Whew!

As Useful
April 30, 2008

I like to think of myself as useful.
I can cook a meal, wash a dish –
even swing a hammer if I have to.
I’m a good friend, a good listener,
an adequate scrabble partner,
and I’ll play (off) rhythm guitar
if you’ll play lead.

But for the past seven days
I have been greeted every morning
by a slowly blooming azalea,
shyly uncurling her petals,
coyly dressing green limbs in pink.
For another seven days, she will
dance like a sunset and then fade.
Yes, she neither works nor spins,
and I’ll do even less. I will be a
witness, nothing more.

Every morning for the last seven days,
and every morning for the next seven,
I will be reminded that, useful though
I may be, I am certainly not essential.

Gravity

In Science class they talk about gravity
as if it were a constant, as if life weighed
the same at a wedding as it does at a
funeral. They’ve even invented a
formula to prove they’re right.

Let them crunch numbers all they like,
everybody knows a quarter pound of beef
weighs more when you’re hungry,
and when the world feels gray, eating
ice cream takes off the weight. Feet,
of course, are heavier walking on sidewalks
than strolling in sand. And a heart in love,
we know, is lighter than a heart forlorn.

Trust me. I’m a poet.
I’ve got the formula to prove it.

Gifts

• One poem from a man who loves me
• A new display of my photographs which I never make the time to print or display
• A lock of hair "for you to remember me by when I move out" in a treasure box decorated in primo six-year-old style (move out? can I come with?) (oh, and please stop cutting your hair. She says she enjoys the feel of the scissors cutting hair. I must admit, I agree with her.)
• A collection of poetry from a budding poet (this was in the works evenings for over a month)

• and... a late afternoon delivery on a somewhat sunny day of a decaf iced Americano. Ahhhh.

I couldn't ask for more. Ed tells me that he has plans for a purchased gift but the first time he went to the store, he didn't make it in time for its limited hours and when he did make it, they didn't have whatever it was.

It doesn't matter though. These are exactly the gifts I needed.

A Blessing

Lord,
let my life be filled
with wonderful things,
like the magical
arrival of a goldfish
into a housecat’s home.

And Lord,
let me live with the
patience of my cat,
who can watch her pet
fish for hours on end –
eager, hungry, and amazed.

Happy Birthday, Boo'ful!

ways to say i love you
january 26, 2008

words, i suppose, would do
in poetry or song,
or in red sharpie on a bathroom stall

or flowers, perhaps, might work
hearty bulbs or fragile orchids,
maybe fiery roses, carefully shorn of thorns

some people speak in gesture
three quick squeezes or a pat on the bum,
a long, slow kiss, lazy as a summer afternoon

but the best way to say i love you
yes, the best way to say i love you,
is with tiramisu,

unasked for and unsuspected,
on a not quite icy january night.

Will You Be Mine?

as each event in my day presents itself,
i ask it: will you be my poem?

brave sun struggling through a film of gray haze,
is there a metaphor in you?

the impending doom of a hot, dry throat, help me
find your allusion. biblical or literary will do.

my wife and child, my daily habits and routines,
will you be symbolic for just one more day?

and as each event in my day presents itself,
it tells me no. and no. and no.

sometimes, the only way to write your poem
is to just shut up and live it.

Spring Cleaning

Yard sales bloom
like dandelions:
ubiquitous, invasive,
yet somehow
charming.
Neighbors litter
their lawns
with clothes that
don’t quite fit,
furniture that’s
functional though
slightly chipped,
impulse buys
that can’t be returned.
By Sunday afternoon,
their pockets
are full and
their basements purged.

If only it were
so easy to rid
ourselves of
other blunders:
here, have these
values I’ve
outgrown,
these words I
can’t take back,
these dreams,
slightly tarnished
but still good.

All yours, for just
pennies on the dollar.

Wounded

The white gauze bandage
on the back of her hand
looks … medicinal.
Hospital issued. Available
by prescription only.

When she sees me stare,
she hides it – fiercely,
not shyly. Her wound
is private property,
not to be photographed,
pitied, or admired.

Tonight when I watch
her sleep, her fist
will be curled softly
beside her head,
and the white gauze
will shimmer in dim light.
I will brush the hair
from her forehead,
kiss her gently
on the cheek,

and worry that she will
one day know how
much that bandage hurts.

