Papa Poet

I’m always reluctant to call a short poem, poetry. But I have recently found Heaven, a poetry blog that shares many short poems. She nudged me to share this poem.

Once

Once dad said
I love you.

If anyone is reading (and even if they’re not), I haven’t posted in a while due to password problems.  I think that is all fixed (thanks Gordon).  I wrote this a few weeks ago as I was about to start a lengthy training program for my real job, a profession that has provided for my family for 35 years, a profession that has given me much pleasure and much stress.  The training is a lot of work and very little fun.  Allow me this little angst.

Responsibility

Responsibility sucks
life from creativity,
vicious as vampire
fangs in virgin necks,
the creature craves sustenance
apart from the evil act
to feed, sate, and live
even one undead
where blood cascades, death triumphs.
Oh cursed creature play not.
Drain dry one lost soul
or leave just one to thrive.

St John Muse

I was on vacation last week with my oldest son and his family at the beach.  We shared lots of splashing and laughter and it was good.  One quiet afternoon, my son and I observed this poem.  All I did was write it down.

One day many days ago she ran and kicked
and sprayed like my eight year old granddaughter
swimming to the island tethered in the bay
playing King of the Mountain with friends
wrestling and pushing and falling
with a splash into the salty swells.
This day she inches to the water with help,
one on each arm and another to supervise,
none too agile though ambulatory, arm in arm
the Rockette line wade knee deep into the sea
her dual aluminum canes supporting them all
and there she stands a scant two minutes
and remembers a former time,
or at least I remember.

It’s been a while since I last posted.  Life gets like that sometime.  Mostly work changes and pressures.  Just life.  Anyway that led me to one of my old favorites for comfort that I want to share here.  The poet is John Donne, 1572-1631.

Batter my heart, three-person’d God

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to’another due,
Labor to’admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly’I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me,’untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you’enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

What child doesn’t like to throw a coin into a fountain?  My grandchildren do.  And I readily supply the coins.  Not long ago I stood holding my 11 month old granddaughter near such a coin filled fountain.  She was tired and fussy, but the flowing water distracted and soothed her,  and provided the seed for this poem.

wishing well

are all the coins
in all the fountains
in all the world
enough to feed a child?

all the fountains
enough to heal?

do those in want
and serious wound
bless the child’s
feigned charity?

or do they wet
a coin as well?

Christmas is a nexus of faith and family. Intimate faith. Immediate family. About 30 years ago I began the tradition of writing the verse in my wife’s Christmas card. Most are serious. Some are not. Several years ago she was in a leg cast for the entire Christmas season. This is the one I wrote that year.

The Ghost of Christmas Cast

A Dickens’ tale I tell you not
Nor would he tell it as he aught
Nor by his ghosts are we harassed
But by the Ghost of Christmas Cast.

No Marley moans with rattling chains
No Ebenezer Scrooge distains
At these we scoff but stand aghast
At the lumping, thumping Christmas Cast.

No word you’ll hear of Tiny Tim
This ode does not remember him
But we’ll recall till ages past
The painful, complainful Christmas Cast.

And now God Bless us, everyone
Forgive us this most dreadful pun
We entreat you at this repast
Remove the haunting Christmas Cast.

Grace is sufficient, did you say?
Slow down? Relax? Meditate? Pray?
This cast’s a gift. A gracious fast!
The Holy Ghost of Christmas Cast.

In my travels I ride a lot of elevators and observe. It is an interesting dynamic.

Sharing Elevators

today NFL combine
tailored testosterone fumbling
bling-bling raw gems
try to catch a coach’s eye

yesterday Mary Kay
and her conventioneers
high on Midnight Madness
giggled door to floor

tomorrow one lone woman
well dressed hesitates
to join one lone man
going down or

up and down seemingly
not seeing or seen
all await the sudden jolt
then laugh again at liberty

Recently I stood looking down on the Little Big Horn River and hundreds of stones that litter the hilly acres marking where every American, native and immigrant, fell. I must confess I don’t understand it. I wish our history had been different.

Greasy Grass

Wind blown ghosts
feather hair and flip Dior collars
playfully into sallow faces
just inside perception
when observed from Lookout Hill
the river plain inviting today
that day must have seemed other
wise men would have marched on
honoring inalienable rights
saving their own skin.

That day the Greasy Grass ran
red with immigrant blood
native-born joyous
in victory righteous in
indignation elegant in ignominy
that day the women sang
and warriors whooped and laughed
and loved their women
in freedom’s lust for life
and one more day to stand erect.

Photo by Jeremy Kemp at Wikipedia. 

The Sundance Grill is one of the countless restaurants I have patronized in my travels across the country. This one happens to be in Grand Rapids, Michigan, but it could be anywhere. By different names, it is.

Back in the Sundance Grill

Back in the Sundance Grill.
Last time I was outside
on the patio
it’s colder now
the patio is empty
I too, have retreated inside,
but it’s no less empty
inside.

Shawshank Redemption is on TNT.
While I seek the Sundance Redemption.
Lucky Andy Duphrane
finding redemption
one of few
I am one of many
like the valuable coupon
unredeemed

Chowder, pie, coffee and tip an even 10 bucks.
The same as Andy’s rock hammer.
A simple coincidence?
I can’t believe in
coincidence. Or revelation?
Am I free?
Or just another
empty cell?

This poem imagines the thoughts of Joseph as he and Mary journey toward Bethlehem.  I wrote and presented this poem in 2003 as part of a Christmas Eve service.  My poem accompanied two other original works, one from Mary’s perspective and one from God’s.

Bethlehem’s Road

Betrothed
I’ll say and nothing more,
ignore the innuendos and stony glares
enclothed in offal adoration.

Then who will
redeem the grievous penalty? I,
and I alone, bear her secret,
believe an know the truth.
A virgin.  With child.  From God.

Here on
Judea’s road I see a God-filled womb,
a Mary-borne Messiah, a created creator
creating Sharon’s perfect sweet rose.

And I,
neither husband nor father walk
in wonder of Jehovah, both
from garden to garden and
from life to death to life again
I AM.

Behold
the light of Bethlehem,
the City of David come to welcome
the light of the world,
the Messiah, and Mary,
and me.