Poetry
 

​

 

I tell my son to stand up for himself

Be assertive.

I tell him that he’s a nice boy,

Smart and kind

 

But,

The world doesn’t deliver

The wishes of nice boys

to their feet.

They must go out and take the things they want.

 

I quote my father 

The beatitudes of the Stoic:

Let go of anger

Of pettiness

Shed them like skin

And continue onward

As if his wisdom through me

Holds even more truth 

 

Am I preaching to my son?

the dreamer, 

The Lego architect

Or to the 11-year-old me?

Who somehow still exists and wonders about everything

 

I have to swing the sword

Sacrifice his boyhood on the altar of manhood

I can’t bear to watch

The purity draining like blood 

Little by little

A sentry Hawk 

Guards the swaying elm

Dawn climbs purple

 

 

Morning waltz 

Bony pines 

Dance in the wind

 

Fall’s last warm breath

Before dying

I catch an image of you
,

and hold it 

in my cupped hand

Tiny and Timid


As if it had fallen from a nest

A Gentle reminder


from a fading gallery.

 

I hold your words in my heart,


 

as if they too had fallen, 
but like rain,

And filled me up.

Your Wisdom of letting go.

Only my grip tightens


nd the words trickle out


as you flash and fade

And are lost again

Until the next wave.

I knew you once,

Or thought I did


your past, buried
 under silence.

Now I sift through grains

of thought 

searching for meaning

 I sing the song of the Spotless Glass, 

A Clean and Perfect symbol

of a Clean and Perfect life.

A New and Improved Life

A Fresh Scented Life

Now With Less Toil!

 

Disclaimer Alert:

Virtually spotless.

Because there is no Perfect,

And there really are No Guarantees in this Life.

Customer Care says that they understand 

How frustrating it can be when your expectations are not met. 

But do they?

It’s a hard lesson that has to be learned.

The letting go of expectations

Moving on from Dead Dreams

And in the reflection of perfection that seems terrifying.

 

Until you suffer 

Until you find the depths

of fear and loneliness,

And change is all you crave

Perfection seems attainable

Until it slips through your clenched fingers.

​

I see blue snow as the morning sun lifts the Night

And I find a moment of gratitude 

for the disappearing gloom

because once the darkness evaporates

I see that it too was beautiful

​

 

Who am I?

If not, the voices 

inside my head,

 

The Father,

The Son,

The Holy Critic.

 

I am the observer,

The Seer of things

The witness

 

 

Who am I? 

If not, my emotions

the vessel of 

Experience

 

The Curator of

Grievance

 

Who am I?

If not 

The silence 

The stillness beneath the ripple

The reflection of the sky in the pool

Memories that stir and lurch forward

without warning.

Sounds that

I'd recognize anywhere:

The thin metallic slap

of a screen door hinging shut

A rush of green sunshine

A wasp gnawing on a crabapple

The aimless dance of bugs

lighting the dusk

The groan of a stair

under my father's weary foot

What does a quiet burden sound like?

The Twangle of heart strings

a melodic riff

The broken angel sings

Soother of Demons

I listen every day

The sounds of my Present

I try to contain

To fill my heart

So they will remain 

When everything changes

And I'm a shell of myself

And I'll dip into the well of memory

for one last sip

and remember the laughter of my

children