Words Without Opposites

Take bloom, for example.
Yes, flowers shrivel and curl,
and leaves brown and fall,
but the necessity of death
doesn’t necessarily undo
the accident of birth.
To wither does not
wipe away the memory
of opening slowly and
suddenly.

Rain, too, is
without a mirror image.
Though each raindrop
reflects a desert and each
rainbow shatters sunlight
into streaks of color,
I do not hear the words
hot and dry in the
echo of rainfall.

And let us not
forget language,
for your touch speaks
without words,
each gesture writes
love songs and hymns.
Silence, too, can
sing the praises
of all those other
words without opposites.

Obscure

The doe waits
at the cusp of
the forest,
where dry grass
meets bare branch,
where sun slips
into shadow.

She watches us,
thoughtful and
patient. Perhaps
she is soothed
by the hum
of idling motor,
perhaps curious.
Who knows what
does might wonder?

With two light steps
she disappears
into the darkness
of forest, where
her trunk blends
with the trunks
of pine, her long
limbs mingle
with limbs of trees.
I can see where
she might be, but
not where she is.

In this moment,
I appreciate the art
of camouflage,
the ability to
elude danger
by crafting the
illusion of stillness,
to protect yourself
by lingering,
thoughtful and
patient, obscured
by words that cross
each other like
twisting branches
in the darkness
of forest.

Milestone

There are the biggies: first smile, first words, first steps. That first year, every week we could run down a list of New Cool Things our baby was capable of. That second year is still full of first excitement, and in the third year parents witness an emerging imagination. By the fourth year, things slow down but you still shoot glances at your spouse that say, "Dang, how did we end up with such a Brilliant kid?" Good golly, by the fifth and sixth years everything is old hat and you and your kid are downright jaded. In the seventh year, we've got the first lost tooth to look for. We've been waiting a while for that one. In fact, Wrigley is starting to get a little worried that "everyone" except her has lost a tooth. This is not about Wrigley's first lost tooth. We're still waiting on that one.

This post is about one of many unspeakable firsts. The ones you hope won't happen but must anyhow. Today's first was a big fat bicycle accident. Lucky me, I got to see the whole thing happen.

Pretty simple - big hill, wet asphalt path. She always likes to go down the hills fast, but I can see her riding her brakes some. She likes to be in control. This time she was going really fast. Left behind at the top of the hill, I whispered some choice words under my breath about how fast she was going.

It is hard to let your kid take risks. It is hard to see her climb every tree she comes across when parents around you are whispering stories back and forth about the kid who fell - 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet - from a tree last summer in our park. He's still not as good as new. But take risks she must, and they must be real risks, not ones I have safely padded and insured and sanitized. So I stand back, wince, hold my breath and whisper under my breath all behind her back. She cannot know I think she might get hurt.

At the bottom of the hill she slows some. The brakes work, but she isn't stopping as quickly as usual. She gets impatient and puts her feet down. The front wheel wobbles. She corrects, then tumbles over and splat, on the sidewalk.

Still awfully close to the top of the hill I start quickly down until the voice in my head tells me to run. It also lets me know that the good sticks of kindling I've been collecting (we go camping again in two and a half weeks) are of no use, and I toss them to the side. Poor Wrig, I don't gt there first. First on the scene is a transient waiting for the bus who smells like two week old alcohol. He is very kind, helping her untangle and trying to comfort her, but she is not interested. When I arrive she falls again, this time into my lap.

It takes several minutes to assess the damage, since she is sobbing and we have to go through several body parts with newly ground in dirt and grit on bare skin and sweatshirt. After several minutes I realize nothing is broken or bleeding too badly. Her hand is chewed up a bit, she has a sprinkling of road rash in her face and her eyebrow has swelled up to the size of a chocolate malt ball in addition to run-of-the-mill knee and shin scrapes.

Back at home she won't let me take any pictures. We use copious amounts of band aids to cover each speck of evidence. We settle on the couch with hot chocolate and a book.

The good news is we still have first trip to the emergency room to look forward to.

