V. 2, #183: September 28, 2013

The kids are outside playing on the swings,
which means inside, an eerie silence reigns.
These moments I can steal for other things:
I can veg out with TV, wrack my brains

for clever rhymes I might use in a verse,
or read a book--my God, such luxury!
Just drink a cup of tea? I could do worse.
I'm paralyzed by possibility!

But no, the whoosh of sliding patio door
alerts me quiet time is at its end.
The house is mere cacophony once more,
the broken peace beyond my skill to mend.

My singing muses suddenly are mute.
Good thing for children they're so fucking cute.

V. 2, #158: September 3, 2013

I used to read that Larkin poem and smile:
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad." How true,
I thought! Equal parts tenderness and bile
in that, "They may not mean to, but they do."

But now I scan Phil's verse with different eyes.
The focus shifts, seen from the other side,
when one's done harm he could not recognize
as such, however hard he might have tried.

You had your chances, sure--you might have said
a good, kind thing. Might not have raised your voice
at small mistakes. Taught happiness instead
of bitterness. You could. You had that choice.

I only hope one day I live to see
my son a good, kind man--in spite of me.

V. 2, #109: July 15, 2013

I know it's quite unlikely I'm the best
of all the guys from whom you had your pick;
there must have been at least one of the rest
who'd make my love and care look downright sick.

He would have brought you flowers every day,
been better with the kids and loved his job,
have pleased you more in every single way,
and not become a balding, grumpy slob;

And yet you've stuck with me for eighteen years,
despite each careless word and dumb mistake
that caused you pain and inadvertent tears
those other, better men would never make.

I guess there's only one way to explain
your love for me, my darling: you're insane.

V. 2, #104: July 10, 2013

The sink is full of dishes, and the kids
will want something to fill their bellies soon.
The pots and pans are missing all their lids,
the cupboard's bare--it's one familiar tune.

The pizza place is miles on down the street,
and I don't have the cash on hand for tips.
But still, we're going to need some food to eat,
and more substantial than this bag of chips.

If only I had found a magic lamp
when I was young! I'd rub it and produce
a feast fit for a conquering general's camp
in ancient times. Caesar--ah, what's the use?

I guess it's PBJ's and milk again.
Lord bless this haute cuisine we got. Amen.

V. 2, #88: June 24, 2013 (For My Daughter, on Her 9th Birthday)

Thea, my love, my most beautiful rose,
today I sing the glory of your birth--
who brought down to this undeserving Earth
perfumes no other flower could disclose;

You put the gentle summer breeze to shame,
such is the loving warmth you radiate--
a beauty poetry can't duplicate,
a sweetness that could have no other name.

Whatever sadnesses may yet remain
for me, whatever tragedy still lies
in wait, I have known happiness enough;
for galaxies of stars could not contain
the simple sacred wonder of your eyes,
nor bound the vastness of your father's love.

V. 2, #61: May 28, 2013

Perhaps I'm getting soft in my old age,
my stony stoic front ground down by years.
It seems ridiculous at this late stage
to be so often moved to senseless tears;

The radio brings trite, corn-sweetened pap
that blurs the road until I wipe my eyes;
News stories leave me misting like a sap
for reasons hard to consciously surmise.

A harsh word from my son, my daughter's kiss,
a half-remembered line of poetry,
and I'm a blubbering mess. What causes this
strange flood of new sentimentality?

Rain, wind, and time lay veins once covered bare;
and nerves pain sharpest, thus exposed to air.

V. 2, #45: May 12, 2013

I cannot give you everything you want,
or even most of it--that's just a fact.
My pockets aren't a never-drying font
of golden coins; my mattress is not packed

with Franklins, hidden from you out of spite,
or some perverse desire to kill your joys.
I don't withhold from malice--though I might!
Fit punishment for greedy little boys.

In truth, the little money that I make,
left over after mortgage, bills, and food,
I freely give; you just as freely take,
and call me stingy when it's gone. How rude!

