haiku: my living room is awash, a blue blue ocean
light shines cobalt blue
vases swimming on a shelf
a window open
light shines cobalt blue
vases swimming on a shelf
a window open
he grew up in the age of big families
thought himself a member of a tribe
with sixty-five first cousins
and a family reunion every year
where they measured themselves
at 74 he’s the second oldest
left in the third generation
he gets his info about births
weddings illnesses recoveries
on a smart phone text thread
death is singular and requires
an ear-to-ear call
spreads quickly among siblings,
across the country the tribe knows
and those who can will come
the old they honor
the not so old makes them aware
the young makes them mad
at god until a space of time
lets them see what they have had
this once homogeneous tribe
now diverse in unexpected ways
the sixth generation has arrived
another mystery for him to decipher
how the double helix flows like a river
I remember walking with you
That morning on the shoreline
Polyester shirt and rolled up dress pants
Crisp lines iron starched
To military perfection
Like always.
I’m not sure
Which I could see through more
Your old dress shirt
Or pale, cancer riddled skin?
Your tired, peaceful eyes,
Ready to go home.
You looked out at the ships
Like a man who saw
His long lost brothers out there
You drew in a deep breath
sighed out so deep and laughed
Even as a young girl
I knew whatever you came here for
You were ready and…
You were leaving with it.
While packing last night, I spilled
her perfume. The bottle shattered.
Her smell everywhere. I picked up
the pieces absentmindedly,
thinking about the end of
my relationship with my partner
of 12 years. 13 if you count
the last one, which we didn’t.
But the smell of my dead mother
just kept infiltrating the scene.
Her getting ready in crushed velvet
lighting mixed with our first date.
What it was like to build a life with him
against the end of hers as it soured.
The heavy weight of what becomes us.
I chased tiny shards of glass along
the bathroom tiles. Picking up hair
in the grout. And I missed her.
And I missed him. And I missed the now
evaporating opportunity to wear
that damn perfume.
The stories we hold
Are what make us bold
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold
Yet here I sit
Taking my last sip
Only wanting more
Call me a whore
But my stories won’t bore
Because
The stories we hold
Are what make us bold
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold
Memories of men
Only hold the most sin
But I carry them within
This can’t be my win
But
I can save myself
Carrying all of the wealth
It may be affecting my health
Walking with stealth
Because
The stories we hold
Are what make us bold
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold
We are so strong
We write all the songs
We are what you long
For on these nights
I’m tired of the fight
Tired of making you feel right
Easier to just say goodnight
And await morning light
we always watched them
after the sun had drifted
and the sodium lights
buzzed on through
the town already closed
she’d take her seat
at the edge of the couch
while I sat on the floor
legs crossed
freshly bathed
yellow legal pad at hand
turning a Number 2
between my pruned fingers
her husband was a writer
worked in a green wallpapered
room with small mallards
in the pattern
she wasn’t my mother
not my grandmother
she didn’t have to be anyone
to a boy like me
didn’t have to let me come over
but she chose to be something
between those two things
to keep me alive
all these years later
my wife and I
can’t sleep without
them playing
the piano intro
swelling strings
between scenes
the comfort I find
in that wide shot
of that house
with the half moon
above
laying in bed
I feel home
and safe
and perfect
Forget the insistence on Evil in Camelot
12: Assassin’s Creed Origins (Ubisoft)
in those early days undarkened
i was the daytime back then
it’s wrong to look at dead sons
and early covid numbers and remember
what was the good in the blooded desert
it’s wrong
and i am the silent wake
lessness in the night now
it’s hard to keep living with yourself
while the gardens are rebuilt and the lighthouses and the grains of sand
but you get to
I feel blank today,
chasing ideas for poems
then forgetting them,
none blooming.
I am caught up
in memories and worries,
tangled in
regret,
desire,
hope.
Soon,
I will face
another blank page,
trying to rewrite
a story
from a different POV,
attempting to create
and to salvage
a little bit of this day.
