The chop-chop-chopping sounding in the kitchen Somebody’s looking up runcible spoon The seven-year-old’s eyebrow won’t stop twitchin’ The tween is yet to tire of that tune A cough between the flub-dub on the stairway And rev of engine coming from the south: All as a dozen raisins hinder airway To send one morsel from the toddler’s mouth Upon the floor.
Twelve-year-old drew this segment of our bedroom’s prairie-facing wall with incredible ease. I’ve got to get kid into an art class. And yes, I had to write something to mark the effort. Stain glass bowl By itself Sitting on The bookcase shelf Flanked by drapes Aegean blue Sheers white All watching you Draw them Shut
Asking a poet to be humble Is an act supremely stupid In my humblish opinion For what tops in arrogance The idea that you let brain Sculpt the wretched pulp into words By the heat of spent synapses There is no humble poet Just pretenders: shy performers Ever wishing someone will Play out their craft for them Basking in the applause of their genius But if contrived verse with phrases Like “the heat of spent synapses” Keeps you from the snares of the forsaken Then you Must do Your thing Just be worth saving
All the things I think I get All the plans I think I laid All the folks I think I met All the hands I think I played Everything feels like a dream All suspended in the air I don’t hear it when I scream I don’t see it when I stare Then the I-ness of existence Hits me right between the eyes It’s the craziest inversion Of the sum of all my lies All alone with all my I’s
“Go stand behind the guy with the grey hair.” “That’s gross. Did she actually say that?” Set my buzzer on the chair right next to me Among the crumbs where a crumbled someone sat I meander out of the loyal meter Of the country-western number playing back. Egg and cheese on an Asiago bagel Verse contrived like my Sunday morning snack. And this light roast blend Is sure to send My senses into spiral With no sobering end. Fake smiles Keep them together Moods change Like the Chicago weather. Got to go.
I wrote this in honor of a friend of a friend who has entered the last stages of a 10-year long battle with Benson’s syndrome, a visual variant of Alzheimer’s Disease. This is dedicated to all those enduring the many forms of dementia out there. Peace and love. It doesn’t matter what it is It doesn’t matter why it’s there What it’s for or where it goes Or how it got upon that chair All that matters is your heart Playing softly in your chest Celebrating all you’ve got You’re so different from the rest Sweet and sinless is your breath Drawing circles in my hands Home is past the stream of death Where the sun is in the sands Let the moments come and go Each a lifetime on it’s own They don’t matter now, you know All that matters has been known Smell the flowers, grab the sky Hear the laughter, even cry God is greater than it all You will get to ask Him why As will I