POEM - The Thief Under the Sand Box

My earliest memory is a traumatic one

This must be what sustains it

What gives it permanence

It involves a prized possession

            And a horrific monster

When I was two we lived in Wymount Terrace

Married student housing at BYU

Known affectionately as the “Rabbit Hutches”

It was a fun for me

            There was a sand box and swing set

All down just two flights of stairs

I had just received a shaving kit

Brand new for my birthday

I could now join my dad in the morning

And knock down that stubble with ease

I had to use my dad’s shaving cream

But the razor was all mine

            Finest plastic blade available

A little dull, but it did the job

            Clean shave, no nicks ever

One day I took the whole thing down to the sand box

Set up shop

            Waited for customers

                        And played in the bright sand

I was daydreaming a little when I saw it

Out of the corner of my eye

            I saw the sand start to give way

Some black spindly legs started to emerge

And my beloved razor vanished

            Drawn down to the depths of the pit below

I was horrified and distraught

            It was then that my mother called

Rotten timing, but what could I do?

            I gathered the shambles of my kit

                        Ran up the stairs

                                    Explained every detail to my mother

All to incredulous looks and general disbelief

I can’t blame her, I barely believed it myself

Years later I came to terms with what happened

I was able to let it go . . . a little

Accompanied my wife to her class one day

A family studies class in the Cowden

They were discussing different psychologists

When one in particular was explained

My story suddenly made sense

This guy Piaget talked about being kidnapped

Oddly enough, when he was two

            But he wasn’t. He thought he was, but it was fake

It was a story, that had been told convincingly

Then he had filled in the blanks

            Made the whole thing real

I think my razor was probably the same thing

            I lost it in another way

Buried it in the sand and forgot where

            So, I made up the other story

                        Maybe to avoid getting in trouble

                        Maybe I wasn’t supposed to take the set out

Then my mind filled in intricate, horrible details

            Yeah, that’s got to be it

            That must be what happen

Still, I’m not going in that sandbox again

            And I never more take my razor outside

POEM - The Water Closet

Went to the new modern art museum

It had just opened and there were Calders

Even a couple of Warhol pieces

            Not the famous stuff

                        Some floating Mylar balloons he’d thought of

            Floating around a room aimlessly

The failing movie theater had converted

Reborn into a space for art to breathe

A new creature created by the new master

The architect had become a local star

This was his latest in a string of hits

I knew who he was from the library downtown

And because I had met his nemesis

I was delivering furniture to an amazing house

Tucked back in the Ahwatukee foothills

Looked almost like his stuff, but rounder

When we entered the second story bedroom

We were told to not worry

            The floor would hold us

The hallway floor was clear glass

            Butted up against a clear glass wall

Looking over the living room 20 feet below

I asked clumsily if this was a Bruder

The guy hung his head and shook

Like a prize fighter who is still standing

After a devastating right hook

"No man, it's mine! I designed this!"

I knew it wasn't quite Bruder’s style

Similar, but. Like I said, rounder

I told the story to my uncle

He's an architect too

He designed our house in Tucson

We were at the new museum

Discussing the art work and the building

I said "It's nice, but you know what was great?"

Without a pause he answered

"Yes, it was the restroom. Wasn't it great?"

That’s exactly right

The restroom was amazing

            Simplistic, architectural and masculine

Then he told me the thing,

The secret I thought only I knew

"You can really tell how good the architect is

by how cool the restrooms are.”

POEM - Not Quite Better Homes and Gardens

That place in Corvallis

Must have been a dive

Though it was probably called rustic

An old, tiny odd house

But I loved it there

I was five or six and oblivious

To the obvious flaws

Apparent to more discerning eyes

Those were the selling points

In my young world

All except the huge hole

In the floor of the mud room

I was certain a terrible fate

Lingered in the dark recesses

Romped and roamed in the crawlspace

Thought I saw a furry beast or two

Pop their head out and wink

Not quite human it was

But not all beast either

I would run by with wary eye

On my way to the better place

The small yard, overgrown and magical

It must have been old

I remember flowers and vines

And the whole back fence

Covered in blackberry bushes

That I gorged myself on

Whenever I got the chance

Indifferent to the scrapes

From jealous vines

Reticent to release the bumpy black fruit

If it was raining I was stuck inside

Left with limited options

To entertain myself

Tormenting my sister was a favorite

Until we would get separated

Alone, I would play with the ancient radiator

I used to lay my scraggly blond head

Against the cast iron tubes  

Until I smelled burning

Then I’d grasp the clump of singed hair

Now curly and orange

Fascinated by the transformation

POEM - Those Lowdown Blues

It had to be in ’88 when it happened

Flipped on the public radio station

Late Sunday evening

Trying to catch something to zone out to

A couple of times I caught radio plays

The best was “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”

