51/365, 30/30 We Are Finished

Looking back on the day

the product of hard work

and time we were sure was wasted

until we surveyed the progress

remembered what things once were

we most regret the loss of time.

Soreness and exhaustion,

provided they are not fatal, 

are only temporary

as is the satisfaction

the sleep that awaits those who persevere.

It is natural to be critical

to see the flaws as more than they are

Friends will not notice

and if they do they will not say.

We are slaves to perfection

only if we allow ourselves 

to be so.

50/365, 29/30 Obligatory Day 29 haiku

We never adjust   

to the slow burn of candles

 with just one end lit.

49/365, 28/30 Grown Men and their Toys

There is a lifelong benefit
to action hero fantasies
and the crash of toy cars,
the larger than life scenarios,
the sound effects uttered thoughtlessly
by young boys at play
lost in the fantasy of adventure,
sounding almost nothing like the real thing.

We are grown now,
aware of the listening ears around us
far too mature for action heroes,
for letting our fantasies escape our lips.
The action heroes and toy race cars
collect dust in the attic
We work our jobs
and fantasize about play
dwell on missed opportunities
things we should have said.
We recast ourselves as action heroes,
shift our station wagons
pedal to the floor
as though gunning for the pole position.

In the car alone
our small 4-cylinder engine is a powerhouse
makes the noises we always dreamed it would.
We hum to ourselves while accelerating
match the pitch of the engine
Adjusting the rear view mirror
we catch a glimpse of the children's car seats behind us
ease off the accelerator
no longer in hot pursuit
and go back to just
driving.

48/365, 27/30 On Buying Dead Things

They burst in color
from refrigerated buckets
freshly cut stems in the case
They look beautiful
bright and refreshing
and, for men, overwhelming.
There are decisions to be made
the balance of price and beauty
the hidden meanings of color, number, and species of blossom
in which we are illiterate
and our wives are so well versed.
We stare at the case
stand in line for half an hour
behind other men
who also have waited until the last minute
whose imaginations are limited
incapable of selecting a more personal gift.
She will love these
like she loved them last year
The busy woman at the counter assures each of us
our decision was the right one
reminds us to cut them when we get home
it will make them last longer.
We know it won't.
The flowers always wilt in days
just after her smile starts to fade again
We watch them run their course
think of the money we spent
It was nice.
We don't rush out to replace them
Not until the calendar reminds us
of the next holiday
we've nearly missed.

47/365, 26/30 At the Reunion

Hey, calisthenics.
Remember me? from freshman gym?
It's been a while, I know
It's hard to recognize me
with the facial scruff
the slightly rounder face
and the extra hundred pounds or so.
At least I'm not the only one.
That medicine ball over there
must be twice as heavy as I remember.
Are you sure it's the same one?
I saw the tee shirts on my way in.
Remember how they used to hang on me,
the size large?  I used to love them.
I don't know what happened.
It just didn't work for us, after a while.
I grew.  They didn't.
They just got all clingy.
I felt bad, but I ended up dumping them
for a series of eXes,
and even a few double-eXes.
You know how it goes.
And sure, every now and then I have those fantasies,
wishing it could be like old times
and they were still perfect for me,
proudly letting everybody know
that I was on the math team in 1988,
I'm a huge fan of Def Leppard,
and that someone who loves me went to Niagara Falls
and all I got was this stupid tee shirt.
Hey there, ten-speed bicycle.
so what have you been up to?
I haven't seen you since...
You're right.  We really need to get together more.
I keep telling myself that,
but you know how things are.
I'm sure you're the same way.
Oh, really?  Sorry, I didn't realize
the garage was so lonely.
That's my fault, isn't it?
I promise, I'll make it up to you.
Real soon, one of these days
I'll take you out again.
We can go for a ride,
just like old times.
No, I really mean it.
But have you tried this cheesecake?
and the milkshakes?
and the bacon-wrapped, bacon-filled, deep-fried cheese?
We don't need to make the plan right now, do we?
I know where to find you.
We'll do it in the next week
or two. I have your number.
I'll call you, I will.
No, really.
I will.

