I spent two and a half hours
conversing with a former student
about school and art.
We spoke of spirituality, 
Number the Stars, the 
importance of a smile.
She recalled class pets,
children with hamsters 
sleeping in the pockets. 
Her memory of being validated,
of knowing she was seen,
of knowing that her thoughts
and feelings were important,
led her to reach out to me
to ask for my input
about writing for her future.
I am honored and humbled
to be a positive memory,
a guiding influence
in the heart of this beautiful
human being I once taught.

6/11/2024
KW

Sagging walls and dust encrusted figures of my life,
Sweet smelling greenery, painted poems,
Drapery gluts sprung from the need to have
so much diversity
I hope it all pleases you,
This thinly stretched appreciation
I only care for you all so well,
Some of you sit unused
trickled down in to un-trod spaces
Moss covered, bramble netted
Dim hollow places
inside a moist log-
full of wondering or woeity
can’t solve these problems
of unhappiness in the world
though we do feel it so intensely-
It’s about time I knew what to do with you
But until then, wait for me after the fair
Wait as I take my fling
off to the next thing
Will I see you one day
unearth your opulence
Or care enough to
release you
wondering was it enough?
Until then,
keep waiting

with the day’s end
a dark evening before the stars
lying in the hammock 
going over the failures and missed
opportunities to be a better father
trying to guess the next right answer
I look across the yard
to see my wife
framed in the sliding glass doors
as she looks out at me
fireflies lilt upward between us
I don’t have to see her face
to know she is lovely

The first time I walked in the rain

Without fear of getting wet

Was the day I realized

My skin would dry

That the rain would not be a hindrance

I would not be destroyed by the droplets

Nothing would be ruined

My day would continue as normal

Maybe I would feel renewed from the sky

Maybe I could change my outlook 

No longer cloudy days

But maybe hints of sunshine

And even if rain would arrive again

No fear would arise 

From the possibility of getting wet 

Pace  Fidget  Spit  Wipe

Scratch  Adjust  Look-in  Shake-off

JUST THROW THE DAMN BALL

dad says there was good money
in newspapers around the coal camp
they’d pass them
in mornings, after sunup
after fathers took the mantrip
then collect enough
in exchange
to buy stuff they
really wanted
that you couldn’t
usually get
up a holler
nohow

Those nights on the porch
The lightning bugs
The frogs
The plastic Family Dollar chair that’s been passed down for generations
That look in her eyes
I don’t even remember if we talked
The silence was prevalent
The smoke from her cigarette floated off
She’s a teenager
I’m a little kid
I waller on the old wooden couch rocker
I pet my dogs
I hope she changes the world
Everybody’s wrong about her
But she ran away instead
I sit in the backseat
It’s dark
I transport to a midnight porch-sit
The bright yellow light, the old farmhouses siding
Then I hear
The muffled banter of threats, tears, confusion
I worry but I hope she escapes
They’re wrong about her
They always were

Imagine the world is no bigger
than a peephole—its diameter
eclipsed in your curious pupil.
What do you see, O god of the
unopened door? Can you make out
the square lights in poppyseed
windows, boats the size of safety pins
blown gently across the blue? And
what do you hear, so far away from
the restless hums and laughter,
the birdsong, bombs and beeping,
breathing machines connecting minds
in their absence? What sound rises
above it all? Prayer? Anguish? Silent
goodbyes that take years to say? 
And if you blink, does that count
as a day—sun folded between eyelashes,
shattered moon floating in a glass gray
iris. Pressed against the convex lens,
humanity must be a distorted image.
Little wonder, then, no answer comes,
despite the knocking.

I’ve tried to shed this skin I’m in
Time and time again
It grows back, thicker
It grows back, stronger than ever before.
One day, maybe someday soon,
I’ll bid my farewells to this shell I live in.
I’m always reaching.
I’m always searching.
Longing for something here.
One day, I’ll believe it was worth the time.
Worth every ounce of happiness, loneliness,
the regrets,
the anger,
the fears.
Worth all the pain, and all the love,
excitement,
disappointment,
and tears.
I’m waiting.
Patiently I lay here and rest my head.
I’m waiting.
No longer unsatisfied with this life I’ve lead.
I can almost see it.
Just beyond the months, the time.
I can almost feel it.
Retracing the memories in mind.
I’m waiting.

I lay on the table,

breathing deeply,

probably more calmly

than the last time I was here.

Not that I dread the pain any less.

I want the relief

but not the process to get there.

The shape of relief

can be many different things:

a doctor who is knowledgeable

and gentle,

the news that surgery is not needed,

a more powerful medicine,

a promise of healing

in weeks,

sooner than later,

an afternoon with my girlfriend

eating pizza and playing Pokémon

and breathing easily.