The weirdest were the “Star Wars” ones

I listened either way

What was on this evening wasn’t a play

It was music,

Good music,

The Blues

I listened for a while

Became involved and entranced

These were old blues

Played on a turntable

Full of hisses and pops and hard to hear

The kind that grab you and don’t let go

This was the kind of show that grabbed you too

Because this guy, Bob Corritore, knew the blues

Talked about the songs

Put names and labels and stories and weight and knowledge

Into every one he could

He seemed to know them too

Had met or played with many of them

So it was even more good, more fun to hear

Like the plays I was listening to

Married to music by Reverend Bob

I got the idea to record a show or two

Listen to it in the car when it wasn’t Sunday night

The night I finally did, like it so often is

Was the night that mattered

Bob started going on about the next song

How it was a long one

Recorded a long time ago

There was even some intrigue in the story

Seems the Rolling Stones had ripped it off

Once I heard it, I knew why they had

It was “The Prodigal Son”

It was sung by Robert Wilkins

It is nearly ten minutes long

It is one of the best songs I ever heard

It changed me, man, it changed me

Over the next few months I listened

Over and over I listened

I wore out the tape listening

Listening to that gem

Right in the middle of side B

We are all prodigal sons

And the blues are how we know

Prodigal Son by Robert Wilkins

POEM - A Romantic Comedy

Shortly after the romantic comedy machine

Churned out its latest

Touchingly sweet commercial

She turns to me

With those eyes

I have loved for millennia

Turns and says longingly

She should have fought for me

She should have tried harder to understand me

That these problems we have,

Why don’t we face them

Why can’t we handle them head on

Like those people over there

And so I say something sensitive and heartfelt

Something to salvage our fragile time together

Something like,

“You have got to be kidding me!”

The reason we don’t fight harder for each other

Is we don’t have those problems

We are not complicated

We are just a couple . . .  

“A couple of what?” she asks, backing it with venom

A couple

That’s it, that’s the end of it, the whole statement

We are a couple without questions

But look how good they look

They still have problems

They are beautiful and muscular

Full of life and vigor and frivolity

Charming and brash and demure

And so interesting with their issues

Their complicated and interwoven lives

What kind of world is this

Where intriguing hot bods

Can’t find answers?

Can’t find true happiness?

Because my dear,

They don’t know what we know

They aren’t privileged

To live our great story

This legendary tale of love

And endless joy

Full of certainty

And a small sampling

Of several of the deadly sins

See, drama, we are sinners, there you go

But why don’t I look like that

With all the problems I seem to have?

It is precisely because we don’t look like that

That I have to make up problems

Just for your benefit

It’s because we look like this

That we are happy

And it is how we discovered such blissful serenity

“Oh shut up!” she says

With the launching of a pillow

And a roll towards me

To rest her head against my shoulder

Like some cheesy do-wop ballad

Wrapped in the comfort of middle-age

POEM - How I Found what I Wasn’t Looking For

I got lost in the Poetry Foundation website

Searching for a poet I know

Found ten more I didn’t

Then I couldn’t break away

It’s a problem I’ve always had

Only technology amplifies

Accentuates and enables

The inability to tear away

I would head into the library

Just one book was all I needed

But those dang librarians

Put all the books on display

And the horrible publishers

Make the covers so nice and attractive

And my mind suddenly remembers something

A thing I put on the back burner

To burst to the front when I entered the doors

And now it is all right here

I don’t even have to drive

Just click, click, click and another poem and another and another and . . . 