44/385, 25/30 Workaholic (a ghazal)

The way you twiddle thumbs as though you've got no tasks to shirk,
as though the tasks will vanish if avoided.  Yep, that'll work.

Idle hands think idle thoughts and waste productive days
by making plans to start those jobs tomorrow.  Yep, that'll work.

Foot high piles of paperwork are daunting to begin
but surely it gets easy if you shuffle them. Yep, that'll work.

A dozen one-inch stacks now form a carpet on your desk.
You shift them to the floor to clear some desk space. Yep, that'll work.

Alertness is a challenge.  Change of scenery should do it,
and a double cappuccino too, from Starbucks. Yep, that'll work.

What were they thinking when they bough that swivel chair for you?
You spin and spin. Their goal was clear: to drive me mad.  Yep, that'll work.

The papers on the floor are stepped on, blown, and leave their piles.
Now most are pinned beneath the seven rollers of your chair.  Yep, that'll work.

They twist and catch and somehow snag inside the plastic wheels.
You yank and tug to force the files to loosen.  Yep, that'll work.

You shred and wrinkle every one, expect them to be fixed
by ample strips of scotch tape and an iron. Yep, that'll work

The end of day procession to the parking lot progresses.
You pile them all one large heap again upon your desk.  Yep, that'll work.

(Rachel Mckibbens prompt #84)

43/365, 24/30 Your First Time

This is your first time
reading poetry on the open mic
We applaud this
our loudest cheer resonates
before you read the first line
We do not expect greatness
always hoping you will surprise us
we watch you learn to adjust the mic
know any second it will click unexpectedly into place
listen to your nervous banter
You think we need a history of the poem
assume the title must be read aloud
that we care how many hours, or minutes ago
you scrawled it in the first page
of your brand new notebook
cracking the spine, peeling off the price tag idly
You bought it this week so you could become a poet
Next week you will purchase watercolors
in the hopes of becoming a painter
We know you can still be a poet if you do
If you know this as well,
perhaps we will see you again?
The applause will not be quite as loud
but if you listen you'll know
it will be more genuine.

42/365, 23/30 The Last Ones

It never occurred to me
that being the father
of two beautiful daughters
should be a loss.
When asked if I'd want to keep trying for a son,
as though that should always have been the goal,
I was surprised, wondered why.
The answer placed the doubt and ache of regret
in a piece of my chest
that had never known more than contentment.
There were no uncles in this family tree,
the roots of which are phantom hybrids
buried and seldom spoken of.
Those who keep its secrets
will carry them beneath the earth without a whisper.
We are a fire I only just realized has dwindled,
mere embers.
My only brother has no children.
My sister has taken a husband.
My girls will be married one day.
They will be the last to carry our name.
It is not a proud one
none too noble or easy to spell
not the one I would have chosen
but mine none the less,
ours, for now
to one day mark unmatched headstones
in a small family plot,
a six-letter legacy I had every intention of leaving.
It gives no comfort to imagine
that my own name
will one day leave me.

41/365, 22/30 Claudius Galenus, 160 AD, to Andreas Vesalius, 1528

You knew where your knowledge came from,
translating our parchments,
regurgitating the wisdom of venerated ancients.
What had been known for millennia,
passed on as fact since first penned by scholars
in original Greek and Latin,
held authority by mere fact of age.
In an era of infection
surgery in the middle ages was unsafe, uncommon,
and unlikely to improve one's health.
My anatomical texts, fourteen centuries old,
illustrations still in use,
the only detailed illustrations in existence.
I may have been a plagiarist,
held Hippocrates in high regard.
Too bad my images of human anatomy
came from dissection of pigs and monkeys.
You got me, Vesalius,
dissected a cadaver you stole from the morgue,
called my bluff.
exposed me for the fraud that I was,
dated to suggest that the ancients were wrong,
that I'd never dissected a human, in truth,
that the myths of the Greeks,
the heavenly crystal spheres,
the cursory pull of gravity on objects of different masses,
could be called into question.
disproven as myth
as legend
as the musings of pompous men
devoid of accountability.
You will change the premise of academia, Vesalius.
They will look to disprove us
seek to discover for themselves
to leave our books on dusty shelves
our parchments unrolled.
You and your curiosity.
You,
and your accurate studies.
They will disprove you soon enough.
They will plead for a return to the simple days.
When those of us who were often wrong
could claim to always be right.

