Conga critters at bedtime
Well, who do we have here?
Dino on a tricycle
Princess pulling tail
We have Garfield,
and fruit striped suit cat,
quail and cow are in the line
ponies on parade
Beastie and bestie
makes no difference here
step up in your pajamas
join this motley crew
from one end of the bedroom
dance along the queue.
Allow for her to swing
In the fresh air
Teach her to pump
Without needing a push
Teach her to jump
From the highest point
Teach her to land
On her feet
And when she comes to you
With her heavy heart
in her hands
Believe her
when she tells you
that she’s hurting
Believe her
when she runs
to you frightened
Believe her
when she confides
in you
She is yours
To Protect
Do so
With love
flaming pears
of wisdom
or was it pearls
sage insight
tiny piece of plastic
house?
bob?
we must have lost it in translation
kicklines are encouraged
but never required
the international space station
passes every 90 minutes
now, time.
. . / . – . . / – . – –
we don’t need artificial light,
our eyes adjust
ripest, juiciest, most succulent
you always have a helper
in this story
never alone
when do we adjust
to this tradition without your cadence?
tradition carries on
your wife:
sharing words of hope and peace,
serving others,
telling your famous tale
your daughter:
enthusiastically singing,
sharing poetry,
laughing along
it’s easy to hear:
the trumpeting in the distance
the smell of a sweet cake
you are never far
I’ll put on the coffee,
strong enough to chew
We will wait near the fire
for your signal;
a naval salute
to really go mad:
listen to the rhythm
and see rightly
for life:
(et. al.)
thank you
I.
dear seattle,
i look at myself and my hair is shorter
my fingers have grown longer
from a missing pearl of a ring
probably curled somewhere behind
a bus seat pooling in rainwater
II.
dear seattle,
i look at myself in my round mirror
in my new round golden glasses
perched over my snake plant
those different boys watered while
i just watched. i saw other boys O.D
in the burrow of the patisserie
and i just watched.
i hope that is okay.
III.
dear seattle,
my first friends here all left
before winter came. so i bought
rope, wheat-colored, soft as butter, and tied
it around my calves and thighs
building pressure into blue
if no one could hold me
down, i would, i would.
IV.
dear seattle,
i glared at a man i held
the door for yesterday
ungrateful like some mosquito
taking my blood leaving me
without a good itch.
thank you you’re welcome thank you
you’re welcome thank you goodbye
V.
dear seattle,
nothing has ever felt mine
even the ferns that are so kind
even the tall buildings i hide
a western set in mist
give me southern, give me thunder, give me bliss
I can strap you with a utility belt,
arm you with karate classes,
teach you 20 different chokeholds
(or, at least, find YouTube videos)
to protect you from the dangers
of monsters and
knife-wielding psychos
out there.
But I can’t protect you from
your genes,
the family history we don’t know,
the emotions that come from
being a teenager,
feeling like your parents don’t understand,
couldn’t ever understand,
and not having a tool on that belt
to protect you from all the barbs,
all the thorns and hidden shrapnel
that seek to rupture and slice you
from within.
this year i said
my poems would
focus less on you
and me, and more
on the way things
are outside of us,
like smells and
tastes and sounds.
but then i heard
your voice, tasted
your presence and
smelled your stupid
fucking hair gel.
at least there’s
always next year.