My Father's Shirts

My father is forever fixed
in my mind as a man twice
my height, with his gin card
up his sleeve and can of
turtle wax in his hand.
I never thought of my dad
as a giant, but he always
felt large – even now,
when I can look him in
the eye when we hug
goodbye; even now,
when his hair is thinning
and his blood pressure
is high; even now,
when I close my eyes
I look up to him.

So it comes as a surprise
that I have been wearing
his shirts to work for the
last three days. The collars
are crisp in a way that mine
never are, and the pockets
are filled with crossword
puzzle answers, but I
manage to fill out the
chest all right and
the sleeves seem to be
just the right length.
The shirts fit fine,
but I still feel so small.

How is it possible
that I have grown
into his shirts
without growing
into a man?

Icarus Again

(A Nonettenon Poem)

It’s all downhill from here, and I’m not
talking about skiing either.
I’m not talking about how
you soar like an eagle
or feel free as the
wind or all that
other junk
poets
like
to
blather
about. I’m
talking about
letting go, total
freefall, panic in your
belly and fire in your eyes:
the moment when you’re about to
quit but decide to sprout wings instead.

Photography Lessons

You could, of course, take a portrait:
everyone on the cabin porch,
stiff and uncomfortable, smiles forced.
If the angle’s wide enough, you’ll
capture the backdrop: trees about
to bloom, jay bird waiting for crumbs.

Or you could try a landscape:
flat wall of flat gray clouds.
When you show it to your friends,
be sure to describe the obscured
valley – hills rolling into forever,
snow capped and serene.

When night falls, open your
aperture wide as the hillside
and capture the moon as she rises.
Leave the shutter open all night
as the clouds swallow up the
moon and release her.

If you’re a minimalist, shoot
for the tiny details: snow piled
three inches high on the picnic
table, flapjacks stacked even
higher. Be sure to capture
the glint of sun against ice.

But if you must capture the
trip with a single frame: take
a picture of a sleeping bag.
Focus on the small lump at the
foot, which just might be the
curled figure of a hibernating child.

Watching the Snow Fall at Night

I tried to calculate the calculus
of each individual snowflake,
to discover the magical
mathematical formula that
determines the meandering
path from cloud to earth.

I figure
that x equals
the length of the sky
times
the depth of your eyes
times
the width of our horizon,
divided by
infinity.



LL "Stubb" Stewart State Park

Such Shyness

Such shyness
is really a shade
of selfishness.

To either mask
your gifts in
false modesty
or hide your
frailty from
friends in fear

is to keep
the best of
yourself
away from us.

To My Daughter's Boyfriend, Ten Years From Now

I promise not to come between you;
I’ll build no walls, intercept no phone calls.
I’ll not play Capulet to your Romeo.

But in return, you must promise me this:

You must remember walking through the woods,
eyes sharp, looking for deer, for stones, for treasure.
You must remember how fragile the world felt,

each step cracking a twig, each sound sharp
and dangerous. You were still that day, gentle.
You must be that gentle with my daughter.

And you must remember the joy of playing
football in the living room, the crash of shoulder
into furniture and floor. You must remember

the humbling roar of a million imaginary fans,
the electric thrill of breaking Mom’s rules.
You must give that joy to my daughter.

And remember the good luck stone you carried
in your pocket until you outgrew good luck.
You told everyone it was quartz, even though

you knew it was a diamond. You held it to the sun
once and saw a shooting star. You must carry
my daughter just that closely to your heart.

If you want to love my daughter, young man,
you must remember how to be a boy.

haiku for icarus

let me lay seven-
teen syllables on your arms
like falcon’s feathers

let me teach you to
capture the light of flight in
the weight of your bones

let me plug your ears
with verse; let me sing of
heroes who disobeyed:

fear not the sun, whose
thin, dry fire can never melt
the glory of hope

Looking Up

i’ve been scrounging
for a decent idea all day,
looking in the corners
of forlorn drawers,
under the mugs on
the upper cupboard shelves.

i’ve rooted through
cluttered closets
without success
and troubled the
monsters under
the bed. bad idea.

nothing but lint
in my pockets,
nothing but gum
on the soles
of my shoes,
scuffing the
sidewalk
as i search
for a
decent
idea.

A Wrigley Recipe, NOT in Verse

For the cake:
1 C. flour
1 C. milk
1/2 C. (?!?!?) sugar
2 eggs
Lemon icing
Jelly bellies.

