Haiku for my mother-in-law

Had she been Hera,
Or at the least Endora,
I would now be dead.

Out of the Mouths of Babes, Into the Mouths of Lions

originally published in Clockwise Cat

So I'm driving from Town Center to the Square when it hits me [my mind races when I drive, maybe it was too much tea or maybe too much studying for exams, or maybe it was seeing my pastor flirting with the barista at Starbucks™]. All of a sudden every turn in the road-- every casual, causal, conclusive, concave decision, every left turn right turn choice-- feels like a moral dilemma.

And if every choice is a moral one when a tree falls in the forest on my head which hurts from staying up all night with my books open and my mind closed [shut tight], won't nothing get in, and I let all my windows down.

The fifty year old hippie driving the car next to me [doughy men should not wear t-shirts as fashion] seems to make me think of Jason's father who works out and has a fauxhawk because he's scared of being forty-five and who says, "we all have our agendas" as if being seventeen and naive is something we need to set outside for the garbage man like the broken springed sofa with the scratchy fabric. "One man's casuistry is another man's clever argument" even if it's up a tree in the forest.

Forgive me if I'm inappropriate, if my flipped tie and skirt plaid pattern is askew, but when I drive along and see the jeep parked at Walmart™ with the door left open [rushed to a sale on flip flops, I guess] should I stop and close it? When I'm outta here are there people to hear the noises in the forest?

I told you my mind races and is all over places.

I saw a cute cartoon on a graduation card with Snoopy and his graduation hat [I mean what do they call it--something mortar] anyway, he was carrying a suitcase, but I don't remember the message cause I got distracted by the "Hang in there, Baby" kitty card in the get well section. Funny, the get well section right next to the graduation section. So the stories blur, and if a graduate has an idea and there's no one there to hear it will it make a noise?

Well, the story ends when I get pulled over by the County cop, and I don't even beg for grace cause I'm kinda glad that there are things like the law that stand up and fight for principles. And if there was a speed limit in the forest and no one was there to see it...The red lights and green lights and speed limits aren't up for negotiations or relativity. When I speed I can bet on that little slip of yellow paper, and when I sign it, I feel, well, almost spiritual in my guilt, but he says it really doesn't mean I'm guilty. And I remember a man in an interview on death row who said, "Baby, you can't have a pardon if you don't know the law."

So thank you, my brothas,
my artistic mothas
who taught me of disposable Bic™ morality
the fatality of fertility,
the futility of purity,
the expiration of fidelity to God in whom we trust.
Give me stability
over this poetry
any day.

Sometimes Morality

Sometimes morality seems like a fashion,
A tie too narrow
on the fat man's neck
at the gallows.



Or the fine print at the bottom of the ad.
So microscopic it looks like a steady line.



He may be an arrogant old man for judging people's motives,
or maybe he's merely a farmer picking fruit.


When will the deus ex machina
appear for the resolution?

When can we move from this cycle into the next?

When will the whimper call us gently through the garden
to the one flower

And Beatrice feed us from her kitchen?

Easter Sunday

men tip their hats

women smile demurely

and children high-five

the risen Lord

in passing thanks

for the egg-grace

hidden in the grass

Sunday morning

the chocolate God love

found on the church playground

or at brunch in new poplin

or at golf

in appreciation

for what happened on a hole in one-less hill in Israel.

I sit and judge them,

but is this day so different

from each day I

assume His grace was cheap?

How a Man Writes Poetry

Brutal, barbaric,
twisting beams of language, syntax, and blood
into iron crafted metaphor.
Blundering
over the precision of delicate syncopation.
Fueled by passion,
savage, primitive,
thrusting the seeds of meaning and diction from cradled warmth
where he holds life outside of himself.


Or sometimes cautiously seductive,
careful, tender,
exploring with prayerful lips
and sculpting touch
each ironic curve of stanza which
swells to the touch
in response to his worship.
Selfishly coaxing with his tongue each
letter to perfect form.

Or guiding gently,
large calloused hands
embracing the tiny fingers
of his creation
as it lies in sleep next to his heart.
This is why only real men write poetry.