Archive for April, 2016


Poetry month day 17 – mind the gap

April 17, 2016

I let it slip out
The heat, the fire
The unquenchable thirst for creation
Atoms smashing themselves over and over again
Trying to recreate a bang big enough to make my heart remember itself.
Cold fingers dig through ash
Hoping for embers
And enough breath to ignite this tinder.
A flame that doesn’t need to be chased, only caught
Fanned and focused upon.
All the days I didn’t write
All the moments I lost to living them
instead of giving them the respect they deserved.
I hid below ground and waited for the sun to come back.
But it never occurred to me, to open the door
And go find it.


I fell off a bit

April 15, 2016

But I’ll be back. The words sleep, and dream of utterances and brevity, of wit that is sharp enough to cut ribbons for your hair, but not so much to shred the sensibilities you hold dear.


Poetry month day 12 – Anywhere is a starting point

April 12, 2016

I didn’t mean to be a knee-jerk jackass, all spitfire and gritted teeth screaming you were wrong. I didn’t mean to play that song so familiar and pretend I didn’t know the tune.

Remember all those times I called you on your shit and you hated it? But had to admit that I was right? I basked in that glow of knowing it was true, that my words found their way to the heart of you and created a seed of doubt. That would grow until you’d know better, what you were on about.
Well, turns out, when that shoe is on the other foot, though it might be bare, it’s just as hard to admit there might be something to it.

I’m suddenly scared, reminded of the night my father died. We said goodbye and then we came home and immediately started to pack away his things.
His suits into garbage bags, a black plastic barrier against the notion that clothes were just more things he didn’t need anymore. His books that no one wanted, the trinkets no one knew the origins of, the years of unopened bills, all cast off. Because there was no place for them in our lives any more without him to give meaning to them.

I find myself casting off the idea of you. Packing books I never thought I’d give away into boxes to go, filling garbage bags full of odds and ends that I always thought I would use sometime. Things I considered grounding, though perhaps cementing me is more accurate. Tying me to a notion that I can stay still, build a life, build a home, build a shared reality inside a heart that was so eager to let you in.

Watching the dismantling of my own existence in real time has left me reeling, dizzy with concern that my action is merely a reaction. A way to placate the sense of grief with the illusion of purpose.
Have I given over to an emotional response? A sort of gaunlet thrown down in the spirit of, if there’s no home with you, there’s no home anywhere? I worry that it’s true.
Or perhaps what’s required is a reminder that I’m more than the walls, both around my stuff and around my heart. That I can find my way using anywhere as a starting point and still end up feeling at home.


Poetry month day 11 – Spring tide

April 11, 2016

I find stillness in movement
Calm in the continuous flow
I feel at home in that place
Inhale and exhale
There is an inevitability to the next step
A forward movement,
A heart can’t rust if it keeps beating.


Poetry month day 10 – Letting go

April 10, 2016

It’s fucking hard.
But necessary.

Give me a sec, I’ll get there.


Poetry month day 9 – right this second

April 9, 2016

Right this second,
I’m wondering how it would feel to let it all go.
Give away or trade the lighting and online post the piano
Sell the kurosawa, give away my grandpa’s desk,
Pare down the books, keeping just the ones I like the best.
Find a place for all the records, with someone who might care
To have in their collection, both hard to find and not so rare
Give away the kitchen table, older than me, to be fair
And I know that Gala likes them, but yes, even the ikea chairs.
A four poster double bed, well over one hundred years old
It’s traveled from wisconsin to the west, at least that’s what I’ve been told.
A rocking chair both green and squeaky with matching rocking footstool
Art perfect for walls, but when one has no walls, seems a fool
To keep such things and hope that I will find my place sometime
And drag them from here to there and back again seems a crime
For stuff wants to be owned by someone, that someone might not be me
I’m feeling more and more like transient meant to be.

But then I think how nice it is, to sit down and play
To have a house that’s filled with music, all night and through the day
To have books as friends familiar, their strong spines bent with use
A bed to curl up in with no need for an excuse
Beyond a simple desire that when I’m tired of the roam
It’s just so fucking nice to have a place I can call home.


Poetry month day eight – Breakfast

April 8, 2016

The curve of the handle feels familiar under my hand as I push the door open. It goes both ways but it’s been years since I pulled, my need to be different not as desperate as it used to be.
I glance at the far side though I know you won’t be there. You’re always on the parking lot side, not to keep an eye on your car or because it’s brighter, but to easily climb the stairs once the bar at the top of them opens.
I drop my bag onto the red not quite leather not quite plastic bench seat across from you and then lean down to kiss you.
“Oh hello!” You always have this quality of being surprised to see me, though you knew I was coming. “How’re things kiddo?” I give a smile and a bright ‘earl grey tea’ to the lady on my left, coming back to top up your coffee. She smiles and looks from my face to yours. “This the young one?” You nod, acknowledging her as you stir sugar and milk into your coffee. “This is the weird one.” I smirk at you and then smile at her. “And it’s all his fault. He raised me like this. And I think he did very well.”
You nod. “I think we did. There were a couple of moments I wasn’t sure how it was going to turn out but we seem to have done alright.”
“You did better than alright, papa. I’m pretty awesome.”
“She’s been calling me papa ever since she came back from France. I like it. So what would you like for your first day as thirty breakfast?”
“Ha! It’s forty and you know it! You just don’t want to accept you’re old enough to have a daughter who is forty.”
“Where did the time go?”
“Same place it always does, whether you’re paying attention or not.”
I hear the familiar creak of the door upstairs and look back to you, you’re already gathering yourself, getting ready to go.
“Can’t you stay a little longer? My breakfast isn’t even here yet.” I’m trying not to whine but I can hear the slightest note creep in. You smile indulgently and take my hand.
“Oh honey, you know I can’t stay. But you also know I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know. I love you, papa.”
“I love you too, honey. Happy birthday.”

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