One day you'll have a job, and understand.
Till then, for answer take this empty hand.

 

V. 2, #7: April 3, 2013

The smell of motor oil still makes me think
of fish. My uncles pulling up the drive
with river water pouring out the back
of that flat, dented boat they always took
to check their trot lines; then they'd lug the chest
of bluegill bream and channel cat on ice
into the dingy, cinder-block garage

Where old petroleum mixed with the stink
of doomed aquatic creatures, still alive,
mouths gaping as in shock. The men would smack
the catfish with a mallet. Wrenches shook
on pegboard, vicious pliers bit down to wrest
the skin from flesh. The bream they'd scale and slice,
while I crouched down beside the bench to watch.

 

#443: Considering My Cat Eli

I live my life in service of a cat--
a cold, ungrateful, evil sort of beast.
And though my care keeps him healthy and fat,
he never deigns to thank me in the least.

I've let him keep his claws, and my reward
is watching him destroy my drapes and chairs.
He walks the house as if he were the lord
and I a vassal far beneath his cares.

Despite the food bowls I fill and refill
he never purrs beneath my gentle stroke,
He would not care for me should I fall ill,
and if I died, he'd eat me. What a joke.

I'd get no love if I had his dish pewtered.
I think next week I'm going to have him neutered.

#434: Grammar Lesson

A noun? Well, that's a person, or a thing--
could be a place--like Dallas. Boston. Crete.
Your dog, who you don't feed. Your Uncle Pete.
Your Lego blocks; that kite without its string.

Crete? That's near Greece. The country, not the lard.
Though both are nouns. One's proper, one is not.
A kind of name, like Archibald, or Scott,
Or Shady Rest Resort. It's not that hard.

An adjective describes the noun, you see:
The messy room. The sassy little kid
Who gets no spankings like his father did
For smarting off the way you do to me...

I tell you, if you'd been my father's son--
Whazzat? Ah, never mind. Now, are we done?

#418: Worst Case Scenario

The skateboard waiting by the bottom stair:
concussion. Broken ankle. ER trip.
Deep tissue bruise. Brain damage. Just one slip,
and Tragedy can catch you unaware.

The bike ride down the driveway: not so bad;
but then, a speeding car. You draw your breath
to warn him--screeching tires and certain death.
And all your fault. You should have been there, Dad.

But worse than this: you make that one wrong choice
or say some angry words you can't take back.
Then years down the line: the blood-red hate
shot through his eyes, the venom in his voice,
his childish memories all edged in black--
and you, speechless and old, grown wise too late.
_

#409: Saturday with the Kids

It used to be, a weekend was two days
of fun and frolic, hours without a care;
we'd wake up with the morning's warming rays
near changed to afternoon--now such is rare.

We used to read our books in quiet peace,
sometimes all afternoon, and then at night
we'd go out to a club (dinner at least)
and make love till the dawn--that was all right.

But nowadays, it's up at six a. m.;
it's playdates, soccer games, overnight guests.
It never can be us, it's always them,
and gone is peace and quiet, sex and rest.

They scoff, "You'll miss it one day, just you wait!"
Maybe--but on that day, I'll sleep in late.

_

#404: Pediatrician's Appointment

The longer they were gone, the more it seemed
that something must be wrong; he tried to think
of harmless things, but something in him screamed
it was all lies. The monsters in the sink
of his black thoughts raised up their heads and danced.
They sang the names of all their progeny--
bone cancer, diabetes--devil rants
occluding all his rationality.

And when at last they walked back through the door,
the doctor's good report clear in their eyes,
he could have wept for joy--except he knew
this was a moment's respite; there were more
worries ahead, more nights of fearful sighs--
years yet for all his nightmares to come true.
_

#395: A New Worry

As if you had not taken yet enough
from me of Life's enjoyment, span of years,
and nights of rest--another cause for fears
slides suddenly from your pressed, black suit cuff

And flutters to the ground, it's brazen face
turned up for all to see: the Deuce of Spades.
And so another nightmare thought invades
a mind where calm seldom enough has place.

