Days 12 & 13

Tradition No. 1

Forget what they say about poetry:
It really is that difficult sometimes.
It would be better to stop at that,
But a quatrain would be more poetic.

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Tradition No. 2

What was it they said about poetry?
Spontaneous overflow of powerless bullshit, avoided in tranquility & willingly suspended when belief is difficult to come by. Tonight I'd rather play tennis without a net. At least at the beginning of the game it's love serving love.

Day 11/11

No One Wants to Know

It hit me today that they don’t really know who I am.

I certainly don’t know them, don’t need to beyond

the here & there hour, the rushed or well-thought paper,

the after school briefing, quick question, occasional cry.

When the needy one, full of storm-fear never grown out of

& compulsion—making it all seem like destruction—asked,

again, for the hug that was certainly a stand in for other arms:

I quaked and yielded. She did not want to know me,

but to know that someone would care enough to say:

I accept your fear with the same unreason that brings it.

No one wants to know what the other one is thinking,

just that for a minute’s time a faithful space is shared,

or hope is defined by a bit of community that will be

allowed to disappear, without a need for shedding tears.

Day 10: A Love Poem

Walking

Days ago, one of our boys asked:

how many steps to heaven?

while we were walking on a Sunday

through a park designed to let

the grieving have at least the horizon

to ease their sense of continued loss

with the evidence of perpetual growth.

There, in the autumnal distance,

change is as natural as the death

this space was laid out to memorialize.

Nothing is out of place from that far,

nothing is unquestionable, not even

the distance between innocence & loss,

between wanting to know everything

& doubting that answers exist.

Holding your hand & theirs, 

nothing was absent of truth. 

Any answer would suffice, 

but neither of us bothered 

to decide on one, 

but gathering strength beyond tears, 

we held each other tighter 

& went on down the path 

that led to the rest of the day, 

the rest their lives,

the rest of the time we have left,

whatever it may be, 

to hold on as tightly as we can, 

to know that it is the moments like these 

that bridge the distance between growth & collapse,

that solidify the pleasure that invents heaven 

and gives the idea of God temporary proof against doubt.

The Head and the Heart--"Down in the Valley"(Lawrence High School Classr...

God bless my friend Jeff Kuhr and LHS's Room 125 Productions!

Day 8 & 9: Agreement & Speed

Unsocial Contract

You choose language

uncarefully, shouting

this or that expletive

 across the bodies

circulating around,

oblivious, you:  

no sun but a burning

sphere of invective &

meaningless phrase.

Forgive my complicity

in your ignorance.

It’s just that the

language we share

allows me no bridge

to cross the distance

between your bold

star  & my humble

orbit through your

hurled words.

Circa 1905

Stacking minute upon minute,

the day works its way into

the week’s end then:

slow, now, slow.

Week by week, the years add

a number of epiphanies

& weaknesses, but at the

midpoint there’s a need

to  slow, now, slow.

Time may wrinkle face,

hands, & resolve, but

the day’s quick pace

pulses & pride thickens

into humility allowing

that begging voice at

the heart’s deep core

to urge more & more:

slow, now, slow.

Give us just a little

more, Time.

Days 6 & 7: Weekend Poetry is Difficult

Day 6:

Looking for Obscurity

Everyone wants clarity, some

pray for it, even. Give me a

cloud-filled sky, it’s November 

after all: let the ribbon of birds

lose itself in a temple of cumulus.

Let truth slip away unnoticed,

waiting for some rambler to

pick it up & call it something new.

Let all of us lose our senses

trusting that behind the darkness

is that same blue sky waiting

for the lightning to strike or a

new sun to rise up like a first fire

burning every preconception to ash.

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Day 7:

Pro-Memory

without it, we would

never exist but in the

tiniest segments

four shiny sea shells

a broken bicycle chain

a can of old coins

nothing is all gone

everything leaves its dust

choose your objects well

seven unplayed cards

one fractured black rosary 

a pile of lost leaves

Day 5: Friday Found Poem (mostly)

Before&After

Nothing is constant, but change
comes quickly or not at all.
Someday we'll be happy here
comes the sun, tomorrow?

Or is it rain or wind or storm:
Let storm! Life is ... born too
young into a world already so
gone too long to keep so dear.

What can you do for change,
on a lark, on the lamb, in a bus,
on the way to wherever you are:
you are, all the things you are.

There is no mistaking here:
Everybody know this is ...
nowhere to go but...up to no
good to know you too, pal.

Day 4: Stuck or Unstuck [in time]

Containment Unit # 231

We watch the movie frontwards, stopping
not often for questions & noticing, they would
rather plug in to their own headlessness.
I insist that they remain well postured.
This doesn't please the prisoners, who
don't buy that they are free to come & go:

stuck, unstuck

they renounce my influence: traitor,
liar, thief, hypocrite, warden, bum.
My ticks don't bother them anymore,
they react, only to keep themselves awake.
Even when they smile, their teeth shine
with disdain, or is it just the clock, shine:

stuck, unstuck

big hand catching up with little hand
seconds committing suicide with
a leap less of faith than absolutism,
to keep all the watchers hoping
& guessing that soon even this will pass,
at the top of every hour a pause:

stuck, unstuck

but what of these friends unshackled,
choosers, minds broken open to see
that what matters here matters every
where, that what is true is as uncom
fortable as a poorly engineered desk,
a false ergonomics of education:

stuck, unstuck

We are held here, we two, we many,
an invisible thread, a visible cell white
walled & dingy, speckled with useless
memorabilia, a story soaked wasteland,
unkempt wordhoard, ill used, piling up,
forever unread, only to contain us.

Are we really stuck? Unstuck.

Day 3: Woeful Wednesday

Here, KS

A colleague of mine's brother-in-law lives there,
all wrapped up in soft-spoken age & false teeth
letting slide the subtlest lies through a radio fourthwall.

Believable lies, willingly suspended, make his brand
of honesty so compelling. I believe in Irma,& Ted,
& even Jillian as much as any Chuck, Dave or Maryette.

But the state I live in is not all dotted with resolve, or
picked ripe as September's last acorn squash. Whatever
do they do with all those leftover pumpkins, anyhow?

See, here in our corner of a mislead & unheard populace,
we don't worry much about American exceptionality,
& sure as shit don't talk about settling our entitlements.

We just want to bring our children up to know the difference
between right & wrong is not often debated about on television.

Day 2: Two For Tuesday (on a Wednesday)

Cut the Noise

November comes in like a megaphone
& dies out under a blanket of regret.
With hope, we survive the season's
sadness & light our candles one by one
hoping that the coming cold will bury
all the fearful chatter: the throaty violence
of  peaceful overthrow. Let there be
birds collecting seed beneath the frost.
Let their red coats bristle in the freeze
& their pecking beaks strike harder
than the oil man's spike. May we all
find the silence our broken spirits
need to purge the liar's spectacle.
Let freedom's ring muffle under
the gleam of falling snow.


_______
The Truth about Disappointment

It rarely accomplishes what it starts,
but slides away to a delicate sense of loss
that suggests a permanence that is always a lie.
Nothing is worth sleeplessness except love.
So says the sleepy election day Kansan with his bitter pill.