If it can be done
over and over again
up to
four hundred and ninety times,
I should become well practiced.
If I am bankrupt to
her and him,
clearing the books
of debts owed
should be easy for me.
But to each offense I tie
a rope as it goes into the Holy of Holies,
and each time the slaying begins—
each time it has been in there longer
than I feel safe—
I pull it to its rescue,
before the smiting.
So familiar it is,
so uplifting,
so warm
to the touch.
19 July 2008
21 June 2008
Paraklausithyron: a triolet
Never wanting to shut the door,
he merely wanted her to see it closing.
So he stood there hoping she wanted more,
never wanting to shut the door.
He felt the sinking in his core.
He felt his hand push. His side was losing,
never meaning to shut the door.
He merely wanted her to see it closing.
he merely wanted her to see it closing.
So he stood there hoping she wanted more,
never wanting to shut the door.
He felt the sinking in his core.
He felt his hand push. His side was losing,
never meaning to shut the door.
He merely wanted her to see it closing.
The Old Woman and Her Son at Walmart
She is at the end of the aisle. Her grown son is patient for awhile as he speaks to her, occasionally glancing at his fellow shoppers. He begins to shift his weight back and forth from foot to foot. “You don’t need children’s folders,” he says as she flips from puppies to kittens, to teenage pop stars.
“I need them,” she says. “I need to put things in them.”
He walks away as if he is moving toward the checkout, but he returns. “You don’t have anything to put in them.”
“Where are the paperclips? I need paperclips.”
Both of his hands are on her shoulders. He tries to calmly push her along, but she is bolted to the end of aisle 19. Exasperated he raises his hands and drops them. “We didn’t come for a stuff on clearance, mother.” His voice narrows to a hiss.
“I have things I need to put in folders,” she says, tottering involuntarily to the cashier.
folders from display
falling to the retail floor
knocked under the shelves
“I need them,” she says. “I need to put things in them.”
He walks away as if he is moving toward the checkout, but he returns. “You don’t have anything to put in them.”
“Where are the paperclips? I need paperclips.”
Both of his hands are on her shoulders. He tries to calmly push her along, but she is bolted to the end of aisle 19. Exasperated he raises his hands and drops them. “We didn’t come for a stuff on clearance, mother.” His voice narrows to a hiss.
“I have things I need to put in folders,” she says, tottering involuntarily to the cashier.
folders from display
falling to the retail floor
knocked under the shelves
13 June 2008
Youthful Arrogance
I am their teacher, and they are arrogant.
I notice first when they state their opinions
as high school juniors:
Whitman is a poor poet,
Dickens doesn't know how to plot,
Cisneros can't create character,
but Plath touches the soul.
They are so sure of their opinions,
and each one is a young professor grading.
They return after a year at college,
just for a visit with the high schoolers,
full of information on the solutions of life,
how they see through the authorities
past
present
future.
They continue to grade.
Sharing with the youngsters the secrets of
whom to listen to,
whom to ignore,
what freedom is really like
which sins can and have been secretly performed.
And I wonder, as their attitudes repulse me,
at the mercy of an ageless, eternal God
who tolerates my youthful arrogance
as I place on them my presumptuous grade.
I notice first when they state their opinions
as high school juniors:
Whitman is a poor poet,
Dickens doesn't know how to plot,
Cisneros can't create character,
but Plath touches the soul.
They are so sure of their opinions,
and each one is a young professor grading.
They return after a year at college,
just for a visit with the high schoolers,
full of information on the solutions of life,
how they see through the authorities
past
present
future.
They continue to grade.
Sharing with the youngsters the secrets of
whom to listen to,
whom to ignore,
what freedom is really like
which sins can and have been secretly performed.
And I wonder, as their attitudes repulse me,
at the mercy of an ageless, eternal God
who tolerates my youthful arrogance
as I place on them my presumptuous grade.
10 June 2008
Matthew 1968-1970: A Haibun
originally published in Contemporary Haibun Online
The brother is five and in kindergarten, and by the next morning Matt is gone with no chance for the brother to say, "Thanks for hanging out with me, little brother," or "Catch you later." Just gone like the summer or the circus or lost change. And his father tells him Matt is gone to be with Jesus and he loves him as he carries him from his grandparents back to his house where his mother tells neighbors none of it seems real. He hears cats underneath the house that day, crying in that moaning, chilling way wild cats do, and he thinks it is a baby crying, and he thinks they have hidden Matt somewhere in the back of the house. His friend's parents bring him a giant box of crayons, and he goes outside.
swing set abandoned
wind driven motion
creaking without child
The brother is forty, and he finds Matt in a dream. They stand on a grassy field underneath an oak tree, and they are face to face. Matt is in his late thirties with his hand on the tree, and he is leaning in so much like their father with his round face and full pouting lips, smiling at the corner.
oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking without child
The brother apologizes then--in words as cheap and hollow sounding as pennies falling in the washing machine-- apologizes for living, confessing his guilt of survival to Matt as they stand, two adult men, one living, one dead. He will never forget what Matt says to him. "Why are you sorry for me? For over thirty years I have been in the presence of God. What have you done in the last thirty years?"
oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking lullaby
The brother is five and in kindergarten, and by the next morning Matt is gone with no chance for the brother to say, "Thanks for hanging out with me, little brother," or "Catch you later." Just gone like the summer or the circus or lost change. And his father tells him Matt is gone to be with Jesus and he loves him as he carries him from his grandparents back to his house where his mother tells neighbors none of it seems real. He hears cats underneath the house that day, crying in that moaning, chilling way wild cats do, and he thinks it is a baby crying, and he thinks they have hidden Matt somewhere in the back of the house. His friend's parents bring him a giant box of crayons, and he goes outside.
swing set abandoned
wind driven motion
creaking without child
The brother is forty, and he finds Matt in a dream. They stand on a grassy field underneath an oak tree, and they are face to face. Matt is in his late thirties with his hand on the tree, and he is leaning in so much like their father with his round face and full pouting lips, smiling at the corner.
oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking without child
The brother apologizes then--in words as cheap and hollow sounding as pennies falling in the washing machine-- apologizes for living, confessing his guilt of survival to Matt as they stand, two adult men, one living, one dead. He will never forget what Matt says to him. "Why are you sorry for me? For over thirty years I have been in the presence of God. What have you done in the last thirty years?"
oak tree summer breeze
wind driven motion
creaking lullaby
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)