I think of you, a skull whose grinning teeth
are rotten, in your fist a sugar bowl
you sprinkle in the bloodstreams of your prey.
If there were one gift I would not bequeath
my child, one wish I'd barter for my soul--
but you, Devil, take even that away.
_

#389: Sunday Night Clean-Up

It's Sunday night--we cannot now ignore
the mess the kids have made; it must be faced:
the action figures strewn across the floor
as though some massacre had taken place;

A horse's head lies, mounted on a stick,
like some Godfather's warning in your bed;
a Nerf Gun choice of weapons--take your pick--
or have a Jedi lightsaber instead!

Stuffed animals like trophies from a hunt,
and one splayed, naked, shameless Barbie doll.
The leavings of some spry, tornadic runt
already snug and sleeping down the hall.

Ah, hell, let's leave it there another day;
and if it gets too bad--we'll move away.
_

#373: The Futility of Valor

I guess it's war between us from now on;
it's no use to pretend it's otherwise--
for every father fights with every son,
viciously, all their lives, till someone dies.

Right now the terms of battle follow thus:
"Clean up your room! Put dishes in the sink!
Don't you talk back to me! No time to fuss--
now brush your teeth! To bed, you little fink!"

They wear me down, these nightly screams and tears,
that face darkened like rainclouds fit to burst,
these silent, hate-filled glares, contempt-full jeers--
I wonder which of us will weaken first?

No matter--I'm the one who writes this poem,
but he's the one who picks the nursing home.

#363: April 21, 2007

How does he do it? Just seven years old,
and already an expert at discord.
His blue-eyed glare makes parents' veins go cold;
he cuts down to the dark blood with a word.

With sadistic precision, lashing out,
he somehow hits exactly the right things
to murder my restraint--I twitch and shout
and twist, a puppet strangling on his strings.

I know one day maturity will come
as much to ripen him as rescue me;
so make haste, dotage, pull us safely from
this grim morass of young hostility.

And if I'm senile when the fighting ends,
at least my son and I might part as friends.

#316: March 5, 2007

Will knew something was wrong. He saw right through
my fear-strained smile, where worry lined each cheek
like hard-pressed pencil marks. I tried to speak
calmly, but even three-years-old, he knew.

I had to bring him back. He did not play
while I cleaned out my desk, dropped photos in
a box (his birthday snaps, that carefree grin)
and tried, and failed, to find something to say.

And when he asked me why you let me go,
and saw my face grow dark, I saw my fears
reflected in his eyes--blue, bright with tears
to hear me, broken, say "Son, I don't know."

And now he's learned that friends aren't always good--
a lesson I'd unteach him, if I could.

#314: March 3, 2007

She's screaming just as loud as she can scream,
throwing her toys and stomping little feet--
a siren wail, a back-teeth-grinding bleat
that roars and pours out of her like a stream.

This two-year tantrum titan, royalty
whose stubborn ire is writ down in her genes,
whose ancestry were famous for the scenes
they caused (yes, she comes by it honestly);

No binkies--she will not be pacified;
and past a certain point, not even treats
will stem the flow of noise that so defeats
our reason, uncontrolled and amplified--

O Thea, how I dread your screeching wrath,
and hope it quiets once you've had your bath.

#292: February 9, 2007

"Do not go swimming in the drainage ditch.
Remember berries are not safe to eat.
Don't crawl through weeds, unless you want to itch,
and look both ways before you cross the street.

"Don't converse with nor take candy from strangers.
Don't run between cars after soccer balls.
For children must be vigilant of dangers;
and always, always come when Mother calls."

"But how, Mom," asked young Edward, "can I play
with all your prohibitions in my head?
If this cruel world's as dangerous as you say,
hadn't I better hide at home instead?"

His mom looked at her son, then at the door--
wondering what she'd procreated for.