October 27, 2009

for Granddaddy

Death is the oil

of God and you

are His anointed one.

Just as the sun

is consecrated

by its nightly

crucifixion

and the roots

of perennials

are sacred

in their tombs

of frostbit soil.

Used

Preacher has his bible open

like the hood of a used car.

The pulpit is his sales lot -

makes his pitch every week.

No takers though,

Everyone wants a foreign number

these days. "It won't last"

they tell him, "piece of junk."

all he can think to say is:

"It'll get you where you want to go."

A Bird on a Fence

If I wrote a poem about the bird

(it is a sparrow) sitting

on my back fence, and how

unsurprised I am to find her

there (it is spring), whose

poem would it be?

Yours, reader? Nursing a cup

half full of tea. Sequestered

(on your couch) with your thoughts

and pillows. Drying your thumbs

on a new book of poetry (lamp on

behind you). Skipping poems

with boring titles.

Would it be mine? Part-time poet

mouthing would-be metaphors

at his back door. Certainly,

there is a poem there:

A bird sitting on my fence

in the spring time.

Maybe I don't want this poem.

Perhaps it would be the bird's

(a sparrow),

who just left my fence.

She is

the early morning -

as I walk through the gate

to my car and see

the mown field, still wild

as uncombed hair

and the stream of rain water

pooling and flowing over

uneven concrete,

still asleep, dreaming

itself a brook somewhere

green and hidden

and I smile at finding myself

so near beauty.

A conversation

I'd ask, "what is mine?"

and you would say

"I am yours"

I'd point to something

like my books, or my TV,

or my wife and ask again,

"Is this mine?"

and you'd say

"I am yours."

Your Arrival

I thought it would all be decided

when you came.

Your hair the color of your mother’s

my chin and cheeks – poor child –

weight exactly what your granddad

predicted: 7 pounds and 4 ounces,

All the genetic variables fighting

it out in the womb

and the winners announced

the morning of your birth

but you

as I stand over

open your eyes against

their vernix sealed lids

and reveal two blue pools

of complete unpredictability.

Expecting

We are mostly home now

sitting on our couch:

she, with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

She says,

I had a nightmare last night

I was pregnant

you were gone

leading some revolution

or something

Nightmare? Did I die?

no you just weren’t there

she says,

with a pillow

from our bedroom

over her belly

swollen legs on the middle

cushion as if it were an ottoman,

I, like a question mark,

feet on the ground -

bent over the food

in my lap.

The next best thing

I read an article today which argues that Nuclear Weapons should be awarded the Nobel Peace prize. This poem is written in response.

-------------------

I hide a toy gun

beneath my bed.

Its barrel lost

that orange cap

to distinguish

it from a real gun.

In case of burglary

it's the next best thing.

Just like a bloodied, broken fist

is the next best thing to a bloodied

bat, broken on a skull.

Just like rusty machetes

are the next best thing to assault rifles

for genocidal mobs.

Just like sending planes with troops

is the next best thing to sending planes

with bombs.

Just like us dying here

is the next best thing to them dying there.

Just like tallying the dead

is the next best thing to feeling safe.

Just like a room of uniformed men

with launch codes is the next best thing

to peace.

A Litany

Tables too cluttered for eating.

Feet too sore for walking.

Teeth too brown for smiling.

Pants too tight for wearing.

Towels too nice for wiping.

Eyes too red for waking.

Friends too far for talking.

Coffee too hot for drinking.

Pools too cold for swimming.

Songs too old for singing.

Gas too high for driving.

Shelves too tall for reaching.

Keys too lost for finding.

Fish too smart for biting.

Men too proud for crying.

Nails too short for cutting.

Art too dull for framing.

Baby too soon for keeping.

Nose too big for dating.

Clock too slow for trusting.

Poem too long for reading.

Don't wait

To lay down

Against the seared

Streets. To press

More than thirsty

Lips to cement and slurp

The mirage water.

Eighteen wheeler man

Still thinks it’s a hoax.

Kneel as if proposing

And feel the moist earth

Beneath concrete’s starched skirt.

Behave yourself if you must

But do not wait.