American Sentence LXI
A young girl, neck graced with red-inked bats, screams John Proctor IS the Villain.
A young girl, neck graced with red-inked bats, screams John Proctor IS the Villain.
generous mist sweeps hillsides,
setting off rain crow moans
until clouds lift toward sun,
which beams down-holler
pushing droplets into bows,
their pale remonstrance
a mask of these mountains
and their meaning
I didn’t die, just stopped crossing off the days. There’s a difference.
What’s the difference?
I said it. I declared it. I know it.
The difference is I come back, write, write, write.
All the little birds in my head,
even with their broken, skinny wings,
flap and squawk.
Write, write, write.
You’re poisoning yourself.
No, I’m not.
Am I?
Is that why I feel so sick all the time?
There’s no gray in the world I have not touched. Not an eraser,
but a brush with a drop of water on the very tip.
Damp bristles. Washed out, stealing color that hasn’t been sealed.
Hasn’t been given time to seal.
Is it my fault?
If only you knew beforehand.
Only if you did it with your own hand.
I did. How do I apologize?
Best to just leave it.
Leave.
Killing has no forgiveness. Suck the life out of something
and look at it after with all the guilt you can muster.
Did it change anything?
No. I only felt worse.
Maybe you should.
sip the morning’s coffee hot and black
only from the smallest mug
else the bottom half grow cold
nap and
call out upon waking
that you can no longer see
wave at the woman
wearing a red hat
who is really our coat tree
laugh at the height
of the ceiling
in our “hotel”
cry when we
bathe you, dry you,
change your clothes
sleep and
dream of your children
as children
forgive us
for knowing these hard days
won’t last for long
Life’s blessings often come unexpected and unannounced.
This morning, my dog is extra affectionate.
I savor the feeling of her in my arms,
the comforting weight of her,
as I scratch her ears
and rub her belly
and tell her how loved and wanted she is.
I do not know when I’ll get to hold her this long again,
pouring my love for her into every touch,
grateful for this spontaneous miracle.
Most ev’ry page of me
stained with loss.
Ink-pots knocked over
coffee-mug rings
footnotes in ballpoint
smudged in the margins.
I am not a manuscript
easily read
literally nor figuratively.
My dad left me when I was two
he’s not dead, or a horrible father
but how proficient can you be
in a job that takes consistent, every-day hours
from states away?
His dad left this earth,
and both of us
less than two decades later.
In my thirty one years
I’ve not gone five
without losing a life
without watching a family member die.
In one case
hearing his last breath
flow out in a sigh;
Superman hanging up his cape.
My first dog ran away
she’s dead or she’s stolen
another page in the chapter.
I built friendships
throughout elementary and middle
and lost most of ‘em
when I went cross town
for high school.
The ones in college were the same
I lost most of ‘em
when I moved home.
The ones I made after I lost
when I moved back.
A repeating theme
central to the story of me.
Every new stop
pages left behind
fluttering in the breeze
paper-thin butterfly wings.
Scars in the binding where they were torn out
on some
the writing too faded to read.
I’m not a sob story
a mournful song
a pitiable man.
Most ev’ry page of me
stained with loss.
I learned to be grateful for what I’ve had
and to recognize what I have.
It rained hard overnight,
which would usually rouse me, but
I slept right through it,
waking to roughed up trees,
disheveled leaves blown around the yard,
and power blinking in and out.
The little ephemeral stream
running along our yard
churning water funneled from the
confluence of hills up in our holler.
The air remains thick and paints
my face with a sheen of slick sweat as
I stand on the porch surveying the sky.
It’s still early, but cicadas already scream.
6/1/25
My granddaughter has taken
an interest in helping me write my poem.
We talk about metaphors, avoiding cliches,
point of view, implied meaning and focus.
This goes on for hours.
We get stuck on a line and she runs downstairs to ask
her grandmother to name a plant whose flower
lasts only one day. She comes back with daylily
6/8/25
At my desk
I find a piece of paper sticking out
of a pile of books.
A glance shows that it’s two poems
my grandaughter’s left me as a surprise,
the second written from the point of view
of her grandfather (me):
1) I wake up in the morning
to hear a hoot in the rise
of the sun and
a scream in the distant
woods then I think
as a fox is to stealth
an owl is to wisdom
2) My sleep is broken
by a loud squawk
high in the sky
followed by the thwack
of my grandson’s bow and arrow
my mind comes back
and I think to myself
an eagle is to freedom
as an arrow is to bravery
