Poetry

At age 15 they say the Virgin Mary gave birth to Jesus.   At age 15 they say Juliet fell in love with Romeo.   At age 15 they say my great grandmother immigrated to the United States from Poland.   At age 15 they say a girl took a gun to her Christian school…

My grandather tried to teach me how to tie a bowline. It’s a knot. I couldn’t do it. My father taught me to tie my shoes on the very first try. Bragged about it. Told my Mom. “On the very first try.” Couldn’t get over it. But Gramps gave up. Stood there with his Pall…

My father once said, “I don’t care if you love me, as long as you respect me.” My father once said, “If you go to war I’ll pray for your death.” My father once cursed me, in response to my answer to his question, “Why do you think I spent all that money on you?”…

Today I felt so verklempt. You know the feeling. Even if you’re not Scandinavian. I got an idea. I attached a set of rabbit ear antennas to my manual typewriter, just behind the platen where it wouldn’t interfere with the keys and by golly. What a difference it makes. I’ve got another idea.   ƒ

Here’s what I want you to understand. Let’s see if I can make it clear.   On a busy thoroughfare headed downhill the wrong way in traffic a city dump truck, one of the big ones, broke down.   Loaded with dirt and brush, equipped with a hydraulic boom and a claw big enough to…

Let me cross the line. The one you drew for me out there somewhere. Way up ahead. Not the one you drew for others. Not their limits or their exploits. The one true line made for me with my name on it. Let me hit it running and run beyond way beyond a winner. ƒ

Today just a few moments ago I sat outside listening to the birds singing outside the way they do when summer is promised and spring is here and winter is gone. They sang together. Him and Her. Them together. Back and forth in ecstasy of their sort in the trees up high and I listened.…

You call my name and I hear my voice. You are the voice of love to me. The short sweet syllable of life. A message to arise and be alive. Thank you. For with you a moment and in that moment eternity. ƒ

I don’t want to do it. I weary of man made holographs. Images that aren’t really there. Like the past. Screw it. A parlor game. An interesting talking point, but nothing worth going back to live again and even if I could the message remains the same. The new time out ahead is far more…

A handful she picked off the ground. Burnished autumn crinkly and brown. “Leaves,” she cried ecstatically. “Look, leaves,” to her mother. Her father. Any one who’d care. She wanted the world to care, she cared so much. “Leaves,” as though she knew all about gold. I know about everything and I don’t care. All I…