40/365, 21/30 The Babysitters Ate my Rabbit

 In hindsight,

it made little sense

while my mother assisted the doctor

as he placed suture after suture into my leg

closing a hole deep enough to bury a fist

that I should not have come clean with her

about how it happened.

A hole like that

is simply not made by a ten speed bicycle.

In hindsight

I should not have believed

At the age of five

that my rabbit

the biting one

the bunny my grandparents had given me for Easter

had gone to a farm

where it would be happier.

Had they told me it died naturally

As animals sometimes do

This too would have been a lie.

I'd have believed them

Slept more or less as well

Believing a different falsehood.

It still would have been more gentle

than the truth.

•  

39/365, 20/30 The Nimble and the Frail

Our fingers have found the same light switch
in the dark
for years now
without waking one another from well-deserved sleep.
Our elbows have nudged each other
from beneath warm blankets
when babies cried at odd hours of night.
Our shoulders have leaned
or been leaned against
when answers were scarce
and words were not enough.
Our toenails have scratched each other accidentally
under the dinner table.
Our eyelids have tried
and failed
to hold back tears
and mask sarcasm.
Our lungs have found pace and rhythm,
exhaling comfort
the perfect warmth of breath
the clutching of hands
the embrace of mold and cast.

38/365, 19/30 We Aren't Even Crows

They think the scarecrows fool us
as though we aren't higher organisms
as though we couldn't tell the difference
between living flesh
and torn clothes stuffed with hay
as though the smell of fresh, ripe vegetables
would not overpower our senses,
override any hesitation,
keep us from eating our fill
and mocking the scarecrows on our way out.
We aren't even crows.
They aren't even scary.
They're just badly-made dolls.
Just dolls.
Creepy-eyed dolls
hanging at spooky angles
from posts, like dead men
hovering over our next meal.
I swear that one just moved.
It's just hay.
It's not real.
The vegetables are so luscious.
I want to eat them.
I ought to eat something.
It's still looking at me.
Did it wink?
It couldn't have winked.
Maybe I wasn't so hungry after all.
Stupid scarecrows.
They're not fooling anyone.
So tacky.
Surely there is another garden around here
Without one.

37/365, 18/30 Troglobytic Biota to Fritz Haber

You were the salvation that came 

a century too late

for most of us

after our caves were gutted

our reproductive cycles disturbed.

The sole nutrient source

ripped from the base of our food chain

by those who would not acknowledge

they had more than enough already.

Men

as they always do

went where they had no business being.

Deep underground, 

they took our guano, 

stripped lifetimes thick excrement to bare rock.

It took them mere days.

And when they left, 

they'd starved the primary consumers

those simple ones

whose predators looked on, hungry-eyed,

beat our frail wings, 

and followed them to extinction,

our caves reduced to the barren wastelands

the men

had always assumed we were.

They fought wars over our islands

grew their treasuries tenfold

just by mining millennia of  waste.

until you.

With a single reaction, 

you put the mining to rest.

Fixing nitrogen in factories

you brought a new era to agriculture,

feeding a third of the world's population

while in the dark of our caves, 

ecosystems once delicately balanced

now barren and stripped

there is nothing to sustain us.

There is nothing left to sustain.

It will be thousands of years

if ever.

They will laud you,

a man, 

for inventing industrial fertilizer,

for keeping your people alive and fed.

How soon they have forgotten.

Long before your the birth of your civilization

we were alive and fed ourselves.

We were already a well-oiled machine.

