Excessive Humility, Excessive Pride

November Poem a Day Challenge: Day 12

"What am I now that I was then?”             
 [Delmore Schwartz]

It is impossible to gather the wisdom of childhood.
It is supplanted by knowledge & worry & growth,
but the wonder in it is irreplaceable, inimitable,
& all we seek through the following years is its insight.

The traces remain & are visible in offspring’s offerings:

looks, cries, features, & fears trigger memories

the way wind shakes trees sending the leaves into

familiar scatterings to be made into piles for deliverance.

Listen, sons, hold on to it as long as you can,

fight the urge to grow up to the plans we’ll inevitably make,

learn how to laugh like you do now when the world suggests resignation,

hold on to the wonder in the tiniest things when everything urges bigger, biggest, best.

You are not only the future, of which I am proud,

You are the perfect now, the acme of potential that humbles me with every smile.

Hide or Seek

November Poem a Day Challenge: Day 9

There are so many ways of playing:

each of the last two mornings

a mystery bird of prey in enormous

grey pinions has appeared on the

northern side of US-59 at the westerly

bend five miles north of the Kaw & Lawrence.

Once on the wing lifting its flight-feathers

up into the shedding tree line & out of sight

before I had even begun counting.

This morning she perched upon a half cut

& nearly petrified cottonwood staring

into my driver’s side window as if I were

just what she had risked the sun up for.

Tomorrow I’ll be ready to find her.

I’ll offer no sporting call but pull my little

silver car over to the side of road & walk

the hundred yards to her spot & wait

for her to give herself away.

                                           Like tonight

as two little boys learned slowly that

patience & stillness leads to that line

between excitement & fright that proves

that being temporarily lost is worth the

anxiety if only for that instant of recognition,

the elation of locking eyes from across a room,
in hiding, under a blanket or table or bed.

You hide this time, I’ll count.  Ok, pal,

you be the owl this time.  

                                           1, 2, 3,…

I’ll see you in the morning, bird,

I’ve been practicing.

Bewilderment

It is not fear.

Fear is waiting for

children to outgrow you.

Bewilderment is

watching them grow

into themselves

all the while knowing

& not knowing what

your role is in their process.

Fear destroys, inhibits;

bewilderment creates

opportunity, awakens

ingenuity, buoys up

sinking hope.

Standing in the morning

darkness, full moon

sinking below its

slower neighbor,

blue-green Jupiter,

so far away: what

could bewilder more

than your own smallness

alone with the stars,

knowing your smaller

children sleep just inside

the walls without a clue

what wonder & wickedness

waits for them .

I swear this is not fear.

This is not the hollowness

in the chest & sinking stomach

of self-doubt, the nagging

ache of regret. These tempt

& torture. This is bewilderment:

the dizziness of recognition,

feeling the spin of gravity,

the pull of magnetism,

the tricky grace of not knowing

what world waits for you

& the ones you love.

With this as a driving force,

I will not pray for clarity.

Son

a quiet cry, after
midnight, early sun-
day, that might have
been a dream or
discomfort, lonely-
ness or phantom pain,
I thought I should
have let ignoring settle.
forgive me my appear-
ing there without any
help to give but
fatherhood or lack of
sleep to match yours.
as it turns out,
it was thirst &
just one story:

when there is some-
one listening there is
always reason for cry-
ing out & when some-
one cries out there
is always reason for
rising & to go.

Is this not the
meaning of all
our music: cries
& listening? Thank
you, son, for song.

A bit of dust...

I don't usually post a poem (or whatever this is) right as I write it, but this time I decided I would. Our youngest son, F., was taking a nap, but E. and I were supposed to watch our nieces and nephews this afternoon, so E. and L. went on over and I stayed here to let F. sleep. I decided to listen to a few records and relax. I chose Hometowns by The Rural Alberta Advantage. The songs on this album are mostly love songs--non-typical love songs--and the album is a continuing narrative. It was a great way to spend an hour of a Saturday afternoon. It made me think about my wife and my family and how being alone, even for a short time, and missing the ones you love can be a helpful experience. The last song on side B of the album is called "In the Summertime". It is a wonderful song. I got up and replayed it several times.  As it ended for the last time, F. woke up and called for me to help him out of bed. The poem came to me at the first pop of dust during track one, but it didn't fully emerge until F.'s cry.
----
Call & Answer

A bit of dust just made the record pop,
a bit of back beat, just behind the bang
& crash.

               Edging the volume
one more notch to hear the clicks
& taps, the sweet impurity of hiss,

careful not to wake the sleeper,
hopeful that the spin stays true--
one more song & back for you.

----
and when we're middle aged,
you tell me i loved you like a renegade
----

The gift of an empty room 

& longed-for sounds:
windows for light, 

drums for heart, 

coupled voices

cut the quiet 

like breeze

through 

heat.

----

our love is strong...

while my heart's still pumping blood.

----

At that last song's last beat, 

the organ's wail or whine dies.

There's one final click & the sound 

of the automatic arm's robotic swing & drop...

The gift of loneliness goes,

no other song will do its service.

But the rising song of a waking son:

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,...

That call is an answer,

and my answer is  of course.