He saw her in the coat room
when he chaperoned her prom,
and being her teacher,
he looked on her as a father would;
with pride he said, “Why, Charlotte,
you look stunning.”
She grinned back,
and joined her date who stood outside the room.
She saw him in the coat room
when he chaperoned her prom,
and being his student,
she almost didn’t go in with him there alone;
he said, “Why, Charlotte,
you look stunning.”
She awkwardly smiled,
and joined her date who stood outside the room.
06 December 2011
13 May 2011
The Senior Poem 2011
Parent to Child
Dear Child,
Out of our deepest love,
expectation.
My hatred for the word “precious”
is not because you have no value,
but because it is a word of greeting cards--cliched.
You will never know what it feels like
until a part of your soul
lies in your hands and
memorizes your face, searching for
some clue on how to grow.
Until the most beautiful thing witnessed
is a tiny person in a crib sleeping.
And while you nursed on sounds newly forming on your lips,
I saw a future better than I.
Out of our expectation,
disappointment.
Why is it we think the children will save us?
The regret is that any bad choice you will ever make
is a genetic mutation of my post-Edenic DNA.
The regret is that many plans I had for us
are still sitting in boxes yet to be opened
with receipts crumpled in my pocket.
The regret is
with me.
Out of our disappointment,
honesty—
the honesty about how I’ve tried to walk in your shoes,
to taste your music,
to talk as if age cannot steal youth from me,
but now I must face the mirror and see
the lines which read I am your parent and was not meant to be
your friend.
And I need your forgiveness for
trying to be
relevant.
Out of our honesty,
joy—
the joy that although religion is profane,
God is sacred and
that our home is a cathedral,
that I am the priest,
that every chore we shared
was a rite of worship,
each memory a stained glass piece of
a beautiful window through which we see the sky,
and that every argument was a prayer that you would be less me.
Out of our joy,
contentment
because family is an heirloom blanket, tattered and thread-bare,
a scrap of grandma, a stitch of aunt,
and if we
are careful not to let it smother us,
it will keep us warm.
Out of our contentment,
resolution
that you have become what you have become,
and I am what I am,
and there is beauty and flaw in both,
and that dirt was never anything but something to stand on
until God planted his breath down deep,
and in that resolution,
my child,
my precious child,
is hope.
Out of our resolution,
hope.
Out of our deepest love,
hope.
Dear Child,
Out of our deepest love,
expectation.
My hatred for the word “precious”
is not because you have no value,
but because it is a word of greeting cards--cliched.
You will never know what it feels like
until a part of your soul
lies in your hands and
memorizes your face, searching for
some clue on how to grow.
Until the most beautiful thing witnessed
is a tiny person in a crib sleeping.
And while you nursed on sounds newly forming on your lips,
I saw a future better than I.
Out of our expectation,
disappointment.
Why is it we think the children will save us?
The regret is that any bad choice you will ever make
is a genetic mutation of my post-Edenic DNA.
The regret is that many plans I had for us
are still sitting in boxes yet to be opened
with receipts crumpled in my pocket.
The regret is
with me.
Out of our disappointment,
honesty—
the honesty about how I’ve tried to walk in your shoes,
to taste your music,
to talk as if age cannot steal youth from me,
but now I must face the mirror and see
the lines which read I am your parent and was not meant to be
your friend.
And I need your forgiveness for
trying to be
relevant.
Out of our honesty,
joy—
the joy that although religion is profane,
God is sacred and
that our home is a cathedral,
that I am the priest,
that every chore we shared
was a rite of worship,
each memory a stained glass piece of
a beautiful window through which we see the sky,
and that every argument was a prayer that you would be less me.
Out of our joy,
contentment
because family is an heirloom blanket, tattered and thread-bare,
a scrap of grandma, a stitch of aunt,
and if we
are careful not to let it smother us,
it will keep us warm.
Out of our contentment,
resolution
that you have become what you have become,
and I am what I am,
and there is beauty and flaw in both,
and that dirt was never anything but something to stand on
until God planted his breath down deep,
and in that resolution,
my child,
my precious child,
is hope.
Out of our resolution,
hope.
Out of our deepest love,
hope.
03 April 2011
27 February 2011
The Game of Gossip in 1 Scene
(The characters take the stage and form a line across the stage. St. John begins the line on stage right and the thirteen characters stand side by side facing the audience. Each character whispers his/her lines into the ear of the character to his left.)
ST. JOHN
Your faith is evident in your acts of love.
CHARACTER 1
Your faith is evident in your acts of love.
CHARACTER 2
Your faith is evident in your acts of love.
CHARACTER 3
Your faith is evident in your acts.
CHARACTER 4
Your faith is evident in your acts.
CHARACTER 5
Your faith is your acts.
CHARACTER 6
Your faith is your acts.
CHARACTER 7
Your acts are your faith.
CHARACTER 8
You are your acts of faith.
CHARACTER 9
You are your acts and faith.
CHARACTER 10
You are your faith.
CHARACTER 11
Your faith is you.
CHARACTER 12
You are faith.
The End.
12 January 2011
Poets
Poets cannot understand
war or
economics or
politics or
auto mechanics or
even bookkeeping
although they may pretend to.
These are things without love.
Poets can only
caress or
cradle or
nurse or
ween or
cause pain,
the kind that brings hope.
war or
economics or
politics or
auto mechanics or
even bookkeeping
although they may pretend to.
These are things without love.
Poets can only
caress or
cradle or
nurse or
ween or
cause pain,
the kind that brings hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)