Posts for June 21, 2020 (page 2)

The first shelf above the desk of the secretary
Barely droops under the weight of my Berry
& Manning & Walker & Worley
My Finney & Lyon & Wilkinson
You occupy the second and third ledges
with Waters & Steiner & Schumacher
& Greene on Greens & Root Cellaring
& Secrets of Mustard & Art of Vinegar
& The Scythe Book & actual stones & mosses
& lichens & jars of mystical rain.  Your shelves
Break the law of gravity with GRAVE MATTERS
(A Treatise on Natural Burial)…What have I
Accomplished today sitting here at my writing
Desk while you tend your extended garden
Placed right outside this sliding glass door?
Your efforts will grow while mine may collapse
And cover me with a spade of empty page  

calm as a frozen forest
cool as a classic car
collected as a jury in a courtroom
personable as a plush blanket
witty as balloon animals
persistent as a landscape sculpted over time
welcoming as an overdue vacation
true as the earth, moon, and sky
loving as peanut butter is to crackers
folksy as bluegrass music
constant as a Swiss-made timepiece 
amiable as a temperate, sunny day
clever as a hidden passageway
genuine as Mr. Rogers
marvelous as a world wonder
protective as a lion over his pride
smart as a completed 10,000 piece puzzle
well-meaning as a dog wagging his tail
important as the air we breathe
honest as a microscope 
fun as a surprise party
reliable as the sea lapping the shore
fortified as Fort Knox
sincere as the ocean deep
complex as an intricately spun web
mysterious as the universe
useful as a public library
lovely as fine china 
private as a tinted limousine 
loyal as the morning horizon
real as a garden fresh tomato 
handsome as hospital corners
prized as a perfectly selected trifecta
grand as a superhero
compassionate as listening ears and a closed mouth
patient as the top of Mount Everest
gentle as a breeze
understanding as a bandaid on a blister
comforting as rain on a tin roof
strong as the Hoover Dam
fierce as an erupting volcano
interesting as a well-used metaphor
reasonable as an umbrella in the rain
loved by his family more than he knows
adored by me ❤️

What if Jacob wrestling with the angel had been narrated like a WWE match?
Was Ivan more terrible than Catherine was great?
If Einstein had lived long enough to form a rock band, would he have named it The Unified Field Theory?  Or is it all relative?
Would anyone buy vegetarian Spam?
If there is more than one sign that says “The buck stops here,” where is the final stop?

I apologize for the one about Einstein.
Does that square everything with us?

I cut my brother’s hair today
preceded by a lifetime of not letting me touch it
He’s not tender headed, but I’m tender palmed
so I mostly danced around
trying not to make him regret asking me
I did alright
No bites from the clippers 
and we heaped the leftovers over the porch railing for the birds
or to freak out the neighbors with 2 pounds of stray hair
But don’t get too excited
I’ll probably never be fully allowed to touch it ever again

the boy is mercy, mercy
roll from bed to floor,
carpet tack and legoes under heel,
boy is armpit sweat, itchy legs,
call the doctor, wreck of bed
and bedclothes, boy is undies,
shine of legs, straight of spine,
hands and knees, back a table,
airplane, bumblebee, left, dance,
dive, boy is a unison groan, blood
spilled out on the paving stones 

boy is shade and shadow, face half
swallowed by street-light,
boy is disappearing round the corner,
skateboard roamer, boy names
the neighborhood raccoon,
palms a dried up turtle,
rescues baby robin from sidewalk,
his palm is still, holds it, showing, 
boy tells a story
endless and nonsensical, boy laughs
in the middle of every room, 
boy made of stick and elbow 
scar tissue, knee,
boy in bare feet
face full of janky teeth

boy still whispers,
i love you mommy,

boy tender, boy tired,
boy asks for singing, a song through wire
my voice he wants to hear me, 
asks for fingers writing lines
on back, the finally still boy
sleeps without waking,

boy is night light until midnight
boy is nose in book, boy is bandana, beanie,
boy is knuckle, freckle, tickle, claw 
boy is soft exhale, is neck breath, 
is star shape, is swing

boys made of water, 
sometimes calm,
but mostly mystery,
sun slanting through his surfaces,

boy full up with summer,

some creature
some boys conjure

who he became
on his own

Once I knew a man. Let’s call him
Myself, like an invocation. Myself
storytold, alone with a room, its bare
baseboards, his deep/unyielding sink.

Myself sung to I, offered
to be honest. With the pointy sentiment
of great love, Myself built oceans
of chalk, clammered grief’s walls.

Myself played music loud
to muffle cacaphony. Myself,
a house I divided. Myself,
blue and gray as the sky.

Words

fall from

our mouths

like

a stream

of

nonsense,

carrying

pride

down the

twists

and turns

of

a

river,

like small

pebbles

that

loosened

from the

back

of our

throats

that

were dragged

out

by the

sheer

want

to be

right.

I’ve always

wanted

to be

right,

because

for the

longest

time

I’ve felt

everything

was

wrong,

but

if being

right

means

I’ll feel

as if

a drought

has withered

our

friendship,

I never

want

to be

right

again.

It’s Father’s Day, and I procrastinate
calling you, my father,
whom I love dearly, distant. 

Because I write,
one would think that I am good

One  

The war didn’t come to the streets of this city. Not this time. Perhaps another. Still, little boys dress as pilots, with wings on their tunics and pistols in the holsters of their Sam Brown belts. Serious-faced girls wearing nurses’ caps and aprons paint the flyers’ flesh wounds with food coloring before applying bandages. Nobody cries. Nobody dons angels’ wings. It’s just a game.  

Two  

The street is damp, littered by shattered apartment walls, overturned flower pots, the empty helmets of absent soldiers. This war is ending. A boy in dirty clothes and ragged shoes picks through a sprawl of broken rifles, while his sister examines a sewing basket thrown from the next street by a blast. Overhead, the latest occupiers change flags on the higher parapets and rooftops. There are ripples of cheering and impromptu celebrations.  

Three  

The streets are safe for civilians now that the guns are silent, the bombers made redundant. The clean-up is well underway, with rubble gathered neatly and papers checked for fugitives. Up the street, a man with a briefcase glances at the camera, as does a closer woman holding another man’s arm. Some things can’t be undone, set right, like his shattered eyes or the burn-scars distorting her left leg  

in her last hours
oxygen levels dropping,
my mother, blind for many years,
describes her hospital room
and gets the colors right  

secured in silence
the monitors and machines now turned off  

she feverishly leads a charge
up and over a mysterious hill, urging
her comrades to make haste  

now visits Camp Louise, lectures
her campers on how to use
their wood carving tools safely              

hears the Philadelphia orchestra, nods
to the music, but can’t tell me
the name of the piece    

she holds my hand, feels my ring   
   and in a voice clearly meant for a young child:    
      This feels very pretty, little girl.  Who gave this to you?  

My Mommy, I answer, thinking we are playing  

Ah, your mommy must love you very much         
      she says to the unknown child in front of her  

Yes, she does, I attest, while she slips further                     
Yes, she does