19-12

He wasn’t so complicated, really,

this overgrown kid playing in the barn.

Once when he grew weary of listening

to my sophomoric agonizing,

he challenged me to a game of ping pong.

Who would have thought that this sly old fox had

so much game, as teenagers say today?

He was leading me, nineteen points to twelve,

when suddenly his forehand fell apart.

Taking advantage, I reeled off nine points

in a row and stormed back to victory.

Funny how beating him raised my spirits.

It never occurred to me that a man

of God might be willing to throw a game,

sacrifice himself, so to speak, for me.

When he cleared out his office, he gave me

a small wooden sculpture of a farmer

sowing seed, crouched like a ping pong player,

ready to throw away all that he has.

He wasn’t so complicated, really.

In loving memory of  Herbert Eugene (Gene) Herr, May 11, 1932 – Jan 1, 2012

My old man

To be honest, it’s not clear how you got this job.
Maybe you applied, maybe it just happened
to you like a piano falling out of a third story
window, jingling down black keys of destiny
on your incipient male-pattern baldness.

You try and learn how to love. For a guy that’s not
easy. Mostly all you have known is movies with
explosions and lots of cleavage. And now, all of a
sudden, you’re watching a tiny chest rising and falling,
speechless before one of the wonders of the world.

Over the years, you walk the wire like you own dad did.
Sternly setting your deckchair at strategic points on the
beach, sometimes for well-considered reasons, sometimes
just to prove that you are still bigger and wiser, and
that you do in fact exist and matter somehow in the universe.

But meanwhile there’s the constant undertow. The cloud
of unknowing pierced by unforgiving questions. The realization
that maybe you don’t understand at all. That all you have
succeeded in becoming is a carbon copy of your own father.
And in a way, you don’t mind. As long as the kid is okay.

But then comes the night. And you’re lying awake, listening.
Listening for the front door to open and close. Listening
for voices to tell you that actually nothing is wrong. Listening
to the vast silence. Listening to your baby crying, because
his whole body hurts and he doesn’t understand why.



Written for a prompt over at the wonderful Poetic Bloomings site.

To the plastic king we found upside-down in the tree outside our house this morning

Were you exhausted from the journeying,
tired of the idle kingly chatter
or in your golden cups from a night out
a every inn in which they made room
for you and the boys to let your hair down?

Perhaps you just shut your eyes and let go.
Maybe that is what this whole gig was about,
finding yourself, as they say around here.
The star, the baby, the makeshift presents,
all that was just a happy accident.

Tomorrow you must turn the horses west,
sit straight, and begin the long return to
the steel cage of responsibility.
But just for now, sleep well your majesty,
for you may never get the chance again.

Synesthesia

Daniel is a remarkable man (three point 14159265)
he has asperger’s and epilepsy (3589793238)

and has the wild gift of synesthesia (4626433832)
which means he sees numbers as colors (7950288419)

in his book he says numbers are my friends (7169399375)
always around me… each one is unique (1058209749)

days all have colors too.  Wednesdays are blue (4459230781)
so is the number nine, and loud voices (6406286208)

today he’s reciting the constant Pi (9986280348)
he’s been at it for over five hours now (2534211706)

that’s over twenty-two thousand digits (7982148086)
I feel like I’m staring at the ocean.




In honor of author Daniel Paul Tammet, who on March 14, 2004, set the European record for reciting the digits of Pi, to 22,514 digits.  Remarkably, this  record ranks sixth in the world.  The human mind is amazing.

Singin' in the rain - radio commentary

Here's my latest radio commentary for our local public radio station, 88.1 WVPE.  It's a fun piece about my first steps in the world of tap dancing!

click HERE to listen!

High art

Did we really have to invite Pablo
to do our family portrait again?
It may be great art to you, but to me
it just looks like I have a double chin.

You and your favorite bohemians
will be the death of me yet, I swear it.
Like that time you asked your good pal Jackson
to paint the kitchen while we were away…

I will admit that the senior portraits
you got Mr. Mapplethorpe to whip up
for Bryce were unique – but could we send them
to my folks in Kansas? I don’t think so!

So how about this, Mr. Art Lover?
Next time, we make a trip down to Wal Mart
and let some teenage kid take our photo,
squinting cheek-to-cheek, like normal people?

(...a little midweek musing to share with friends over at the dVerse Poet's Pub)

Orlando's practicing

Orlando’s practicing
a word he heard me say
last Friday at the store.
I thought I whispered it,
but now I’m not so sure.

Orlando’s practicing
and I can’t make him stop.
He’s having too much fun
at how folks choke each time
he lets his foul mouth run.

Orlando’s practicing
was cute at first. But now
the parents of his friends
won’t let us visit them
until this blue streak ends.

Orlando’s practicing
again tonight. I tried
distraction, but no luck.
He simply scrunched his eyes
and burbled, “Daddy! F***!”



A goofy monchielle for frends over at the dVerse Poet's Pub.
This may, or may not, be a true story...

What no one can understand

We must not keep doing
this. The words spill slowly,
with my hand in your hair,
in some lost restaurant
sixty miles from nowhere.

We must not keep doing
such damage to ourselves,
and those we love. The lift
our souls gained at the start
has turned into a gift

we must not keep. Doing
anything together
now holds our life in thrall
to fear, muscles clenched for
the axe we know will fall.

We must not keep doing
this, dear friend. For freedom’s
found not in what we choose,
but rather in the good
we at the last refuse.


A monchielle, written for a friend in a long-distant cafe.
To share with friends at the dVerse Poet's Pub.

How I lost the Nobel Prize

 

I invented a brand-new medical
procedure, tentatively christened as
the nasal-scrotal swappy-ectomy,

a completely life-changing surgery
for an as-yet unidentified group
of sufferers scattered across the globe.

The first guy we tried it on did just great
until someone at church said: “The milk’s off.
Give it a sniff and tell me what you think.”

Epiphany, 2012

 

Light steals into the coffee shop

with sand-rimmed eyes still arguing
the route.  A plain girl is watching

their confusion, coarse cloth on top
of her nursing child, soft singing
gilding the room. The strangers stop,

stunned, as at their journey’s ending
light steals into the coffee shop.


(an Octain Refrain, for friends in the wonderful dVerse community)