05 December 2012

For Jimmy

It becomes too heavy for one person 
on the back on the arm
across the shoulders

Sometimes not as heavy 
as awkward
but sometimes 

Well sometimes heavy too
until it cuts into the chest to bleed
begging to be unpacked

The contents secret
and in the water it does not 
float but drags like stone.

Cover me at the bottom.
Put sand over my mouth.
Sing until I do not speak. 
Until I cannot hear.

08 May 2012

Senior Poem 2012: Song

There is a joyfully solemn, seductive harmony of stars which fell on our worshipping lips at creation like tongues of dew.  The song is the eternal legacy of mortals.  Only parents can sing.  Only children can hear. This is the words made song.

Drawn to  the wooden toy  box past her own validation, she cannot
tell  herself any longer that someday is distant.
Delivered in mystery, varnished with history, each toy of her daughter is a

Fathers often, especially before the race of dawn, regret they have spent
much less time on fathering, and many more hours at the office  than
required.  At night the scratch at  their chests is more for what was undone than for what was

Daring to remember is like a lullaby, simple in melody, complex in joy,
mimicked by youth from ancients.
Moving from father, daughter, mother, son. Sometimes like a dove to the ark

Reborn when it is late at night—so
much late that  it is early—the blue soft
down moon glow blankets the beds where hoping children

Dreams are the verses, mercy the refrain; grace is the metrical
time. Love is found in gifting the song, when we be and stop
doing, with the aged roughed hands of

Fathers, remember the song of tenderness.
Mothers, sing the song of letting go.
Remember, sons, the song of courage.
Daughters, the song of beauty.

There is a song that cradles us at morning, nurtures us at noon, points us to rest in the evening.  There is a tune that stirs us when we falter, quiets us when we worry, welcomes us when we need home.  

14 January 2012

To Emily about Regret

Previously Published in dotdotdash

If Hope is a feathered thing,
Regret is simply

a tardy ice
spread over jonquils
who too early broke their silence
just to hope for spring.

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