Put in oven at 350 degrees. Check after one medium length picture book. Check again after lunch. Ice liberally. Decorate with jelly belly landscape (one flower, one pond, two very small apple trees, sky with clouds, and sun). Serve to one dubious father, who will probably ask for seconds.

It's a little dense, but better than you might imagine. I would not, however, recommend you try it yourselves. It's best when served by a six year old.

Roof Rack Symphony

When the salesdude said
the cheaper rack might whistle,
he did not say we would
be followed by songbirds
everywhere we went.

And when he said
the rack might whistle,
he did not tell us we would
be followed by the gleeful
howls of ghosts from
highway to home.

And when he said
the rack might whistle,
we did not stop to think
about the song of hope
we carry in a roof rack
filled with camping gear.

dear diary

if i kept a diary,
i’d invent
a new lie
every day.

i’d write
about snowflakes
when i meant
to describe
cherry blossoms,
or cherry blossoms
when i’d really
seen the wings
of moths take flight,
your heart in tow.

i’d write
about the scratch
of metal on metal
instead of the
hummingbird’s buzz,
or i’d talk about
a hummingbird
when i meant
to talk about love.

if i kept a diary,
i’d invent
a new lie
every day,

because not
even a diary
wants to hear
the true story
of a spring morning
trying to pretend
it’s summer.

On the House Across the Street

I noticed a patch of
blue lattice today,
three coats of paint ago,
that someone somehow skipped
when blue became white
and then again when
white turned black.

I have been brushed
with a shade of
sentimentality all day,
wondering about
neighbors long gone,
colors long faded,
and little details
I may have missed,
left open like wounds
for strangers to see.

to not be 97

should the fates desire
to spin me six more decades,
is it a sin to say no thanks?

should peter bar the gates
for another sixty years,
what is the price of
sneaking in the back door?

do not mistake me:
i neither hunger for
an early shroud,
nor seek to
shuffle off this
clumsy coil,

but
i lack the patience
lack the strength,
lack the will

to be frail.

i know the
seven deadlies,
i have studied,
i have learned,
but i do not know
what crime it is
to be too weak
to be weak.

so should the fates desire
to spin me six more decades,
is it a sin to say no thanks?

a good night poem

i have become increasingly
distracted by the way
your hair colors the lamplight golden,
your eyes drink dickens like nectar,
and your sighs sing the stars to sleep.

A Poem for Romy, Somewhere in the Sky

I wish you wings
made of piano notes,
soaring chords
to keep you afloat,
and clouds made
of major keys.

I wish you bird’s eyes –
keen, keening,
quick, quickening –
seeking out the
laughter rolling
in the landscapes’s hills.

I wish you soft landings
on sharp talons,
a fierce perch
on a strong branch,
a feathered nest
in fine weather.

the best ways to waste time

always involve something to chew on –
a pen cap, a thumbnail, a stray plastic toy.
they call it ruminating.

and the best ways to waste time
take no effort, no planning.
we stumble into them gracefully,
accidentally, like tripping over
river rock and landing in a nap.

weather, naturally, is never a factor.
i can dither and dawdle on an
icy december morning as easily
as an august afternoon laced with sun.
what really matters is the way
the pen slips into my fingers.

company, too, is surprisingly secondary.
yes, nothing fills an hour like
a good friend and idle chatter,
but let’s sing amen for an hour unfilled.

because the best ways to waste time
require nothing more than a deadline,
something urgent, a tight voice warning
i told you so.

after all, how you’ll never know that
water is sweet until the rivers run dry.

Not a Poem

This is not a poem about my alarm clock.
I will not personify its beady red eyes
or its malignant glare.
I will not employ onomatopoeia
to capture its vicious screech
that metaphorically shatters
my sleep, deep as a glassy lake.
I will not resort to such cheap parlor tricks.

No, I will not.

Instead, I offer you the
moment before
the alarm clock rings:
darkness thick as bear’s fur,
a gentle cave of silence,
an avalanche of blanket,
and the possibility
that this dream might last forever.

In Praise of Failure

Let us sing now of human failure,
of the men who strapped wings
to their backs and thought they could fly,
of the women burned at the stake.
Let us sing of the crumpled rough drafts –
the religious tomes, the law books,
the epic poems and the sonnets.

