Rain Mates

Let’s just skip the stones

and get dirty.

Mud pies in the face.

Bear disgrace.

Fall into place.

Wallow and weep

into each other’s eyes.

The river’s a half-peck

away from your cheek.

We’re weak,

let’s cinder sneak.

We know who we are

from where we were,

and now is now.

The Oh, Honestly

parts of us wait

in the rain,

the ripples

kissing each other

with grace.

Saving Place

Like a book mark,

a fallen tree.

I heard the echo threreof

and fell too,

marking the place in which

I left off

like so many other pages

cleft in the forest.

 

Tell me again

why these memories gather moss,

bear termite bits,

and sit like cairns in conversations.

Let me know

How to live

after I rise above the imprint

and gather its shadow

like a jacket.

 

How do I lumber along this path?

Seeing forward, glancing back,

giving ground behind and before,

I set my face like flint,

grateful for shafts of light

and the affect thereof.

Another fall into grace.

 

 

Mourning Joe

I poured clouds in my coffee,

Not to shade the cream,

But to brighten the cocoa.

 

The bitter bite of sips

edges shaved with cream,

Sweet swill of caffeine.

 

“Hey Joe, what you going to do

With that mug in your hand?”

“Just one shot of dairy.”

 

“That’s not the half-n-half of it.”

Ambiguous Intention

I was going to be grateful,

I really was.

I breathed into a new day,

And got distracted

By the bacon and its applause,

By the smell wending to my

Nose while the eggs cuddled

In its campfire grease.

Then I looked away

At the bird perched across

The field under the strands

Of pinkish, blueish, grayish

Morning light,

And I wondered how the grackle

Got so lucky to sit and be.

I got jealous of its ability

To defy gravity,

While I drank a bit of coffee.

Gratitude will just have to wait,

While I sit with my feet

Over the register under my desk–

The furnace kicked on…

I’ll be thankful later.

Sunday Psalm

Morning Dew

Unfold my arms,

Relax these tight shoulders.

 

Come, this wide-eyed morning

And lay these hesitancies on the dew.

 

Soak them mercifully, and grace

These fists in their clenched resistance.

 

Palms up, lifeline exposed

In vulnerable sweat.

 

Break upon my heart

Like the broken light,

 

Shards all around.

Toilet Paper. Three Sheets to the Wind.

Skimming through some old posts this one caught my eye. I was on a roll.

Gerald the Writer

Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt in his memoir Angela’s Ashes told the story of going back to his father’s Ireland. He had to go the 2nd number and that required him to use his grandpa’s outhouse. Nailed to the wall of the room-with-no-view was newsprint. His father had to instruct him.

I am a father too. I had to instruct too, butt  but not like my post-depression-era father—he used three sheets only, (single-ply, double-ply, or triple) only three. Sorry to put that image out there. Exit this post now and wipe it off. Geez.

What I really want to focus on is the empty…

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