Monthly Archives: August 2021

The Light I Forget

There is a light I forget to turn off
each time I leave the basement.
It is as if another lived down there;
a person to which I extend a common
courtesy.  Perhaps in my mind I see them
reading a book in my favorite chair
in the corner, sitting how my grandfather
always sat, right leg crossed over left
and the newspaper open on his lap.
Perhaps I fail to extinguish the glow 
from above somehow aware that to do so
might shorten the memory lingering in the air.

How My Life Passes

I bow my head to breathe,
only for a moment,
raise it and the light has changed.

This is how my life passes;
moments of inspiration
in the midst of the movement of seasons.

The cardinal forages at dawn
at the base of the maple tree
before singing in the branches above.

A daughter in search of a dream
adventures off to Africa,
never to return home again.

One poet writes about moving
"in the along" whereas I seek
for a place in the in-between.

Many Waters

I said, "I awoke this morning believing
waves are caused by dolphins."

She said, "If those waves don't drown us,
we can all play together at the water 
fountain park."

I asked, "Which do you like more: slides,
pools or jets of water intermittently
hurling out of nowhere?"

She answered, "I like it most when my
expectations are disastrously too low."

I remembered, "King David once wrote 
of how God draws us out of many waters."

She thought aloud, "I wonder what
the many waters may be."

Finish to Begin

My knowledge extends only to what I know.
I know upon finishing this poem I will
get up from my desk, turn off the lamp
and see the growing light of the greater light
spreading across the porch making the things
of this world distinct.  Later, I will step out into
that light satisfied that the structures of the world
are in place to make it go around one more day,
or at least for the time it takes me to drive to work,
place the lunch I made the previous night 
on the break room counter and sit down at my desk.
But first I know I will finish this poem.

Jumbled Prayers

I do not understand the prayers of jumbled letters
I throw in the direction of whoever will listen.

I pray them anyway knowing that in the praying
some ways perish and new ways appear in the along.

I pray them for the possible, rare arrival of some peace,
my heart communing with the stillness of a morning.

I pray them to be less troubled by the persistent roar
of the ungodly seeking to destroy the change of mystery.

I pray them to rebuke my anger before it moves 
and wreaks destruction on the loves I love.

I pray them tumbling from my lips to remind myself:
I am not alone yearning for righteousness.

I pray them to negotiate with myself hoping 
for a lessening of my participation in tyranny.

I pray them not to be humble or prideful but simply
to sort the jumble and get on with my life.

The Moment Itself

Some say we remember remembering;
memory being so elusive it is easy to forget.

I want to remember the current collection
of events, emotions, accidents, transactions,
coincidences and especially the moment I 
wrapped my daughters in my arms 
the last time we were all together.

Perhaps not the moment itself.  Instead,
the sense of my arms around their
shoulders, the smiles and familiar
chatter of sisters, the play of light
creating shadows of ourselves
on the ground, the wishes
for wellness until next we see
each other, not knowing our 
numbers would never
be the same.

Promenade

I said, "I dreamed last night of an inchworm
measuring the distance of our suffering."

She said, "Distance times time equals 
the speed at which things fall apart."

I asked, "Do you think creation could
have been made any other way?"

She answered, "In the space we inhabit
change only happens at the edge
of where chaos and order frolic."

I asked another question, "Don't take 
this the wrong way but can I have 
the next dance?"

She replied, "Only if you fondly promise
to promenade with me all the way down
the corridor of time."