36/365, 17/30 Lost in the Fabric

They cut these bolts by the yard,
and once they have, the piece is yours.
The decision should not be easy.
You should know what you need,
the length, the fabric.
Be sure of the thickness and the give,
that the hue will be the same in daylight
as it appears beneath fluorescent bulbs.
Be sure before you reach for silk,
for spandex, chiffon, and knits with glued-on sequins
that your plan is set
and your skills are in reality
as good as you believe them to be.
For all their glitz and luster,
their smooth and elegant sheen,
they are challenging substrates to stitch,
sure to snag and wrinkle,
unravel along awkward seams,
as sure to catch your eye on the bolt
as they are to show each flaw and wayward stitch.
Do not be fooled
by the simplicity of jersey knit.
It will ruin you.
You will never look at a tee-shirt
the same way ever again.
It is never as simple to pleat and drape
as it seems in that moment
at the cutting counter,
always more challenging
to seamlessly align patterns and button holes
than when the pinking shears first cut swatch from bolt,
made this length your own,
irreversible.
It is yours now to work with.
Turn idea to reality.
Hide the inevitable flaws.
Drape yourself in this garment.
Make it look like you knew
what you were doing
all along.

35.365, 16/30 Swigging from Snake Oil

Since I started wearing this magnetic bracelet,
drinking the juice of exotic fruits,
and sleeping with crystals under my pillow
my rheumatism hasn't flared up once.
I am free from tennis elbow,
chronic halitosis,
and that not-so-fresh feeling.
Thanks to two little herbal pills,
an instant juicer,
and an at-home electro-shock therapy machine
those everyday aches and pains are a thing of the past.
I barely notice the side effects anymore.
These mood-enhancing light bulbs
and shiatsu foot massage socks
make the heart palpitations,
embarrassing verbal tics,
and the sudden, explosive incontinence
more bearable.
I order them from catalogs
and late-night TV
call the 800 numbers  from classified ads,
pay the exorbitant shipping and handling.
It's always worth it.
Every now and then
one of my miracle cures will get recalled.
The neighbors print out articles
calling my miracle cures a scam.
They haven't read the testimonials
from regular people like me.
Scientists may write nonsense
but real people don't lie.
Since I started wearing this weight loss belt
I can't feel my legs so well.
I called that 800 number, and
they told me that's just normal.
It doesn't feel so normal,
but the man on TV wore a lab coat.
They don't give those out to just anyone, you know.
They're the experts:
scientists or doctors or something.
They wouldn't sell it if it wasn't effective.
What kind of sucker would buy a weight loss belt
if it didn't work as it claimed?
This thing's going to work, I just know it.
I read the testimonials.
Testimonials don't lie.

34/365, 15/30 When Suspended From an I-beam

There are limits to the materials
even the best adhesives can mend.
The handles of coffee mugs
can be replaced almost perfectly,
evidenced only by the thinnest hairline crack.
A shattered vase requires a delicate touch
and even precision work reveals
a spiderweb of brokenness.
There are adhesive closures for skin
to make sutures irrelevant
and glues that adhere dental prosthetics.
It is only a matter of time
before the chemical is discovered
to patch together the human heart.
It will require more precision
than our big thumbs can manage.
The cracks will surely show.
It may result in loss of function
or flexibility.
Things will never quite be good as new.
Functional is better than nothing.
Mended is better than broken.
Scars are sometimes more resilient,
and forced smiles, in their own way,
sometimes more sincere.

33/365, 14/30 The Inevitable

No matter how long it has grown,

no matter how warm it may seem,

March is never an appropriate month

for mowing New Hampshire grass.

Even worse, the first week of April,

inevitably bringing with it one last blizzard

when flannels have just been packed away

and the first fool-hearty daffodils have shown their colors.

Not until spring is a near certainty, 

the final flailing of frost abated,

will the time come for transformation

to manicure the untamed scruff of lawn's revival

to relish the decapitation 

of those first precocious dandelions

to remember what momentary accomplishment feels like

to know that it will keep growing.

A week from now, 

it will be long again

like it was this morning, 

as though this day never happened.

