Oh, Okay ...

... if you insist ...

Lost Glove
March 1, 2008

Where is the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the book,
in its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the bag
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the shoulder,
knotted with worry,
that carries the bag,
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the father
with his hands in his pockets,
who bears the shoulders,
knotted with worry,
that carry the bag,
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

He’s alone in the dark,
outside the
Belmont Library,
with a bag
for a book,
looking for the glove
that fits the hand
of the daughter
he loves.

Poem of the Week

Woo hoo! It was a six poem week this week. I had such a hard time choosing this week that I cheated and let Christie read the runner up. I wonder if she preferred the runner up or the one I posted. I wonder if she'll comment with an opinion?

Oh, the thrills.

By the way, of the six, three of them were pretty awful; however, I liked the idea behind the awful poems, so who knows? Maybe I'll try, try again.

Spring Rain
March 8, 2008

The rains returned today,
and I mean that in the best
possible way,

the way prodigals return
to feasting and open arms,

the way good deeds come back
to you sevenfold, or tenfold if you’re lucky,

the way we return to our bed each night,
safe in the weight of our covers.

The rains returned today,
and I mean that in the best
possible way,

bearing with them
the fragrance of forgiveness,
generosity, and love.

Playing Around

This morning, Wrig made her own board game. It's complex - not Calvinball complex, but complex nonetheless. It involves toothpicks, googly-eyes, and a pack of cards that Wrigley drew herself.

Now, despite her genetic predisposition, I'm pretty sure Wrigley is not going to grow up to be an artist. She enjoys drawing, yes, and loves to post her art about the house, but I haven't seen any particular flashes of brilliance (unless you're a big fan of Pollock or Picasso). Granted, she is six and I'm hypercritical, but I don't see gallery shows in Wrig's future.

All that said, the 13 cards she made for her game are brilliant. Not for their artistic excellence, but for Wrig's clever details. She drew a dog and a cat. The difference? The picture of a dog has a slobbery tongue hanging out of its mouth. The difference between a duck and a chicken? The chicken has a bunch of feathers. The pig has a curly tail. She also drew habitats for her farm animals. Her pig pen looks like a flattened circle. The horse pasture looks like a pig pen, but Wrig added vertical lines for fenceposts. The chicken coop looks like a horse pasture, but Wrig added horizontal lines to turn fenceposts into chicken wire.

Christie was just reading an article about how kids often notice details that adults miss. Wrig may not be an artist, but she sure does have an artist's eye.

And PS: Her game was really fun!

February in Review

If you haven't been to Christie's flickr site recently (and if you haven't - why not?), you don't know that Wrigley mastered the art of riding a bicycle on two wheels this week. It's both an amazing development and a mundane event at the same time. Mundane, of course, because everybody learns to ride a bike and (spoiler alert!) every hack poet writes a poem about it. And amazing, of course, because I honestly thought Wrigley would never learn to ride a bike. I, proud papa, have done absolutely nothing to help her. No encouragement, no running through the park holding her handlebars while squirrels frolic and birds sing, no training wheels - nothing. Christie spent some time (not much time) last spring and summer hauling Wrig around on the trail-a-bike, but it's been months since Wrig even sat on her trail-a-bike.

But spring springs (actually, false spring springs) and we've been outside all week. Wrig has been rolling through the last few months on her scooter - teaching herself about balance and momentum. Suddenly, she felt the time was right to learn how to ride. After one major meltdown (maybe one and a half), she was flying down the sidewalk, happy as an "eagle soaring through the air" (her poetry, not mine). Really, it was that easy.

With a little more effort, could we have taught Wrigley to ride a bike last summer? or even the summer before? Maybe. Maybe not. But it surely wouldn't have been a "piece of cake" (my cliche, not Wrig's).

February Stats:
Days in the Month of Feb: 29 (!)
Days Spent Completely, Utterly, Uselessly Ill: 6.5
Poems Written: 16
Poems I like: 13
Poems Posted: 4
Embarrassingly Bad Poems Written About Leap Day on Leap Day: 1

Year to Date:
Days: 60
Poems: 36 (36 poems out of 60 days? Not so good. 35 poems more than grand total for all last year? Pretty dang good.)
Poems I like: 22

Without further ado-whack-ado:

This is How Fatherhood Feels
February 26, 2008

You are following the bike
which, despite wobbling
treacherously between
fence on the left
and curb on the right,
relentlessly gains speed.

Your jaw aches
from biting back advice
neither wanted nor necessary,
and your feet ache
from the endless chase.

