Even though spring, the god of winter
would not retreat but blew frigid air
from the north over the Big Lake which
rolled and roiled and the god roared
defiance in the face of inevitability —
a lost cause, but the god of winter
would “not go gentle into that good”
…spring
The three photos had been patched
into one, long before it could be
easily done on the computer — three
faces of handsome men, all about
the same age — two round faces,
one with thick, wavy, blond hair,
one with thick, wavy, black hair
and one long, slim face with thick,
straight, black hair. The slim
faced one was the father and the
two round-faced ones were his
sons. The slim faced one died
when the two round-faced ones
were thirteen and eleven. The
two round-faced ones were separat-
ed, never to be reunited, when
they were eight and six at the
time of their round-faced, thick,
wavy, blond-haired mother’s death
along with her stillborn baby girl
who, if she had lived, would have
been round-faced or slim-faced with
thick, wavy blond or black hair.
Someone patched the three faces
together maybe imagining what
they would look like if they all
had lived and were a happy family
except the mother and the still-
born, baby girl were missing from
the faux, family photo.
As a I read a Whitmanish
poem about the city, detailing
the “building and breaking”
as she put it, the dirty, gritty
place where big machines
roam like dinosaurs and people
move and breathe and thrive
and are broken like concrete,
I saw a female cardinal fly into
the bush outside my window,
flit and fly off to find her mate
and I gave thanks for my wooded,
rural residence and then a big
garbage truck roared past and
in my pristine, wooded, rural
residence I felt the poem in my
bones, many of which have
been broken like the concrete
streets of New York City,
Detroit and Chicago.
i have been reading
poems in the asian genre
and i have noticed
that haikus are irregular
and that goes for tankas, too.
the above tanka
has the correct syllables,
as does this haiku, too.
that last syllable —
“too” is one too many words
for it to be true.
When he read the words
“she’s in the emergency room,”
on a note left on the kitchen table,
time all but stopped...
moving instantly to slow.
.
.
motion
and wouldn’t resume at a
nearly normal speed
for at least
two.
.
.
years.
It had happened before...
and he was frightened
it was happening again -
the dawning of descent into
abrupt,
sudden,
cruel,
darker-
than-
the ninth circle of hell
DEATH
screaming, ricocheting in his head, heart,
marrow of his bones, very soul...
but so it was.
The flotsam — yes,
Just accidentally got away from the ship.
The jetsam — yes,
Was tossed over and abandoned by the ship.
And the state of the Ship of State?
There’s a lot of flotsam and jetsam
Polluting the ever more turbulent seas.
Can the fragile, listing ship be righted?
Is there still time
To save the Ship of State and right it?
Or will it founder and sink
In the ever more turbulent seas?
For the umpteenth time, dad forgot
to pick up his daughter from the
grade school, which is just around
the corner from where he works.
He ran to the school to find the
girl sitting all by herself on the
front steps of the school all the
other students having left. “Sorry,
sweetie. Would like to stop at the
bakery for a donut and a hot
chocolate?” Half way through the
donut, his daughter said, “Dad,
it is nice of you to buy me a donut
when you forget to pick me up
from school and I do love you,
but could you try a little harder
to remember to pick me up?”
Dad winced and said, “I’m
sorry, babe. I’ll do better.” Then
she finished the donut and
drank the hot chocolate. “And
don’t worry,” she said, “”I won’t
tell mom about the donut and
I will do better about
eating all my dinner.”
A somber, righteous friend of mine
is all about justice; he seriously
has it nailed what with Holy Week
just passing from view. I’m about
justice, too, but there is always
some irony, hypocrisy, satire, juxta-
position, contradiction, opposition,
like stone soup, in the justice stew.
And so, I will march to the memory
of Martin Luther King, Jr. as we
approach the 50th anniversary of
his death while, forgive me, think-
ing of a silly limerick or maybe
more than just a few. I’m foolish
enough to think the good reverend
doctor would have enjoyed more than
just a chuckle or two.
the ad was all about keeping up
with the joneses, kellys, smiths
and showed all their pretty, young,
white faces. we are just trying to
keep up with ourselves. it’s a
noble task — keeping up with our-
selves and then letting ourselves
go…and then finding ourselves be-
fore we then have to go….keeping
up with anyone else is exhausting
and futile and besides, we like
our lives so much more than we
like anyone else’s life and like
an old friend used to say, “why
would i try to cheat on my wife?
it’s exhausting enough just lov-
ing and living with one person.”
it’s exhausting exponentially
trying to be better-than-some-
other-something instead of just
being, but that is what the ad
says is heaven. but then again,
there are the olsons. kidding.
sort of….
Sown a physical body;
raised a spiritual body;
it’s all a zen koan to me
and rightly will remain a mystery.
It’s not something I take lightly;
but much discussion of soteriology
tis Tweedledum and Tweedledee
through the looking-glass, I see.
bobdahl 