… to be home.

I’m ready to be home.
The tree-lined streets I know
So very well
Will lead me to my door,
Where I can enter without
Knock or bell

I’m ready to be home:
It’s where my love will be
Some hours hence —
And I can hear her voice
And see her face, and end this long
Suspense

For I’ve been where I needed to,
I’ve seen and done my part,
But surely I’ve been missing her,
The best part of my heart —

Sometimes we have to wander,
Have to roam —
But Lord, it will be good
To just be

Home

Journal 2018-04-03

5:17am EDST

I kissed you goodbye;
You smiled although
You didn’t wake —
That will have to be enough.

7:51am EDST

Nothing is more shared
Than the annoyances of airports,
And few places do people feel
More personally aggrieved.

9:14am EDST

Patience is a virtue — so they say.
Here’s a chance for merit, at this gate,
To prove my worthiness, and calmly wait.
For after all, it still is early day,
And within a few hours, miles away,
I’ll see my mom, from whom many a trait
I gained. And so: anxiety abate!
I needs keep ire and peevishness at bay.

For our misdeeds, our parents may feel blame,
And for our petty rancors, feel remorse;
For we are of one tree, both root and stem.
Heredity – environment – the same:
For each, our parents were the likely source,
And so see what is bad in us as them.

9:44am EDST

And so the takeoff soon awaits,
And I will either think of death,
Or else forget, and read a book,
And barely notice anything.

Our deepest thoughts lie side-by-side
With those mundane and commonplace;
The way we read Aeschylus,
Then play Nintendo Switch.

9:56am EDST

There was a young lady from Schmeager
Who only liked music by Reger,
She said, “People joke,
If I was more like folk,
Then I might hum along with Pete Seeger.”

10:30am EDST

Within a world of colored-water
She was wont to swim,
And artistry was effortless,
Like tumbling in a gym.

In tumbling and in swimming, she
Spent forty days and nights,
Then turned that into gold when she
Just up and sold the rights.

She up and sold the rights to all
Her visions and her prayers,
Then used the money heedlessly
On vodka and repairs.

To fix what all the vodka broke,
She had to get a lawyer;
She wrecked more than a howitzer,
Six tanks, and a destroyer.

Destroyers are not pretty things:
They tend to lead to slaughter,
But that’s what comes from swimming long,
In all that colored
Water

1:28pm EDST

if you see
no worth in your heart,
then who will?

that may seem to be
a knot that
can not be untied,

but know this:
you are worthy of
the best things —

truth, love, joy, peace, and
acceptance,
for who you’ve been,
and are

1:44pm EDST

tiny eyes
need shielding from glare
on bright days

2:00pm EDST

I’m worried what I’ll find;
I’m worried how she’ll be.
Her body’s shutting down,
And so’s her memory.

We live so far away;
Our lives are wholly other —
But still, I hope, and pray
For mercy for
My mother

11:45am MST (2:45pm EDST)

my son just called
he is going back into
either rehab or the hospital

life is always too much
and hardly ever enough

4:03pm MST (7:03 EDST)

Her Parkinson’s is worse, but somehow
She seems better. Ready to get out and go
Is more like I’d always known my mom to be;
Last time, she never wanted to leave
The facility. Soon, I’ll drive back over there
From this hotel, and take her and her guy out to eat…

… which seems pretty sweet.

7:16pm MST (10:16pm EDST)

Much I do not understand
The world is fuller than I know
So much I cannot understand
It’s all too much, and even so,
I do not even understand
The shadows unfamiliar —

And I don’t really understand

This room is creepy dark and

 
Unfamiliar

Ding An Sich

She first escaped at twenty-three.
A bicycle, a battered van,
A life that she could taste, because
She sampled it, at her own pace and where.

She felt the wind upon her neck,
And her own tongue within her mouth,
The ache of stretching, working limbs
That carried her the whither she would go.

A weathered book of Kierkegaard,
A necklace made of icy gold,
And one September when she had
No answers, nor desire to provide them.

And who was I? Just one regret.
A place she’d traveled to, and cried;
A type of warning of the life
She’d never settle for in place of freedom.

So, now there is a woman grown,
Who owns a bicycle no more,
Who’s seen her own two daughters go
And wanted to impart this gift, this lesson —

But cannot find the proper words
To speak of strength in time alone
That do not sound like hectoring
Or lessons quaint and from an era gone…

For night means nothing
If you’ve missed the day;
And love is only possible
If you have your own self
To give

Away

The Pride of Lucy

Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember

The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.

The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death

The flower


 

(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)

Forms of Love

She hugged me yesterday, and I could feel
Affection in the pressure and the length;
A smile on her face, a “welcome back,”
A bit of something that I’ve known awhile —

Between the lines, where friendship makes its home,
Is something fragile that, somehow, survives:
Between such lines as needs be, and must be,
Is what our worlds are made of, if we live
In anything like honor or respect —
In anything like loyalty at all —

She hugged me yesterday, and I remarked
On her new haircut, which I liked a lot;
Asked if the holidays were kind to them,
In forms of love appropriate for us

On The Heights

Oh, no. There’s no depression anymore.
All that despair, it’s really so jejune —
I have a lot to do, and I’m content.
There’s work enough for even a buffoon
To rise before the sun, and tame the moon.
Don’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing there;
There’s no depression anymore — I swear.

Oh, yes. I still hear voices, that’s just me.
But what I never talk about’s not real —
I am contented with my lot in life,
What isn’t mine to ever have, or feel,
Is just, you know, a thing, a minor deal.
A mortal starts whatever, then it ends;
I still hear voices, but — they say they’re friends.

I dreamed I saw a ribbon by the sea;
A highway full of peaceful, distant lights —
It’s rare I dream these days, or even sleep.
I’ve lost, I think, my battle with the nights;
But for that moment, I was on the heights.
I know that dreams are trivial. I do.
But somehow, what’s not real can still be true.

I wake to darkness, check my phone for time,
And lumber up, where no one sees or knows —
I cast a fishing line out on the ‘net,
But all is silent, as the river flows.
And day by day, a nameless something grows
Outside this room, in people’s thoughtless taunt:
That I have everything a soul could want.

But all of that is silliness. I move
Into the gears that grind throughout my day,
And show up at the place they pay me to,
And serve my minor truths up on a tray.
I stop to throw some words down, just for play:
They echo in my head, these little posts —
And all of it is silliness,
And ghosts