music pushing out and over the balcony,
Spilling down the building and out the alley,
When our eyes aren't closed and wrapped in,
They meet in long sure vibrations,
Dancing while standing still,
This is why we survived this long,
This is how we were found,
This is meandyou.

Slopes

The slow curve,
Rises and falls,
Slows and bends,
Like the lightest trace of pencil,
On new sketchpad,
From faint to dark,
The feeling rises as the sentiment solidifies,
And the harmony,
Nothing broken,
Nothing left behind,
It's the love of two,
That draws and shapes,
Flaws and breaks,
Fade away in the bow and embrace,
Of us two.

Ear Test

A silence,
A silence,
Then all the strings at once sound,
Dane and mold and form new,
Waves that curve around and through,
Mothers sisters strangers salamanders,
Over rivers and into caves,
Circling aroudn the ears of elephants,
Emmas Elmers Elizabeths Edwards,
All the time,
We hear all these things,
Like static they join our frame,
Until we pause,
And then euphonious,
Glorious,
Glorias Geralds Harolds Hannahs,
Feel it,
And before silence a bit of the answer shows,
Draped and cloaked and vague,
But sure and certain,
To those who see,
Do you see?

Catching and Letting Go

The sound,
On an early weekday morning,
Of your breath flying out of your mouth,
(Too fast no time)
Yet it's so calm and measured and perfect,
Like the surrounding wind before it storms,
The grey sky and the sunset behind it,
The motionless fleet of cars in driveways,
And it all wants to drive up and stop,
RIght in my face,
The Big Thing it's gonna happen,
And you breath in,
And it all goes back to order.

I'll never get over,
How much you are when you're nothing.

Connecting Transit Lines

The lonely crowded,
Greyhound (trademark) bus line,
Runs down to Topeka,
And I take it between here and home,
Between here and reality,
Jostling right and left and up and left again,
Sleeping against a persistant metal window lining,
Strike up conversations in the day,
Like matches on the side of a Diamond (trademark) box,
To burn down in between the seats,
And smell for hours in the silence,
Every pretty girl that gets on is the right one,
Shaking my head doesn't make me any less caught up,
In hoping that what I see,
Moving in the trees outside,
On the license plates of cars beside,
In the bowl of light above the ticket window,
Isn't long gone here.

Property Value

Roundabout the room the pictures fade in and out.

They go white and dim with the clouds moving outside the windows. A black cat (the neighbors call it Shadow but it isn't theirs) watches through slits cut in it's green marble eyes a bird on the wire outside, then loses interest. Without any witnesses, the dust continues to float suspended above the end tables and gather on the furniture. In the upstairs, through the last door to the left, an old man lays straight on top of a made bed, like it's his deathbed. His hands lay folded on his stomach. His chin hairs begin to grow out from the morning's shaving. You can see them if you catch the slanting of the rays just right, like tiny white threads reacting to the day.

He is breathing.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He is a child at boy scout camp, and he has just seen a golden retriever for the first time, and it's slobber is beginning to dry on his dirty cheeks. He looks back to the parking lot at his father, who is proud. His father who wouldn't come back from the last World War. He remembers this, even though it hasn't happened yet, and buries his face in the yellow fur. 

In. Out.

In. Out.

He is finally out alone with the girl of his dreams. He's been loaned the car for one night only, and is taking her to see the last free concert put on by the state orchestra for the summer. On the way he passes by the black boys and their idling car tucked into a narrow alley so they can only open one side of doors. He knows a few of them, but more than that he knows the look in her eyes when she sees them. He drives faster, gripping the leather on the steering wheel and trying to find in his mind the grip and pull of the tires on the road, trying to outrun what has to happen. Still she looks back, in the side mirror before he turns the corner, and in silence the rest of the night passes, the stars blocked by solid clouds.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He is in church. He is right, closer, happy. He is outside on the steps. He is wrong, absurd, disheveled. He is on his knees in the hallway between the bathroom and the bed. He is crying, his hands rolling over one another like holy waves coming rising and receding from the shore.

In. Out.

In. Out.

They are fighting the night after her graduation. Her ceremonial gown lies irreverently on her bed, while she is out with old friends. She is yelling and his hands constantly throw up into the air, come down and feel through his hair. The hardwood resonates quickly and with precision to his shoes, and sitting on the stairs she looks through the spokes like prison bars. She looks unhappy. He looks down and fumbles the lint in his right pocket.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He uses the last of his retirement bonus to pay for a down-payment on her first house, and most of her marriage. She is going already showing promise as a resident. She is happy, and fulfilled, and full of beautiful mistakes. He doesn't sit with her mother like he thought he would when the day came, but they exchange benevolent tear-welled eyes, and that means something. That's very big. That's a good way to see one another for the last time before seasons displace and put oceans between.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He is walking the new sidewalk outside the grocery store going home, and across the lot in front of the Target is a marine still in desert camouflage. He is asking for money for a bus ticket home, saying he was mugged after returning from the war. People enter and exit the store without making eye contact, even as his voice begins to strain and his fist clutches around discharge papers, like so many losing lottery tickets.

In. Out.

A wife. A daughter. Thank you God.

In.

Out.

Out.

Downstairs the cat opens one green marble eye halfway.

Should You Ever Want Again

In the grass,

The lushness of your face half-concealed,

A world's worth of joy,

Compacted into two irises,

Of blended blues and greys,

And hands,

Lightly calloused and sunburnt,

The child come from us,

Standing three feet,

Fascinated by the sounds emanating from the bush,

And my watch wound down,

Frozen here,

In my dreams I continue unbounded.

Absorb

It starts,

It comes up like a gust,

First through the trees,

Then suddenly upon and over everything,

It starts with a closing of the eyes,

And a brief awareness,

Then forgiveness,

And a feeling of everything,

Of every grain of dirt in between your toes,

As they flex and curl,

Cherish this,

Cherish this,

And forget.