Must I bridle my confidence
because a shining star
is different from a sun beam?
Must I limit my enthusiasm
because a guffaw
is different from a laugh?
Must I restrain my humor
because corny
is different from funny?
Must I limit my sharing of knowledge
because a know it all
is different from a giver of wisdom?
i should not have been so happy for a cold snap
that last week of may in kentucky but i knew
i’m not okay / not yet /i can finally say out loud
in my heart / in my soul / deep in the marrow
of my bones i wasn’t ready to spend more than
15 minutes of any day on that porch by myself /
alone with my thoughts / just me and my coffee /
i’m not okay / not yet / i should start doing better
deadheading the pink knockouts we got last year
at the home depot / or tending the mums we bought
to support the softball team and planted on a whim only
for two of them to survive / revive / return this year
i’m not okay / not yet / i’ll just let myself wonder
which color of mums will sprout like it matters / it doesn’t /
i need to go to sunshine soon and pick out the impatiens
you loved in almost every color but i’ll do it alone without
your discerning eye & argumentative acumen in the car
to convince me that we need to have both pink and salmon
i’m not okay / not yet / i will be fine & the garden okay
i saved eggshells for months / collected their broken bits
in the plastic pork rinds barrel / same as the one we store
white half runners in for shucking / i’ll bake & grind them
[the eggshells / not the beans] to feed the soil this weekend
or maybe spread the chores out over the next week / breathe /
i’m not okay / not yet / i can only guarantee
i’ll take plenty of breaks to rock on the porch / pray / listen
to the grackles & jays / windchimes / watch the house finch
& family who’ve made their home in the license plate bird house
we hung outside dad’s window so he would have more to watch
than the day’s drifting clouds /the night’s twinkle of stars
i’m not okay / not yet / someday
How many stories have been told?
Imagine one for everything that has ever been made–
one for every empire that stood strong,
and one for every piece of dust it eventually crumbled to.
Imagine the number nestled deep
within each living creature’s mind–
hundreds and thousands of treasures
for each one-in-a-million being.
Then ask yourself,
how many of those stories
have been listened to?
Our only records of how we’ve gotten
to where we are,
these intangible ideas
more valuable than all material objects put together,
that we tune out,
treat as background noise–
the soundtrack to more important things.
And how many of those stories
have been forgotten?
Lost forever to wherever abandoned ideas go,
with all the other words
that didn’t take root deep enough
in the minds of tomorrow.
Too much history has been lost,
erased simply by ignorance–
the most destructive weapon of all.
And still, how many stories are left unsaid?
Never given the chance to be remembered,
kept under lock and key
by twisted tongues and sealed lips
until death takes them
along with their keeper.
Can they be considered “erased”
if they were never written down to begin with?
Each person is their own history book,
with the responsibility
to share their stories and receive others.
The question remains–
how many stories are there,
but if things were different
how many more could there be?
Why do you watch the koi swim
in smooth circles, playing
peek-a-boo with the lily pads?
It’s only a small pond, trimmed
in blue tile, not a crystal ball
to help you decide what to do.
They do this all day, but, you
have no spare time to stall
which way you’ll choose.
Another blood-orange, tired leaf
spirals down from the maple,
dances on the cold water.
Here by the kitchen window, I plunge
my hands into the dish suds, briefly
consider coming out to join you.
Instead, I watch you watch the fish
shimmer like the MRI back-lit, the scan
circling your mind now like your koi.
We were bred to be social creatures, preying on the facets of our own lives, but as of recent, these facets became important enough to share. Sometimes even more important than anything else.
I can tell you it’s quite comparable to your neighborhood kid lifestyle.
You know, the grass that paints your feet green.
The driveways that paint your knees red.
The filters that shape your memories.
The friends that adhere to your brilliant suggestions of hiding and seeking and bike rides. The followers that were always by your side.
The fresh soap that dissipates the chalk dust on your hands, almost as sweet as the refresh button.
Social media allows us to befriend more neighborhood kids with cooler ideas and better smelling soap.
May your grass be greener this season, and your amazingness be authentic.
His home was recreated in proper historical fashion
But he remains stone
Chained Set in the corner for observing
Imagined in ‘90s animation
Looking after the shelter
Holding down the fort
At night he storms with the ghost
Of Harry, being old and tired
Still placing stones in ‘70s t-shirts
And still honoring knights of outsider teenagers
But when morning comes
A frozen time begins to relive
For all that was rebuilt and soldered
For the eyes of only the eccentric
Will even notice him
Some castles are built
On the edges of oceans
And some are built
On the edges of streams
Some are built by serfs
And some are built by children
Harry’s castle is probably
A metaphor
Or maybe an allegory about getting old
But my head hurts too bad
To connect those dots right now
In the west
long beams form a giant staircase
Sun streams through treetops
A bright burst around it
rainbow colored glory
Light swords
The telephone wires glow white
like morning spiderwebs.
Never has a painter more admired
the contrast of the telephone lines
against the Heavy Horse Lawrence
and the outlying cemetary,
undeveloped
perhaps out of respect
or because the train tracks there divided
“Irishtown” from Lexington
the Have-nots and Haves have halved
their husks fallen outward and sprouted
Vestiges of their beginnings linger
At this moment
the sky is turquoise, grey and a peach
which fades to white
perfectly reflecting their colors in negative
on the two houses below
Their creamy flanks
clothed in shadow.
My House
and all those in it
and Travis’s house.
I think of how the house
(somewhat hinting at
a Dutch circus vibe),
and all the people in it,
are all of my greatest gifts
within an eggshell.
Isaac got a paper
and now this is a house of crossword fanatics,
leaping upon the fresh 3 am paper
in it’s thin yellow wrapping
So many obsessions upon obsessions.
Right now I am thinking
of squeezing in an hour
before the sun sets
capturing the moment
on a large, square canvas
the orange light dancing
on the clouds and old double chimneys
next door
looking like a Lego piece
wish I knew the proper name of it-
and also of these ornamented cornices
They are a fan like, wooden decoration
in the pointiest bits
There are also 3d checker squares
and book looking scrolls
on the lateral
and above the tall windows
Certainly colored as one of the best Hoppers
But I’ve chosen today
to be a poet not a painter
although they are the same
each word a brushstroke.
The paint is like the words
I like very much using the least
amount of words to say something,
but at other times I speak volumes
on more abstract subjects
like feelings, observations,
almost as fun
to have as to share
Making a painting
is like studying a poem
that was given to you
by the smartest and most kind
person you know.
Even now,
it glows orange
long after
I have finished this poem.