32/365, 13/30 Foo Foo the Snoo

Foo Foo the Snoo looks unhappy in photos.
Perhaps it's the dress.
Perhaps it is general disillusionment with life,
The lack of compatible snoos in the fishpond.
Back to square one.
Back to figuring out what that look was all about.
And whether they make high heeled shoes
to fit cloven-hooved feet.

Disappointed again not to have been invited to the prom,
it wears the same regalia each day,
uncertain of its own gender,
yet yearning for love,
yearning for significance,
for a plot, a motivation,
even a walk-on role,
cameo in another book
that it knows will never be written.




(Foo Foo the Snoo
is a cloven-hoofed goat-humanoid Dr. Seuss character with large horns,
wearing a ski mask and blue floral dress, found on one page in the book
"I Can Read with My Eyes Shut".)

31/365, 12/30 Killing Butterflies

They say this feeling is normal
when it is anything but.
Crippling jitters,
the inability to stand still without shaking,
without locking the knees,
the inappropriate sweating,
the loss of smooth speech:
these are the signs of stroke,
of fatigue,
of organ failure.
These are normal only in the sense
that they tend to happen,
that they follow the laws of biology and physics.
They are irrational responses
to the perception that this moment
is unlike other moments,
that there is a particular danger
inherent in this particular failure.
I stand in front of an audience every day.
What I say in my classroom could come back to haunt me,
if I choose my words poorly,
if their test scores come out low.
It could impact my livelihood,
end my career.
Yet I am worried about a poem
presenting it flawlessly for a crowd
I know will applaud for me
whether I do my best work
or forget the words.
Performance anxiety is a mind game
for which no preparation can compare,
over which I turn intestines to bowties and slipknots.
I tell myself it will be fine.
It will not be fine.
Everyone tells me it will be fine.
They're only saying that.
Will I hear the applause
over my own critique?
They will applaud the effort, regardless.
Will I believe what I hear?
It will be fine.
It will be just fine.

30/365, 11/30 Each Front Porch

This is a neighborhood in name only.
Curtains perpetually drawn,
porch lights out,
these homes stand in uncomfortable rows
facing each other, bleary-eyed,
swaying like pre-teen wallflowers
hoping not to be asked to dance.

Unlined streets that need no sidewalks
weave an unhappy grid
They are not unfriendly here
Satisfied by doing their civic duty
they keep their lawns mowed
and their eyes to themselves.

The children know better than to play outdoors.
They earn passing grades,
and their teachers still forget their names in June
Destined to live here forever,
they keep their dreams to themselves.

There is no gossip across picket fences,
only casual waves and reluctant nods of the head.
The news, bland as Wednesday dinner,
is worthy of mention but little more.

There are hints of a history in the architecture
in the passing thoughts of great grandparents,
tongues loosened ans spry in their golden years.

Their golden years are almost up,
and what a let-down they were.

Their children shush their memories.



*Writing prompt (Mckibbens): Ghost 1st line - "Each front porch holds a chair where no one sits."

29/365, 10/30 Surprised by Gravity

We respect the mass movements of earth
both gradual and sudden
landslides and washouts
slump and creep of hillsides
the erosion of riverbanks and mountain roads

The cracking and sloughing is a leveling force
wrenching rocks and soil from mountain slopes
turning swampland to fields
valleys to plains
masterfully orchestrated by gravity

We take the downward force for granted
know what will become of whatever goes up
It is never gravity that makes the news
only our surprise that it pulls on mountains and dust
the way it does everything else

Were it not for tectonics
the endless upheaval of earth
the landscape would flatten
hills and valleys would erase one another
polishing this sphere we call home

It should come at no surprise
when the rain falls and runs downhill
when the sediment builds up here
and is washed away there
when predictable nature disrupts well laid plans.

We gasped when the old man's profile fell
We watch houses wash away on instant replay
build a city at the precarious base of cliffs
When it is buried beneath rubble
we wonder how this could have happened
How our feet are still planted so firmly
on the ground

28/365, 9/30 Pig Leader to Angry Birds

Smash beaks on our walls
Destroy our mighty fortress
We'll still eat your eggs

Dear Poet - Short 2.0

Forgive me if

I didn't applaud just then
at the end of your poem
when the others did.
For while I love a scathing diatribe,
the one delivered just now,
it was about me.

