Box with green ribbon.
Label and disc.
I have never heard such silence.
Small aqua-knit cap.
White fabric with gray elephants.
Some faces will eat you alive with guilt.
Verify information.
Check, sign.
Some things you never unsee.
Ink pad.
Softly pressing
for perfect memory.
Delicate.
Painful.
Tears on a prep-table.
Shaking pen
Disrupted expression.
I have no words.
Same date.
Tears on a prep-table.
Rimed pumpkin puddle
Who knew that our son would turn into the young man
who shopped for us during the pandemic
who plants sunflowers
and cleans the litter box
and invites me to Kentucky Native Café
to widen my circle of friends
and suggests I sit too close to the computer screen
and sang harmony with me at his sister’s wedding
and shows his friends more largesse than he can afford
and cooks for his girlfriend
and practices forbearance toward the elderly
and for whom alone the cat purrs?
about the surface of a lake colored with fragile shadows of sky, trees in wind, an empty canoe knotted to a dock, long-necked geese, how happiness rises when I follow replicas bleach & bloom as sun sails in & out of clouds? And even better if the tree is a weeping willow with arching, drooping branches that sway narrow pale green leaves with dreamy silver undersides. Dreamy as fog on a lake in early morning—the soft fuzz, screen of dampness, veil of mystery.
1
There was a young lady from Berea
who flirted with a salesman from Ikea.
He showed her a bed
& asked, You give head?
She said Dude! You have no idea!
2
There once was a private from Fort Knox
whose tackle hung down to his socks.
He wasn’t the smartest
but his was the hardest
when he and his friends compared cocks!
3
There was an old lady from Harlan
whose name was Myrtle McFarlane.
She loved Conway Twitty—
once flashed him her titty,
to which he responded, Hello darlin…
to the elderly man mocking me
Sir, this is my first hill of the day
pumping your arms
marching your feet
will not make me pump harder
It’s not how fast I get there
It’s about my destination
here for the long haul
Climbing these hills forty years
Longer than cyclists here have lived
They don’t mock me
marvel at my consistency
I know every hill on this journey
when to down shift, coast or
shift to a higher gear
Seen many on my journey
through the years disappear
the slim woman walking in a dress
an old white man running barefoot
the black woman with many dogs
I wonder where they have gone
as others will wonder one day
where I too have disappeared
right now I’m enjoying the ride
focusing on getting to work on time
So much in Central Park to enjoy
the shade and diversity of many trees
beautiful landscaping of the grounds
flowers, meer, waterfalls, ponds
birds, squirrels, raccoons and toads
Figured out how to make an unpleasant
journey pleasurable so its not only the
destination its also the how I traveled
I ride at my pace on the road of my choice
Upon arrival I make that my own as well
These are the notebooks,
telling the future what trails
imagination has blazed
across the years, our lives.
These are the illustrations,
capturing the outlines of
faces, places, wonders
we have seen along the way.
These are the cartographies
from here or there to elsewhere,
the maps of love, children, wars
and peace, drawn from our hearts.
And this, my dear, this is the one
and only compass I have used.
No matter where I’ve wandered,
its needle pointed back, to you.
(after the undated and unattributed photograph,
“The Journals of Lewis and Clark,” in the
American Philosophical Society’s collection)
I am an alien.
Never realized it before.
But sitting here in church watching
A performance cheesier than anything this side of Green Bay,
Rolling my eyes,
While others watch in awe and reverence,
I realize I must be from some other planet.
I do not belong here.
I used to feel that this was my place,
Having cut my teeth on the back
Of an ancient oak pew.
Now it all seems foreign.
It has changed,
But I have changed more.
And I have read enough to know
I am not the only one.
I remember I once prayed aloud at 4 in the morning
Gazing upon the pink wisps of cloud above
I thanked God for cotton candy skies
And His Grace that was just as sweet
As I now drive down the streets
My hand out the window
Coated in pink light
I’m reminded of this prayer
And realize the irony
Of thanking a god
Who was used against me
A weapon
