Posts for June 8, 2018 (page 7)

Early June Morning

I’m not one to:
get up.
grab a cup of Joe, and
go to the table to
gather myself around a newspaper,

I’d rather
go outside and feel poetry, think about
Guatemala and the thirteen year old
girl there who loves me for the hope I
give here daily.

For me, she promises to protect,
generally, two things: her body,
given the fact that is becoming a woman;
guarding her brain, a vacuum, sucking in all things
great or small that surround her.

On this morning, I water a small
garden of eight potato plants,
seven tomato plants, and tulips
gone dormant to produce
bulbs.

I pull crabgrass from an American Chestnut,
gravely endangered, seedling,
one of twelve seeds to sprout. It is more
fragile than Dayana, the young
Guatemala girl who cultivates her own

garden with seeds of hope.

What becomes
of sneakers worn through?
Of tattered t-shirts
or musty old caps?
Do they live again
in fresh threaded cloth?
Do we glance them once more
on our carefree young cousins?
Can they be viewed through the glass
of some distant consignment shop window?
Or do they wallow in piles
in trashbins
in waste ridden mountains
smeared by old age
and just out of sight?

between the galaxies– 
darkness, beyond our imagining.
the galaxies themselves,
tiny islands of light.

what we call “matter”
is only 4% of the volume–
the rest of the universe
is this unyielding darkness.

darkness is not the absence of light.
it is the absence of matter–
a void of tragic emptiness.

yet, i am filled with light.
surrounded by darkness,
yes.
still, i am filled with light.

sometimes the light
burns–
heat in my heart
warming my lips
and fingertips.

sometimes the darkness
creeps
over my soul,
attempting to estinguish
the flickering light.

always, there is hope.
so long as there is 
even a little
light,
there is hope.

i will stay in the light
as best i can
and leap away
from encrouching
shadows.

come with me.
we will stand
and fight
the bitter night.

two lights are better
than one.

Picking People  

The text message
from an unknown sender
read: OK…it’s officially
official… Olivia has BAD
taste in men!  

Olivia is my daughter.  

Like I did not know this? Duh.                 
          Thanks for the FYI, I replied.  

I texted Olivia to ascertain the mystery’s identity.  

Then I began to surmise;
picking men, people,
is like picking out a racehorse,
finding a needle in a haystack.
Nobody wants the parrot-mouthed,
the cribber or club footed
four legged speed machine.
All the big money spenders
want the royal blood,
the perfect conformation,
the well toned, the muscled,
the booty luscious long-legged,
modelesque hay munchers.
This fact alone is not supported.
Many of these high dollar
pedigrees never make it to the winners
circle, foal or sire greatness
or amount to more that a piggy
bank with a hole and no stopper.  

No matter how hard we try
we need to develop an eye
we need a gut to weed out the nuts
we need to play with the ones that never pay
in order to find the gems
hidden amongst all men.

Will entropy find her place?
Lie down and rest her weary face. 
Granting me time with you
Before these days are through. 

wō-un 
tee-ew
thray 
fō-er 
fav
seeeeeeeks
say-vun 
ate
nan 
tee-un 

The idle thoughts of the house
coalesce each week along
the baseboards, expressing
themselves in subtle collections
of lint and dust and mammal hair
according to the prevailing 
currents of the HVAC. If left
unswept they would quickly
become small herds of indoor
tumbleweeds.

After many years of living
here I have observed them
gathering in the exact same
locations for what I assume
 are the exact same reasons.

Which is, of course, like all
the other things in my life
that require repeated
and regular attention
until, one by one,
they no longer matter.

How many look at the world and shake gray heads,
comfort themselves by thinking that soon they’ll be dead?
How many look at the liars on TV screens,
wish for a gun they could load and fire, unseen?
How many look at volcanoes and hurricanes,
wonder if calendars show how much time remains?

a red crocodile duffel bag
from bath and body works
I used for my first church retreat.
inside it smells like
Lucky Charms and lemon toilet spray

“Kids’ Adventure Bible”

size medium shirts dad bought for me in case
I come down from 
an xl

I can’t let go of my first webkinz
but I’ll let go of the second

and

an empty plastic crate and some limp file folders because last night I recycled almost all the school work I’ve hoarded since kindergarten and I know I know I just know

am I shriveling?

You impish, blonde-headed,
bowl-cut wearing four-year-old
with blue eyes big as Neptune.

You baby boy who’d chase
his sisters around the kitchen
table, bump into them, knock
into your waiting food, run off
without noticing you spilt
spaghetti on the floor.

While you scurried to other
rooms, your mama scraped
sauce from the linoleum,
shoveled noodles back into
a warped Tupperware bowl,
scooted her untouched plate next
to your favorite chipped mug,
placed the container of tossed
pasta in front of her and called
y’all to supper before it got cold.