Let us sing of trying to jump too high,
to reach too far, to woo where
wooing’s unwarranted.
Let us sing in praise of the round pegs
in square holes, of all mismatched shapes
and misbegotten sizes. Let us praise
those who have failed geometry as
gladly as those who invented it.

Let us sing now of those who tempt
the impossible, who let us take
from their mistakes, who,
by failing to fly, teach us to fly.

Oh Look! An Actual Post!

As you might have guessed, today was Opening Day for Powell Little League, and the very first day of Wrigley's baseball career. She's had quite a three week stretch of squealing with glee. First, it was "Oooooooh, I can't wait until EEEEEEEEaster!" Then, it was "Ooooooooh, I can't wait until Arizoooooooona!" Until today, it's been "Ooooooooooh, I can't wait until my first baseball gaaaaaaaame!" (Tonight at bedtime, she was counting down the days until "potato piiiiiiiiza!" Quite a comedown.)


Amazingly, none of these three squeal-worthy events were letdowns. She had a ball hunting for eggs. We had a fantastic time in Arizona. And she wore this big goofy grin all day - from the drizzly parade at the crack of dawn through her debut at second base (or first outfield - in t-ball, it's kind of hard to tell). She hit the ball all three times at bat, got the ball in the air once, remembered to run most of the time, fielded a sharply hit ground ball cleanly, and got her pants muddy. What more could a kid ask for? Cheetos? Oh, yeah - she scored some cheetos, too.

Opening Day

Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
and no matter how many colors of the rainbow
are captured by the t-ballers tee shirts,
they can’t chase away the drizzle.

Because Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
the kids don’t know the difference.
They can’t imagine baseball under the sun,
cannot fathom the purpose of eye black.

So their sunbeam smiles blaze brightly
as the raindrops roll off their caps.
They shake off the gloom, dig in, play ball,
and root, root, root for the home team.

Because
the color of hope
is always gray
in Oregon.

Ouch!

Inspiration struck,
suddenly and with questionable intent,
leaving me with little more
than a bruise the color of ink
and this small poem.

6:58 am

It’s an indecent hour to be anywhere but bed,
but if I must be somewhere, might as well be
the intersection of 27^th and Hawthorne,
where the street crests and the southeast side
begins its slide into the river, where the
sunrise washes red brick with pink,
and every window winks with golden eyes.

The Curriculum Knights

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Elevating fiction to the state of literature,
Lifting up those who would be dumbed down,
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Chivalry!
Opening the doors of education (and classrooms),
Helping their classmates over puddles of muddy prose,
Defending ladies and lords alike from the
Singularly offensive use of the pronoun “their,”
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!
Wherever the Dragons breathe the Fires of Ignorance,
Torching tomes, toppling ivory towers, and
Boiling the Fountains of Knowledge into waterish vapor,
The Curriculum Knights will battle.

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Spelunking within the deep dark caves of despair,
Hacking and slashing at the thick hides of dimwitted dragons,
One wielding the Axe of Questions and the other
One wielding her lance a lot.
Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!

And when the battle is done,
The Beastly Beasts vanquished and shunned,
The Curriculum Knights will pillage the dragon’s hoard gladly,
Gladly dispersing the priceless treasures: ruby rich words,
shimmering similes, and golden coined phrases.
Sing ho for the Age of Victory!

Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

April 2, 2008

I Pity da Fools!

So. Now there's NaPoWriMo. As if Nanowrimo wasn't bad enough, "they" are challenging me to write a poem a day. Never mind the fact that I've already challenged myself to do the same thing. For the month of April ONLY, I will publish a poem a day. Maybe.

April’s Fools
April 1, 2008

Sometimes they are the lovers,
murmuring vows over
crystal stemmed goblets,
brimming with wine as
white as whispers,
white as lilies,
white as lies.

Sometimes they are politicians,
counting votes and
counting on voters,
kissing babies and
babying constituents,
promising changes we don’t believe
and believing they will change us.

Sometimes they are the fans,
bundled in the bleachers
as snow falls,
rooting for victories
that win nothing,
cheering for the cheaters
who cheat the heroes.

And sometimes we are the poets,
penning pantoums or
dabbling in doggerel,
scribbling sonnets
or imagining elegies,
weaving words into walls
which shield us from our folly.