I came here looking for the Kenneth Fearing poem

That one about the funeral

It’s called “Dirge” and it molded me

When I found it hidden

In a collection I bought

In a thrift store in California

Exactly where it needed to be

The entire book was brilliant

Mid-century moderns all together

My favorite, favorite bunch of poets

Stabbing into my subconscious

One unexpected idea after another

So I found Fearing and someone else

On the side of the computer screen

The words said, “. . . But the Little Girls Understand”

I immediately started singing

I know this song, it’s the Doors

But this guy wasn’t writing about that version

He wasn’t writing about the old one either

He was writing about a live version

By the Knack, with Ray Manzarek’s help

Of course that deserves a poem

Of course I was going to love it

And this guy who wrote about it

This Steve Kistulentz guy

We are now best friends

At least for the five or ten minutes

Where I suck it all in

Good words, man, good words

You got it right, just perfect, I like it

Before I get lost in more words

Distracted away by the why

That always brings me in

And the what else that keeps me here

POEM - Landing the Helicopter

I always want to be the cool dad

Many times I’m the strict dad

Sometimes I’m the unreasonable dad

Or the mean dad

I never want to be the indifferent dad

So I make an effort to care

But caring takes work

And if they aren’t doing it right

You can care yourself into a situation

Where somebody ends up upset

Or crying or hurt or offended

So I’m sitting on the couch

Trying to keep the peace

Make it so nobody misses a word

We are watching something important

I really want everyone to hear

But they are kids

And they have to share a couch

And there are dogs

And there are boring parts

And someone is hungry

The perfect conditions

For a perfect storm

So I take an extra second

Ask myself what is really necessary

Try not to act too quickly

Let some things just work out

My wife calls it picking my battles

Everyone else understands this concept

Except me, apparently

I tried it

Let the dogs roam more freely

Let the kids solve the territory issues

Let the decibels rise a little higher

It seemed to work

At least I was a lot happier

Got to sit with my wife

My arm wrapped around her shoulder

For a good two hours

As I learned my lesson

And she reclined against me

POEM - The Exorcism of the Spaghetti Demon

The week of the spaghetti dinners

Was drawing to a close

I didn't know what sin I had committed to deserve this

I guess getting fed 7 days in a row

Was nothing to complain about

But so much spaghetti

In more varieties than I thought possible

Every single night

Each one more horrifying

Than the night before

I felt bad,

but this time was different

This time the bad was more physical

More intrusive

Than a simple dislike

The last installment had been the most evil

As I came to the end of the second serving

I saw it . . .

Mold on the noodles

This wasn't going to be good

It didn't hit right away

But it did hit . . . Hard

The first manifestation was from below

As all contents of my intestines

And of every other part of my body

Pushed out into the septic system

Of suburban Rancho Cucamonga

And yet I was not finished

As I sat and moaned the night away

Grasping my stomach

praying for death

As the clock struck 2 am I left my bed

Strolled out to the balcony

On the second floor of the apartment

Hoping the cool air would do some good

Reclining on the plastic furniture

Beholding the vastness

Of the firmament above

As the machinations proceed in the course

That would conclude this horrific episode

Then suddenly all the cylinders

Dropped forcefully into place

It was a signal that could not be mistaken

My only option was to grasp the railing

And let the flood depart

Feeling like first Chinese brother

Holding the sea in my mouth

I also could not contain it forever

So it fell, like thousands of skinny worms

Over the edge

Into the bushes below

Wave upon wave,

Relentless and repulsive

Until I was finally released from its grasp

Allowed to retain my life

Even as my dinner departed violently

I collapsed back into my chair

Again looking at the stars in a daze

Feeling a different kind of bad

Related to what the grounds keepers would find

As they trimmed the hedge

In the morning

POEM - Impromptu Duo . . . Gymnastics

Last night I had an amazing dream

I was competing again

Like I did in high school

Like the good old  Forensics days

Practicing “The Cremation of Sam McGee”

Only this was a different sport

Last night I actually had a mildly disturbing dream

It was Buddy and I

Together again!

Practicing scenarios and technique

But no more acting drunk

Mugging for the camera

Goofing off after school in the lecture hall

We were in the gym

Now older and over weight

In spandex

Running through flips and spins

I’m not quite sure why

Or how this happened

What I do know is, we are good

I mean really good

In a “contradiction-of-the-laws-of-physics” way

And the big competition is soon

Just a few days, pressure mounting

I begin the routine by holding a handstand

Inverted splits, one handed,  on the balance beam

Buddy vaults in over the top of me

Tucks into a somersault

Pops up into a perfect pirouette

Does a few spins and leaps

As I set up my next trick

I make a dramatic entrance as I roll in

Balancing on a huge blue rubber ball

I meander back and forth

Like a bear in a clown suit at the circus

Then we are at the competition

Despite all expectations we are winning

And the mean girls are so upset

Several attempts to sabotage us fail

There is a dramatic finish,

Cheers, tears and triumph

You know how these things go

And It felt good

Being able to move that way

I feel relieved we did so well

Won the day

The blue ribbon

Best in show

And I hope Buddy is happy too

That he doesn’t get too jealous

As it turns out

I was kind of the star!