"No, Christopher, it wasn't about you . Just... people like... you…"

OH.

Those whom, it would seem,
all invented slavery, burned the rain forests, and blindly embraced pedophiles as clergy

"...the really religious ones... The Jesus people, you know... the born agains."

Who would legislate your uterus, pry the wedding ring off your gay finger and kick. your. puppy.
Yes.
That's exactly what we do.
People like me, always quoting the Bible like it's
the Word of God or something.
Thinking truth comes from a divinely inspired scripture
when we all know it comes from your three-minute slam poem

True, We embrace the idea of being "born again."
It's not weird.
You're a poet. It's a metaphor.
Had we called ourselves "Phoenix Rising from the Ashes Christians"
It would mean the same thing.

For professing personal faith in a loving God
Just how am I
"shoving religion down your throat"?
And why always that phrase to talk about my faith,
but not your politics?
The funny thing, though,
Most "people like me"
are too intimidated by "people like you"
to even mention God in the first place.

Jesus did not come for condemnation.
He stopped a stoning.
Drew a line in the sand.
Said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,"
reserved His harsh words
only for the holier-than-thou.

To the weak and the sinners, He said,
"Follow me. I'm going to your house!"

He said, "I am the good shepherd. I know my sheep."
Told us to care for the orphan and the widow.
These are the teachings that "people like me" will follow.

Do not lump them in with those who have worn the cross like sheep's clothing.
There are many,
spouting their venom
and waving their ridiculous signs.
But there will always be more gentle sheep than wolves.

And please,
Before painting “people like me”
with the broad brush of oppressor,
do me a favor.
Look at your face in the mirror
for just a moment.
Watch it.
Listen
as a simple statement escapes my lips.

"I am a follower of Jesus Christ."

Did you notice the way your lip curls into a tsk?
I see it every time.
You make me unwelcome,

Blast my faith in public without remorse
and enjoy the applause.
Forgive me if I don't join in.

Listen
to the disgruntled sigh that issues from your chest
even now
as you think,
"is this poem over yet?"

No, it isn't.

Dear Poet - Short version

Forgive me if

I didn't applaud just then

at the end of your poem

when the others did.

For while I love a scathing diatribe

as much as the next guy

the one delivered just now,

it was about me.

"No, it wasn't about you, Christopher.  Just... people like you… the really religious ones... The Jesus people, you know... the born agains."

OH.

You mean those who blindly accept pedophile clergy as holy men, would love to legislate your reproductive system, and aim to pry the wedding ring off your gay finger.

Those whom, it would seem,

all invented slavery, spurred the holocaust, burned the rain forests, and kicked your puppy.

Yes.

That's exactly what we do.

That, and the pork and bean suppers.

People like me are the ones always quoting the Bible like it's

the Word of God or something.

Who dare to believe that absolute truth
comes from a divinely inspired scripture

rather than (as we all know it does) your 3 minute slam poem

We embrace the idea of being "born again."

It's not weird.
You're a poet. It's a metaphor.
If we called ourselves "Phoenix rising from the ashes" believers
it would mean the same thing!
And then maybe certain mediocre poets would stop
using that one quite so much.

And the way we all apparently

"shove our religion down your throats"

Always that phrase to talk about faith,

never militant veganism, recycling, or tax policy.

I wonder why.

The funny thing, though,

is that "people like me"

are usually too intimidated by "people like you"

to do much more than mention God in the first place.

You speak of the Bible as a hate book
because of two verses in Leviticus,
as though no one reads the rest of it.

Jesus did not come for condemnation.

He stopped a stoning.

Drew a line in the sand.

Said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,"

reserved His harsh words

only for the holier-than-thou.

He said, "I am the good shepherd.  I know my sheep."

Told us to care for the orphan and the widow.

To the weak and the sinners, He said,

"Follow me. I'm going to your house."

