Posts for June 15, 2023 (page 4)

(An early Fathers’ Day poem)

Almost never have a reason to drive Clays Mill Road anymore
but I sometimes take the detour coming back from work
just to pass by the old childhood home on Cecil Way
with its rock bed and three dogwood trees
right there on the corner.
Most people familiar with the area
know exactly the house I’m talking about
on the mention of those trees alone.

Part of the family for two decades,
my parents sold it in early 2016,
moving back to their Owensboro hometown
after a freak coincidence of both losing their jobs.
Going back was already the plan,
so they took fresh obstacle as a sign
to get it all over with in a few stressful months
and they are both the happier for it.

Those last couple of years were something special, though.
Of their four children, I was the only one still in Lex.
While I could have, and now wish I had visited more
I relished the opportunities to help out where able.
Particularly, it was a lot of yard for dad to mow
in the midst of a Monday through Friday car mechanic job,
but I always had at least one day off.
Two hours well-spent, punctuated every time by a thank you text.

There was also the rock bed around the dogwoods
where weeds would spring forward from between the rocks.
Dad hated them, but the challenge here
was a still unidentified allergy leaving him with rashes
every time he tried to clear it out.
I noticed the weeds as I passed with the mower one day,
thinking what’s another half hour of work?
That was a text I very much looked forward to.

Except that one never came…

It was a challenging evening, but I gave benefit of the doubt;
I’d be right back to the mower next week
as if nothing had happened.
But the next day, I forget why,
I ended up bck at the house for a visit.
Dad met me in the driveway
first thanking me in person for the lawn.
Now he had another favor to ask.

He walked me into the yard, saying
As you know, I have a hard time with these weeds…
Voice trailed off, blue-screened expression on his face
gazing at the rock bed.
Surprise, was all I said.
He shook his head and laughed,
well alright then. Thank you, son.
The joy in that moment!

I don’t get those moments much now from afar,
but I know the times will come back around.
One benefit of him being back in Owensboro
is he gets to help his siblings with their aging father.
Someday he’ll be the aging father
and I’ll be the son moving home to help how I can;
the cycles of growing up and growing old.
Maybe I’ll even mow the lawn again.

Shrouded by mist, now, 
Its surface is a mirror, 
Reflecting the trees. 

Drowning is an art
disappearing in the depth,
you’re still, the world falls apart

Fire is controlled
freezing causes you to break
human murder, too commonplace

In the center ocean
you are encased in mercy
no one to hold back the tide

Nothing to save you
diving down, not possible
no other force in control

You can just let go
No need for any goodbyes
You can just die

A wind cools my cheek
and I call it my gentle angel.
Another wind blows hobo B.O.
into my face, and I curse it as I curse
the drink that made me flush and faint,
though the previous drink filled me
to the brim with confidence and joy,
and I called it my dear friend.  

I don’t know what holds me together
from what blows me to pieces.  

A company I worked for got sold
to a bigger company in the World Trade Center
in 1997 and everyone was so scared
to get downsized, you’d have thought
the water cooler had been spiked
with downers, but in September 2001,
the Times listed the dead by employer
and I learned that all my co-workers  

had indeed been downsized,
and thus spared.

it’s amazing how difficult it is
getting away
the whole of it, even in parts, is always so close
a word or two away
a mention of a name
places I’ve been and continue to go
even though it’s all so different
now even though it was before as well
why does it seem a lifetime ago
but also yesterday
I’m coming around to my previous self
or maybe a new and improved version
yielding, all the while moving forward
not taking time to regret
and trying not to remember
except early morning before anything
it’s impossible then
that time between
which is probably what it always will be

My name is dragged out to the ocean
buried under crabs and relics.
I find a new name in the corners
of every rose’s delicately twisted lips,
every gull’s wings knifing gray sky,
every foreign flag I am blessed under.
My tongue coils like algie, replaced
by your snaking fingers with something
better, an empty snail shell. 

Guilermo waits at home for you
on his side, a solider wounded
bleeding saltwater. He is a wonder,
stuffed with sand, a monument of
Normandy. Her coast curves into ridges 
down his spine. Her angels gather here,
underneath her dazzling northern sun, 
as he is waiting to die a good death,
as all good men must.

Two dead fish, my heart
and his body. Beached
on a new continent,
alone peacefully.

dream one: a prose poem

you visited my dream. stood in the kitchen plundering the cabinets, found a pack of ramen, and asked, can i have this? dry chicken flavored noodles hung limp in your hand. confused i think, but you are dead, yet there you were, grinning wide, shaking your dreadlocked head at the statement i never said. you look at me, love like a small child’s in your eyes. but you were quiet as a tomb. i had one question. i asked you, “are you here?” 

you, my boy whose ashes sweep the depths beneath the gown of a waterfall. my now sleeping, never waking, slumber taken boy. are you here? i reached for you, but you had passed. way beyond my grasp.

you strolled down the hall, ignoring your brother on the sofa, and i, as desolate as a burial ground, asked my only living son if you’re here. but he was silent, so i rushed behind you, not ready to lose you once again. “are you here?” the words chase you down, but they faded in the air, and like a last breath they were gone.

i could not get to you, so close. you’re weren’t even a ghost, headed to your sister’s room. that endless hall. how many miles long? you were out of my reach, you, looking solid like a rock of a boy, thrown to a shore far away from me. “is he here?” i asked your sister. but she was quiet as death. then you were gone. 

i bolted awake, bursting through the sepulcher of sleep, my hand flying to my racing heart. this gesture of a mother bereft who has lost her son, even in her dreams. 

and you were not here.

i spend a lot of time worrying

about what could be

about what couldve been

its not the best way

to live

sometimes i wish i could

shut off my brain

be a kid again

no responsibilities

no cares in the world

just me and my curiosity

going about my days

not worrying

about the way i look

about the way i act

about the people who ive cut off

maybe if i spent less time worrying

i’ll see a little clearer

Your body, to me, told of your strength as a woman, a testament to your achievements and all you gave up 

If I could rewrite
all the letters I sent you
I would say sorry.