Not changing the world. Just taking it all in with words.
When I started writing at age 8, poetry was my first love. By the ripe old age of 12, I realized there was no money in poetry and shifted my ambition to journalism. There’s still no money in poetry (or journalism), but I keep dashing them off to appease the muse — and my wife, who along with my mother make up the total of my poetry fans. Until a chapbook emerges, here are a few…
Homewrecker 11.13.2014
“If you’re going to win the lottery, you have to buy a ticket.” It’s not the sort of thing you’re looking for after 18 years of marriage. You’ve adjusted to this life of yours, gotten comfortable got two cars and a mortgage and a half-built nest egg. Even still, the thing you’re missing nags at you. Your dreams ache at the edges of your bones. You can’t quite release what might have been the life you really wanted to be living. Happenstance, She takes a job she plans to leave in three months. She takes your hands and says you can have her children. She takes your heart and your U-Haul to a new time zone. She gives you the winning lottery ticket and loves to the marrow. 11.13.21 (Published in the Fall-Winter 2022 Rat's Ass Review)
Reading bell
I found myself in the pages of her Bone Black childhood, misfit and lonely. But I wasn’t alone. I borrowed bell hooks’ memoir from the library marked with pencil throughout. Through the reader’s notes, I found a friend living the bone cutting memories along with me. She underlined “girlhood rebellion” on the first page of the introduction. She scrawled a box around a paragraph about bell’s grandmother. In cursive in the margins she penciled: doctors, real, home, smart, iron, proper, and pink along with random x’s, bullets, stars and dashes through the pages. I began to read with her eyes, mine lingering on her underlined echos of “They act as if this is another sign that I am not normal,” and “She never wanted to marry…is her choice to remain single and alone,” and The faintest marking lingers under “punishment” and “feeling of shame,” An underline drifts downward as if she were falling asleep or couldn’t bear to finish the mark under “humiliation.” S-E-X is penciled in beside Ch. 32, and W-I-F-E beside Ch. 33. A bold circle loops around “She saw herself as one of them,” a smaller one around “sad.” She’s written “Me” beside the line “We know there are many magical things that can be done with hair.” I imagine her dark, thick and sad, Blistering the pages looking for a friend. An entire page of a chapter on dirty books is bracketed in pencil with underlines: Popular romances, almost always poor, working woman, women were always in need of rescue, always virgins, always married, and always had happy endings. Did she get a happy ending? She underlined “Knowledge that everything would come right.” Did it? In the end, my co-reader and I merge into one. “There is nothing wrong with feeling alone,” circled, evoking my oldest fear. Then she underlined the words tattooed on my soul: “I am here to make words.”
Beaten Heart
In Texas, They declared a heartbeat alone enough life to preserve. I watch my baby girl Suspended in darkness, her heart pounding at 120 bpm. She has a tail, paddles for hands and stumps for feet, two dark spots where eyes will be and a spinal column. No head, no brain, nowhere near human, but a heartbeat thundering through the womb I waited my whole life to hear. In Elizabeth City They declared a grown man, not worth saving. He had a heartbeat, and 10 kids, and a spouse, and four decades of HIStory. And two hands on the wheel. The thunder in his chest pounding in the darkness until he was aborted by people who promised to protect and serve him. No more waiting. No more. 5.21.21
Call It Us
Too swiftly we caved, some said and say. Five weeks acquainted before falling in love, abandoning our paths to start a new one together. We knew new love is not a thing that lasts on its own. It’s work, it’s changing ourselves into we-ness. It’s a thousand micro heartaches to forgive over and over. Love is no back door, and no looking back. There’s nothing special about us, save the grass we water where we stand. 11.5.2021
Call Home
And this is the place we give to you to call home. The place where we have dreamt, whispered prayers, mourned and poured more hope than we had to give in bringing you to be. XV was all we had, and yet, you came to be. And now, at your fragile feet we la the whole of the world. All its brilliance and barrenness for your grasp. That when you discover such a thing as to cleave or flee, you remember your place in the fire and call home. 4.1.21
Catch
Laying itself down silently, indiscriminately, indifferently, snow cloaks every surface in pristine blankness. It’s chill, cleansing. It’s unfettered blanket pure. Sound and fury muffled in its gentleness. Through the shards of my past, you reach for me, pulling me past tangles of trauma to the promise of possibility. Your love like snow, blanching in beauty our paths forward, entwined. 2.18.21 (A birthday poem)