These are the teachings that "people like me" will follow.

That spurred the abolitionists,

The pacifists,

Mother Theresa, Doctor King,

Who did justice,

loved mercy,

and walked humbly with their God.

Do not lump them in with those who have worn the cross like sheep's clothing.

There are always those,

notorious and vile,

spouting their venom

and waving their ridiculous signs.

But there will always be more gentle sheep than wolves.

You make me unwelcome,

Blast my faith in public without remorse
and enjoy the applause.
Forgive me if I don't join in.
And please,

Before painting “people like me”

As the eternal oppressor,

do me a favor.

Look at your face in the mirror

for just a moment.

Watch it.

Listen

as a simple statement escapes my lips.

"I am a follower of Jesus Christ."

Watch the way your lip curls into a tsk,

You're doing it,

I see it every time.

 

Listen to that.

Hear the disgruntled sigh that issues from your chest

even now

as you think,

"is this poem over yet?"

No, it isn't.

27/365, 8/30 If Joe Fell

Each time we painted that wall, Joe

I made it an adventure, 

woke you gleefully.

It wasn't so much the act

as the tempting thrill of the unknown.

You hated it.

I never knew why you endured

those early morning pounces.

I should have seen it,

should have heard the waver in your voice

when we dreamed together,

opened ourselves to the hope

that our school could happen

that our futures were entwined

in ways we'd never imagined.

I watched you pine for Jane

was so happy she let you in

at first.

In the end it hurt me

as much as you.

We spent so long in each other's space

we didn't know what home was

til we'd almost lost it.

You were so good at "friend"

that I missed jealousy when you breathed it,

kept your chin up

as I dated another artist,

reminded you of our pact, 

confronted you with failure,

a destiny you'd long since abandoned as myth

brought it closer to home.

When I found your painting

I knew I could save you,

knew you would follow me

without much convincing.

I've dreamed since that day

of catching you on that bridge, 

letting you kiss me breathless, 

declaring our love to the skyline.

If only sound had carried further.

If the city noise had just died down.

I was almost there.

I called to out to you from the shoreline

Why couldn't you hear me?

I saw you when you jumped, Joe.

I saw you fall.

26/365, 7/30 Teacher Pen

My red teacher pen that writes green
comes with built-in spell check
and makes sound effects for every missed punctuation mark.
The smooth gel ink shines, a hypnotic glimmer
so subtle yet so effective.  They can not resist its charm.
You will put apostrophes in your contractions.
You will use the correct form of "there."
You will place a comma before "and" in every compound sentence.
And they do it.
My pen turns stuttering half-sentences
into five-paragraph essays
Sinks surface-level observations to the deep
where analysis runs rampant
and critical thought blooms.
It hones in on run-on sentences,
scribes a green lasso around their legs
and teaches them how we do things in this rodeo.
This is a lesson that needs only to be taught once.
And they've heard the rumors about my pen,
what happened to that one kid
who wrote his lab report like it was a text message.
They see it on my desk and stand clear.
I see the looks they chance in my pen's direction.
They respect the glare it gives back.

25/365, 6/30 Danger Lies Ahead

My little one staggers
across wood chips,
eyes locked on her target,
the top of the tallest spiral slide.
We cringe and panic
as she mounts rusted stairs
and scales ladders
without waiting for a spotter.
It seems only yesterday she learned
to stand, took her first steps.
Now she teeters precariously
on the top rung,
catches her balance just in time,
sprints for the next platform,
scales stairs,
hurls herself headlong
into the chute.
We rush to the bottom,
meet her
sliding headlong, face first,
bewildered.
We make eye contact at the bottom,
pregnant pause anticipating a pained wail.
She smiles, bounces up.
We smile back,
as if we'd been thrilled all along.
She rushes back to the ladder.
We watch her go, and hope.

24/365, 5/30 Imparting Joy

It is easy to write of sadness,
to convey grief,
share the hollow ache of disappointment,
to draw tears from strangers
in the telling.

