Audrey

You are the kind of joy that never ceases.
Even in between the lines and baby creases,
you are splendid, and beautiful.
I break into a thousand tiny pieces
and Audrey, you may have them all.

Your tiny hands with five long fingers each,
into my heart, the depths of me do reach
and wring me to tears.
I stop for thinking that I'd have something to teach
you about the world, and my fears.

And your little spirit, so eager and new
and hungry for the milk of life, for morning dew,
is magic of the most sacred kind.
I stand in awe of the love that created you;
perfect union, Audrey, in you enshrined.

Growing Pains

Are we too old, then,
for believing in fairies still?
I remember when
you thought one tapped the window sill,

how you shook with fear.
Said I, the oldest and most wise,
“fairies wont come near,
so sleep sweet cousin, rest your eyes.”

We wanted wings, too,
so we sang their chants in the woods
and brought fairy food:
donuts, cake, a slew of baked goods.

Remember the home
we made out of rocks, roots, and moss?
Those things are not gone,
they remain in a pile of loss

of our innocence.
Now we stand trapped by adult thought;
This state, transience,
worse than having no fairies caught.

an embankment at the edge of the woods

You will not find me beneath the stair
for I have given up my playing there
in favor of vines that toussle my hair.

I am not by my brother's side pinned
for I must, too, from his play rescind
else miss the freedom of the blowing wind.

You find me absent from folded quilts
for I found the strength of ancient silts
where the earth a wall of clay has built.

I play no more in Daddy's colognes
for I, for quiet, the house disown
and prefer now the company of stones.

I am not there, high in the hay loft
for I the pleasure seek something soft
and hay could never compare to moss.

In the chicken coop find not you me
for I the haven of bending trees
have sought and dance there with the fairy king.

Return I not, though desperate your call
for I, by the woods, have been enthralled
and in private joy, have forgotten all.

On the man whose boyhood photo seems to say, "help me, I'm hurting."

I know it was a smile that I had seen
in a photograph, maybe you were fourteen,
or even twelve;
but still, looked you not happy to so do.

It seemed a twinkle in your eye that gleamed
was outward put by lies that left you teamed,
between the two;
it was your heart that with your eye did swell.

Or maybe the curl of your lips was feigned
for I have known you owing to disdain,
still I am new;
I can not of your disposition speak.

And for whom's sake, did you conceal the day
that brought you to the point which you could say,
"I am not weak."
"Help me, I'm hurting." Words of strength, from you.

For Another, or Both

Here is one half the pair of my father's lost shoe.
Now there is one where first there were two.
No, before the lie is set, let it be said in tone
that first there was one, but now, the second, alone.
What rambled through cornfield and was lost on the way
has come back, and instead of gone, becomes the way;
for there is nothing to be said for the foot
that but now placed first, was first second put.
That shoe, so gone in proudest eternity, there on a shelf,
becomes the reminder that though through it comes, is not of the self.

thoughts from 28 Sept 2009

Before the true heat of summer comes rushing at my North Carolina home, I thought I'd take a second to look back at how appreciative I was at the breaking of a long, hot, summer:

Cool breeze, cool day, take away the heat of this summer's journey.

Chill the coals burning for something else,

something not here.

Let the wind blow and take with it

the foul stink of sweat and tears
spilled from too many days

of hate and despair. 

Make my air move.

Make me leave this state of mind.

Take with you, sweet cool air, my stagnant destitution

and days and nights of asking.

Cool breeze, cool day, awaken these sleepy hot senses

made dead by the exhaustion

of breathing thick air in and thick air out.

Lungs, breathe deep today. 

Inhale,

all the way down,

fill up with good ice.

Take this fire out.

Sweep away with the fallen leaves and dead grasses

my hot hot heart and leave me

refreshed.  Alive.  

Awake and ready to go another season long

in this body and mind,

and soul,

that was thought surely defeated

by the long hot summer behind.

one day in class

What?  We are not scholars?
This is almost pointless.  who will know?

to whom!?

Most days sitting and chatter
or other things, maybe too
but mostly
just sitting. and chatter.
I'm not even listening to you.
Your voice is nothing.
or rather, something, maybe too
but mostly I'm just
sitting here, not listening
to you
or anything you say

"Pointless?"
yes, it is.
but still.
I'm sitting here.
Not Listening.