Your knees complain
that you haven’t run like
this in fifteen years,
and your chest is tight
with the running
and the running
and the feeling
that is not running
but tightens your
chest anyways.
You move as fast
as dignity and gravity
allow, so you will never
catch her laughter.

The freewheeling hopes
you’ve spun
in your mind’s eye
and the tire-screeching fears
that squeal in your gut
collide somewhere
near your throat as –
for the first time
in her life –

she turns the corner
on two wheels, looks
over her shoulder
with a grin as wide
as an eight lane highway,
and disappears
into her future.

Poem of the Week

Sick. Sick, sick, sick as a dog. All week. Yuck. Here's what I managed to cobble together before my head became a solid block of snot atop my shoulders.

That Week in February
February 18, 2008

It’s been that week,
when the mercury rises
and warms the soil,
wakens the bulbs and the buds,
the weeds and the wildflowers,
and quickens the earth towards Spring.

That week,
when the cloud cover rises
and reveals the mountain
in white winter attire,
reveals the sun in an unblinking sky,
and quickens the earth towards Spring.

That week,
when my cold spirit rises
and wipes away its winter slumber,
prunes away last fall’s disappointments,
basks in new hope like a lizard on a rock
and quickens my pulse towards Spring.

A Mouthwatering Work of Staggering Genius

After I read Wrig a bedtime story, we like to have a brief little chat as we drowse off to sleep. Wrig often makes grand plans which I pretend to listen to. Last week she mumbled something about roasting and I lovingly replied, "Uh-huh ... oh? ... uh huh ... that sounds ... snore."

Well, it turns out she was making her very own roasted marshmallow recipe and it was so simple the only way to describe it is pure genius: you see, what you do is you stick the marshmallow on the roasting fork and then you stuff the chocolate into the marshmallow and you roast it all together. That's right: into the marshmallow.

It's even more amazing than it sounds. It must be tasted to be believed.

And after you taste it, I'm sure you'll support me in my efforts to have Wrigley nominated for the Nobel Prize in roasting.

Poem of the Week

Decisions, decisions. I have three poems that I'd like to post this week - but there can be only one Poem of the Week. I like one of the poems so much that I'm sending it off to Ladybug Magazine, so that one's out. The other is a little dark and dreary. That leaves us with ...

… incomplete …
Begun February 7, 2008
Finished February 17, 2008

If I live a million years,
I’ll never be Tom Waits,
never carry gravel in my
voice box like tattered luggage,
pump smoke from battered
heart through whiskey thin veins,
wear bad luck in my fingerprints
like a signature. Not in a million years.

And if I could go back in time,
I still wouldn’t win the Heisman
Trophy. I wouldn’t win it over
and over, no matter how many
childhoods I’m given to squander.
These bones are too fragile for
stardom, this skin too thin for fame.
Even with a million tries.

And if I had the patience of the
universe, I could count the salt
in the sea before I could list the
things I’ll never be. But here, if you’ll
take my hand and wile away this
eternity with me, I’ll begin –
alphabetically, for your convenience:
alone, bereft, chastened, discontent,
empty, forsaken, glum, hapless …

After the snow

About three weeks ago we had a mean cold snap, four or five days of begging for precipitation, because surely after enduring so many cold days we deserved a good hard snow. It was the kind of dry that turns poor Wrigley's mouth a sore, chapped red. In that cold snap I took this picture of a cool looking mushroom growing out of a stump in the back yard. This little guy was totally unprotected, and I was amazed to see him there. It was so cold, and my hands were freezing, and I didn't pull that blurry blade of grass in the foreground. I thought about it, but my hands and my child were begging me to put the stupid camera away and go inside. I kicked my self later.

Five days later it did snow, but it had already warmed some, and the very wet snow came down slushy. We got only about 1/2 and inch. They didn't even close school. It wasn't anything like the fabulous day of sledding we got last year, but I did remember to find out what the snow did to the mushroom. This time I did pluck that blade of grass, and I like the result.



I sometimes share my photos in a couple of bloggy circles, and it seems that others like this photo as well. It was the Daily Click over at Shutter Sisters on Wednesday, and it is in some amazing company. You should take a look of some of those photos.

I am just glad there isn't a blurry green streak cutting across the bottom right corner taunting me with chants of not being able to hack the cold.

edited to add: Hmmm.... it seems that the blog's width is too small to show the photos properly, and I have to go to bed and then go camping tomorrow, so I can't fix it now. You can't even see my nemesis. Well if you click on the pictures you can see them in their unbutchered glory at Flickr.