There is a difference
between invoking laughter
and imparting joy.
Laughter is born of irony realized
and discomfort masked,
of embarrassment revealed
and shared humiliation exposed.

Laughter is not joy.
Mirth is a heart string
not easily plucked,
a resonant tone
best left to the experts to attempt.

We can try
but words that enthrall and delight
are best spoken by children.
They can not be crafted or practiced.
They can be said only once.

23/365,4/30 Fighting With Friends

You remember when I got this scar
I remember you without the limp
We do not discuss war wounds
not in public
seldom in private
You hold my story close to the vest
These are not novelties to be admired
but part of the fabric
the foundation of mutual understanding
reminders of people we are no longer
and things on which
we try our best not to dwell

There are days I could have killed you
had you not first sent me sprawling
We tore at fresh wounds
honing our sharpness at the other's expense
as though it would benefit either of us
Patience was a long time in the coming
forgiveness, an after-the-fact revelation
and the learning curve, so steep
We'd never have been laid bare
without conflict
We'd have never bandaged each other's wounds

We wear a different kind of uniform than we once did
change the vocabulary
and have the same conversations as always
It is harder this time
Now I let my tears run and soothe
While you,
you bite your lip
breathe in slow through the nose
control everything but the quiver in that one eyelid
and I let you
because you need it to be that way

We did not emerge on equal footing
The road home, for you,
never took you where you thought it should
It was never all downhill from anywhere
but you are not alone on this front

There are more ways to do battle
than old injuries remember
Victory runs deeper
than the outcome of a simple offensive
There is no winning this time
Only defense and endurance
We will all lose something
Let me show you what to hold on to
protect what matters most
I'm the only one who knows
better than they ever could
how thin the armor is in places
how slowly the scars have healed
Let me hold the shield now
Let yourself rest and breathe deeply
Let us do what we've always done
and speak no more about it
Let it go without saying
You would do the same
You would do the same for me

22/365 3/30 But Then I Met This Girl

"...but then I met this girl..."
and you know what happened next
the same thing that always happens
everything changes
there's no going back
only looking back
and wondering how it might have turned out otherwise
it will never be like that
again
and you know how it was
before the girl
before the wine and romance
it was simple
it was liberating
it was lonely
call them the glory days
savor the nostalgia
only long enough to remember
how it was spent
pining for companionship
lost in the glut of spare time
in the aimless pursuits of youth
and then the girl
and then the indecision
the decision
the commitment
investment
partnership
time
and you know what happened next
how redefining it had to be
how uncomfortable and awkward
the adjustment
compromise
how it became tempting to look back
peer over one shoulder
hope that the pillar of salt was a myth
how easy to forget
we are headed for the promised land
how easy to forget
we are already there

21/365 2/30 Wail of the Homs Survivors

We grieve with cupped hands
and mouths that will not close
except to swallow.
There is no dignity in the numbness of shock,
no reassurance in trembling.
We know our names,
but it is clear
we are something other than ourselves.
We claw away at what is left of assumptions,
the only fertile soil worth digging,
allow delusion to quiet the night sky
while it can.

There are no proper burials
in war zones.
We fill makeshift  morgues
and back alley hospitals.
There are bulldozers and mass graves
about which we can not speak.
Huddled in basements
too little light to betray our tears
too few tears
to betray our dehydration

We await the inevitable
any moment
overwhelmed and overrun
we will go down fighting.
We will pass this torch along,
speak the names of the dead
with dry tongues
pray that ours will be remembered
that these bitter seeds will one day grow
that beauty will be found here again
that we have not breathed this dust
in vain

20/365 1/30 Timely Rhetoric

We doubt the ad campaigns
raise eyebrows at the list of possible side effects
and wonder if the man in the ice cream truck
is a pedophile

Nothing is simple anymore.

We dead-bolt our doors
assume a simple lock is not enough
apply hand sanitizer
after washing our hands

Still we do not trust this to be enough.

We keep good news as secrets
stifle urges to display affection in public
restrict our favorite songs to earbuds
so no one else can hear

We're all hiding something.
It always seems to make sense
at the time.