Time to Try Again "I think its time to try again, anew, a chosen goal, let's bring a second child to be." And so we tried, at morning hue at evenings solemn close, we tried and tried, when monthly cycles made their monthly rounds. Upon a year, when hope did slightly fade, another year did pass with crooked crown. Then right when time had taken toll, she came.
In morning, years from birth, we woke in bed. The smells of morning coffee brewing hot, my wife and son were heard to share a laugh and your small fingers felt my cheek, you said with silent voice, "I'm glad, so glad, you fought against the rain, and sought me on times path."
IN DISGUISE When I try to juggle with the baby and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and William Carlos Williams as I move my free arm to the spot where dog throw up needs a spray I listen to Rock-n-Roll music while my daughter draws her pictures all in blue, I vacuum as these words come here to you, with sturdy beast that is nothing but a trial. See a volume of Great American Poetry Anthology Two-Thousand, I stop my vacuuming, to help my son who has the flu and water is needed. I realize then, poetry began the long moment we found ourselves married.
Fourteen Eloquent Lines I ponder while I work today about a gift to give that holds within it time as memorable as the most perfect line, a gift to show the love that I have sought. It seems to me that words in sonnet form will not express my love in history, Canterbury in western memory, These words will never bring on such a storm. I looked to Spain to find some "Clarity" and found poems of great variety and here decided to remove your name, this proper noun onto this earth you came, in letter only her, you, and she, your place in collective eternity.
LISTEN The day I listened and I learned we both did break our silent charms and changed in love, as if the words we shared from stars above finally were free to feel our growth. We sit as one our lips were filled to rim, here I am, you are you, with no more pass, sieve your secrets through fine filters, our mass of unity, a faith not shared through pen. It took so long for me to learn the truth, the truth, that truth in love, the strongest force, could break my tethered ancient rotten roots, reteach my lessons learned, they are all but false, we leave these silent subtle hints to art and find the words to cover every cause.
THE PLEASURE OF SHORT MEMORIES A message to my fellow sonneteer whose words upon my heart I hold so near before you move into those cloudy days, that will obscure your view of local bays, a life so lived within this City's nights to walk upon these streets in morning lights. I walk beside each step with every word within my mind each moment is secured. You showed me the importance of each short, each moment coming in near this old fort so like the cliffs that hide a secret tide, to leave our minds and turn our heads aside. To make each short moment a pleasure still each fleeting time its given measured quill.
The Tree Felling Each dog did pull against his leash with might to journey forth upon this paved road release my spirit from this heavy load to reach a place where man is not in sight. This place a trail with head in hidden pine a moment in these mountains, a memory so deep, this path of Lodgepole rectory, we loved with passion in this outdoor shrine. A warning sign that reads "Tree Felling Up Ahead," each tree now sits alone upon a thick new layer of brothers mulched limbs. With sigh I notice in this empty cup an open space where we had loved upon, a moment that had suffered by these trims.
My Carthage I opened my mouth to learn how to speak only because it was necessity I had to take my part and pay my fee to tone down a little on my ancient greek and center more on the movement of things. Son Elias has crawled his first few feet, my boy, such a grand Herculean feat, fall into your voice as the sirens sing. Sam, oh Sam, please bear your scholarly stone, you find the same world I find in books and someday maybe you will share this joy. Hannah your line it is straight, alone on the page, precise, to bring looks, this Carthage of mine seems long before Troy..
My Father's Gnarled Beard With every passing moment holding hard within your grip, a handful brown and white, my beard does take its place upon this tight end infant fist, who smiles with his strong hold. Then when you fall asleep upon my neck you lift your chin to mine, and nestle deep in hair that's seen you grow with every leap, a gnarled empty nest of twigs and stick. I wish I could remember yours, when beard was held by my young hand, your awkward laugh from deep within your forest lip was heard, a sound of rapture true, on my behalf. So every child, when darkened time is feared, I will place in their young hands my bearded laugh.
The Cry A cry, a wave to move sounds ocean storms to move our mass from point to point without our energy, a sound that's heard without our history, a wave of power poems. So lets begin to bring this seed to loam, to bring this cry into the proper route, a worldly cry, the kind that pulls the heart and stops each foot before the time to roam. From lips of young, too young to truly speak, cries bring us running from the other room, ready to act upon each little creak or early morning out within the farm when cows weep tears as big as faucets leak and brings the farmer out into the moon.
A SONG FOR DATE NIGHT
For these domestic chores that tire the soul one needs to lift themselves above the fray and find that fleeting time when kids do fall asleep, a time we tuck them in and say sweet dreams and let the daytime take its toll. Instead of a night out, expensive play around our town, let's take things at a crawl, and no T.V., let's cook a meal and pray. Will chop some Leeks with glass of tender wine and spread some cheddar into whipped eggs, to talk about our days with every line, discuss our race, our toil with every leg, reexamine thoughts of yours and mine, those feelings lost in finding right size pegs.
Pastel Colored Set Our daydream always starts with pastel clouds of baby blue and white, held high with wire so close to bright soft sun as to set fire the sky of turquoise seen from far off crowds. There each of us a figurine so placed with hand in hand upon a lacquer brown, such thick acrylic roads that lead to town, each smile upon our face evenly spaced. This art, this craft, which keeps us still, in life, is not the crayon Degas used with skill, a world of color, fields of yellow fall or Russian strokes to keep away the strife, in origin, a Winslow Homer sea, ours is a Grandma Moses tapestry.
Night Labor I had been there right then, from start to end, our darkened home in wait for you, our birth to come, we hoped at home, our own, our truth, an experience, honest, raw, to mend a memory of anesthetic kind, with fake white light, small hums, quiet beeps, to sooth, so clinical, where life sits close to death, a story Mother Nature has not penned. I had been there right then, when things began, the cramping started evening one, this time we planned for profoundness of birth begun, yet plans they seem to never walk the line, with labor only hard at night, a span of space, in dark, when all contractions came.