POEM - Way Too Many Puppies

My desk at home is in a great spot

It sits up against a door

That has no practical purpose

But is equipped with windows

That look out on the porch

I can also see a section of the front yard

Spring has begun to move in

Things are getting green, renewed

All the world growing

This seems pleasant at first

Until I realize what is growing

I expect flowers and leaves and grass

What I get is dogs

All kinds of dogs

Every variety imaginable

Many of them constructed badly

Of multiple other dogs mashed together

I sit back and see them

First two or three

Then four, then eight

Then I lose count

Pretty soon my front lawn is replaced

I could literally walk from door to road

Touching nothing but canine

Then I hear a ruckus grow from below

I know what has happened

The mongrel hoard has begun to sprout

In the darkness of the crawlspace

It starts quietly then grows

A cacophony of baying and howling

As if to shake the foundations of my home

Then the foundations do shake

And lift and move and shuffle

As I am suddenly transported willy-nilly

Hither and yawn at the mercy of the mutts

I run for the door, grab my coat

Grab my wife and kids

Make a dash for the back door

To escape our home and surrender

There are just way too many puppies

And this place has gone to the dogs

POEM - A Little Fight That Ended All Right

The uneasy silence that settled

Only to be interrupted

By intermittent explosions

Was all my fault

I got upset at one of the kids

Had to search the house twice over

Couldn’t find it

Was all in a huff

Pressed the issue a minute, or two,

Longer than it needed to be

Left everyone in a bad mood

Something I had to fix

I am the designated leader

Head of household

According to my IRS filing status

And though I prefer to file jointly

This was still all my fault

Luckily the mood wasn’t too heavy

To accept the intrusion of music

So we let the Lumineers play

Folksy contemporary and fun

Out of the corner of my eye

It looked like your leg was tapping along

I turned to look

It was just the light through the trees

A fast switch between light and dark

A trick of nature

Making the bad feelings

Flutter away with the miles

“Ho!” . . .  “Hey!”

The tune crept into all of us

Until everyone was singing along

POEM - First Child

I have meant to write this

For a long time

A present of sorts

Something for you to take

A simple verse all your own

I almost waited too long

You almost left home

Empty handed

I will tell you I tried

That I did my best

You were an easy at first

Your mom and I thought we were brilliant

Parents of the year

You would just play and sleep

Not bother anyone, smile a lot

Could take you anywhere

Always welcome by family and friends

Most of the first decade was that way

Though a lot of it you don’t remember

You were either too young

Or the memory was stolen

When that growth formed

Right behind your eye

In the middle of your brain

Even then you were easy going

Laughed it off

Asked for ice cream

Kept smiling through it all

When that was finally over

Things got better

Sometimes got worse

Had our fights

Had our good times

Just normal and expected

Then we took you away

Just as everything was starting to get good

Made you leave everything

Crossed the entire country

Dropped you in the middle of a place

With no one that understood you

So now it is time to leave us

Try something new

Find out who you are

I finished this just in time

Before you head of on unseen paths

Journey to new lands

Meet new people

Show them how to smile

Share the gentle soul

That makes you who you are

POEM - The Southland: Prelude

April is a kind month here

Hedged in budding green

Along the river in muddy paths

Dusted with a yellow blanket

We walked there, we still walk there

To see the levels of the water

Raising and lowering, ebb and flow

As the river goes

So goes time and life

In and out of all the ways and paths

Of all the streets and sub-streets

Alleys and dead-ends and in-between

All the paths converge and feed

Run off to the waiting course

The air joins in to hold its part

Heavy and moist the humid vapors

Hang as a reminder

A memory that won’t be pushed aside

As days just past in our Southern land

When we walked and wandered

And felt the emotion in the air

The passion of the river that leads

Runs through, run through

Run on through and never stop

It never stops even  in the shining sun

The air will always carry the memory

Of those heavy days of passion

When the south was our new home

All was new to strangers led blind

To a strange new land

Welcomed and taken in

The hospitality of legend

Alive and well

Flowing and ceaseless

A river to rely on, a river relied on

Deep it runs so deep and still

Life it runs on life so deep

So deep and still and life runs on

Runs and flows over and around

Up and down and April comes

No longer cruel since it was stolen

Away from the West to the Southland