[cornfields soaked]
cornfields soaked
with soft unexpected rain
I recall his touch
my iris-blue haired avatar
stares at me through green dragon eyes
and John Lennon cartoon glasses
…how the universe laughs
ryuka is an Okinawan form -syllables 8/8/8/6
This morning, I am an empty
coffee cup from Double Kwik
left on a graffitied picnic
table at the park
by the hardware store.
I am without lid
or lipstick print. There,
however, is evidence
down at the bottom
that I recently held
warmth that gave
someone else energy.
I tried to write today,
just like Mavis Beacon taught me.
Knuckles curled over asdfjkl;, my fingers at the ready,
but the keys refused to write anything of use.
I tried to write today,
just like Mary Oliver taught me.
I set my attention on high alert for something clever and true,
but nature withheld her cunning secrets.
I tried to write today,
just like Anne Lamott taught me.
How does one write five more poems before June’s end?
Bird by bird! Or is it word by word?
At any rate, I tried.
“You’re supposed to eat mushrooms
three times a week to prevent dementia.”
“But don’t you mean only specific mushrooms?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it is.”
I was about to lead with a temptation to play out a summer song’s verse
but it’s not like that
no carefree joy nor blissful bikini-clad splashing through salt water beaches with barbeques and sandy feet
those feel like a memory of a story I once read
when the forecast comes in with a solid block of 90s and your job is to
maintain redo renovate install fix pluck cast weed pick make store trim clean wash
continue again
the weather is no matter
I am poised between worlds
of multiple travels. Waiting
for another plane, I count a few choices:
to go with my cousin Gary
to Indianapolis, first time away
from home (and every night
I saw my folks saying goodbye);
the trip to Detroit to start college
seminary, hands in pockets,
ready for them to leave so the goodbye
could be over. Not homesick then
only a future with so much to learn
(and unseen the rumblings of anxious
fears waiting to creep up the wet brick
walls of the pile of medieval memory
when new laws, supposed sanctions
of the sanctuary took their shape);
fear and yes again to shape your life
with contours swelled from with-
in, with Him;
And on into days which
clatter in succession, revealing and
concealing their small surprises,
clefts in the cliff of vocation and answer—
like the day I put on Laurie Anderson
singing “Strange Angels”:
Big changes are coming
Here they come
Here they come
and drove north to what I wanted
to be when I grew up–
freedom and flirting
and film and friends for life;
And now
I’m an old guy saying one more big change–
to live in the ancient cloister where
scholars sleep in three libraries and
root where my family sprung,
knowing I will strain daily
to sort the puzzle pieces of
language and life without
the picture on the lid
and pray an eternal
city will be kind.
