poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
birds unknown kind
A dozen birds — unknown kind,
beaks into the December wind —
cut through the pinkening sky
like ink spots on a silk sheet.
A full morning moon shines
in the ice patches on the sidewalk,
sharing a laugh with Jupiter.
19 December 2013
State College, PA
anywhere
(for Bernie and John)
who wouldn’t want to get into the police box
tie your fate to the whims of a mad explorer
touch down everywhere and everywhen
never quite knowing what lies beyond the door
my older son says he wouldn’t want to go into space
which makes me sad, because as a child (and even now)
I wanted to go into space more than almost anything
but he’s grown up in a world without human spaceflight
a time when we’ve stopped reaching for the stars
(an idea even Casey Kasem understood)
when we’re content to limit our vision to what’s easy
rather than set our sights on what’s just beyond reach
so, with no real-life exploration to inspire us
I’ll do the next best thing — I’ll give my boys a box
that’s bigger on the inside, that can go anywhere
and I’ll use it to show them they can go anywhere too
15 December 2013
Oak Street
saturday evening vignette
the teacups washed, dried, put away
all the chopsticks in the same direction
bottoms up in a plastic cup
the counter cleaned, bare, promising
a mug of hot chocolate cooling on the desk
outside, the distinct lines of cars blurring
under the snow that’s been falling since morning
inside, the radiators wash the room with warmth
enough so that I’m in a short-sleeved shirt
unshowered, glasses on, pausing between words
as I try to capture some small piece of this day
before placing it gently on a shelf with its siblings
14 December 2013
Oak Street
in the parking lot of Kildare’s
a light snow was falling
as the music ended
just enough that we
spent a few extra minutes
seeing each breath
as we brushed off our cars
and although I complain
about the ice and the cold
I was conceived in the heart
of a New England winter
and first fell in love as the snow
piled in mighty drifts high
on the southern shore of Lake Ontario
all those many years ago
11 December 2013
Oak Street
the boy studies piano and magic
for Nico Soffiato
he studies both so that when he presses
a key, he can make everything disappear
whatever happened in school, anything
said to him on the playground, the bus
all the cares that have newly arrived on
his nine-year-old shoulders, unexplained
he puts one finger down, a tone rings out
the sound moves around the room like
an eraser, leaving nothing in its wake
but itself, pure and clear and honest
the boy closes his eyes, feels the music
seep in through his skin like a soft rain
the kind that gets down deep beneath
the plants, down to the rivers that run
where no one can see, like the stream
that is already forming inside the boy
then the note fades — abracadabra —
everything returns, but better
4 December 2013
Oak Street
I watch him fall to the floor
see the light overtake his face
when it fades, he is born again
3 December 2013
Oak Street
/ / /
This is the kind of poem you write after finally finishing the William Hartnell era of Doctor Who.
Leave a CommentI awoke beside an open notebook
while the radiator gurgled away
the sharp bite of a December night
2 December 2013
Oak Street
nearly midnight on a Sunday
it’s nearly midnight on a Sunday
the time when I start wondering
who’ll next be beside me when
it’s nearly midnight on a Sunday
when the snow is blowing against
the window and the bed creaks as
we move closer under the blankets
skin on skin, warm and content
1 December 2013
Oak Street
the streets are full of shouting
in the southern college town
where the last second counted
30 November 2013
Oak Street
[Photo: Melissa Humble, Auburn University Photo Services]
Leave a Comment
For quite some time after she
boarded the plane for Las Vegas
I was obsessed with books about
time travel, hoping that some-
where in their pages I’d find
a second chance to choose to go.
Years later she told me that she’d
cried all the way across the country.
I hadn’t had the luxury of tear-filled
days when it happened, so it wasn’t
until that phone call, as we finally
realized that our time had passed
forever, that I sprawled across the bed
and wept.
29 November 2013
Oak Street
you can kick only so many people
off your remote desert island
before you wake up under a palm tree alone
28 November 2013
Oak Street
wee hours, awakening
from a doze to frosted windows
the neighborhood silent, asleep
23 November 2013
Oak Street
burning eyes half-closed, head full of cotton
time to get under the covers
await the cold November morning
21 November 2013
Oak Street
my first night in Japan
(for the Inoue family)
I slept for twenty-four hours
at least that’s how I
remember it happening
then we had miso soup with
tiny clams in the bottom
of each wooden bowl
we were seated around
a dining room table
on regular chairs
all things I’d been told
not to expect to find
10,000 miles from home
it was my host mom, brother
two sisters and me;
obaasan ate in her own room
we brought her a tray, some
for her, some for the shrine
to her late husband
it was when we put our hands
together to remember him
that I fell in love with Japan
19 November 2013
Oak Street
more birds than I’ve ever seen at once
flying in a great horde above Atherton Street
off to conquer a warmer kingdom
18 November 2013
Oak Street