Living In Tent
“LIVING IN TENT” was all her sign said. I craned my neck to look over my shoulder as we drove passed. Black block letters printed neatly on a small square of cardboard. In the shamefully short distance to a parking spot in front of the chain sandwich shop, I wrestled a hundred miles of excuses and scenarios. Was she really hungry? What did she spend the money on? Where did she get the marker to make her sign? Was she on drugs? Or booze? How did she end up living in a tent? Was it something she did, or something that happened to her? Does she deserve help? Would helping her actually help her? Getting out of the car, I rooted deeply in my center sense of compassion and came up empty. None of my invented storylines about her mattered. I was going to buy a sandwich— I could easily afford an extra whether deserved, desperate or deceived. I mouthed to my wife what she already knew— I was going to see if she’d like some lunch. I handed over my keys and wallet knowing I would likely give them away if asked— but mostly that I didn’t want anything on me to give. Her name is Kelly. And “God bless you” she’d love a sandwich. She’s been living in her tent for three years, but would get permanent housing in another month. She was doing all the steps they asked, she couldn’t wait to have a place again. She’d like a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and some seasoning if they have it. And no, she wouldn’t like any chips— she’s watching her figure. And she’d love a sweet tea. And “God bless you, thank you so much.” I waded back through the rushing tide of cars from her tiny concrete begging strip median, and headed into the sandwich shop. I realized asking if she’d wanted chips was stupid and cruel. Chips would be painful with no bottom teeth. She had extended a true kindness to me by deferring the discomfort of the obvious. Seeing me return with a sandwich and drink, she scurried through the traffic to meet me. As she set herself up for an instant picnic —yes, then, she was truly hungry— I told her my name and shook her hand. We shared a few lines, and she thanked me over and over. Although I knew she needed and appreciated the meal, I still felt inadequate—like I’d missed the point. I had been too quick to judge and nearly talked myself out of affording a bit of dignity to a woman someone somewhere loved—I felt sure. Could I love her for them right there just now? Could I see my addict sister in her and hope someone else might extend her the same kindness? Could I lose the storyline and just let her be a person “living in tent?” What then, would be my living intent? my great aspiration for this life— to be judge and jury for someone in need? I tell myself I don’t want to risk the chance of being wrong about anyone. My living intent: show up, be real, share when I can and stay open. I never know when a homeless lady will change the content of my soul. Sometime between late April and mid-September of 2017
Firefly Massacre
Firefly Ambassador
I saw them tonight, their little glow. We used to watch for them a few weeks of summer every year, and I saw them tonight. We were a family then running through the heavy nights capturing the lights in jars. We were a family then as we watched them slowly suffocate, dim, then die. We were a family then and we thought nothing of it. But each one of us choked or suffocated, gave up and left. We’re no family now, and I think of it all the time. Our new neighbors had their own stories, but they did not understand the sacred dance of the clumsy children falling barefoot in the firefly massacre. They did not understand the scarring dance of hopeless children falling away in the family massacre. 6.15.1995
We saw them tonight, with their little glow. Our shoulders pressed together, fingers pointing across the lawn. She loves to see them and doesn’t know why. I watch with melancholy, longing for the carefree time in my youth before everything changed, everything turned into strife and struggle and loss. I still remember our dance as clumsy children, capturing the insects in our cupped hands and jars. I remember writing about it, 26 years ago now. I look from the window down the hall. My son, long asleep, still too young to stay up for dancing with fireflies. Too young for strife and struggle and loss. I want him to see the simplicity and beauty in the synchrony of their pulsing. Want him to share the dance with his little sister, Want him to hold on, hold fast to those carefree days of his youth. And maybe, Never know the strife and struggle and loss of hopeless children falling away, Never know the melancholy of missing the family he used to have. I call the fireflies: “Keep him young; Keep him dancing.” 6.24.21