POEM - Waiting to See

Today she was tired

A little less energetic

As we sat in the waiting room

A heavy question in the air

She stared for a long time

Into the fish tank

Bubbling away in the corner

As I filled out the usual forms

Told the same story

Same as a hundred times before

As the bubbles kept rising uninterrupted

She didn’t even have the energy to care

That the tank was a ruse

An vessel empty of life

All systems doing their work

With nary a fish

To give a purpose

To the machinations each was employed in

When I finished the paperwork

We sat together

In a time apart

Not willing to mention anything

That might be seen as important

Tom and Jerry were on the TV

Acting out the Wizard of Oz

As if they played some part

Helped Dorothy win through

Showed them actually filling the bucket

That killed the Wicked Witch

And I remembered why I hated Tom and Jerry

But she didn’t watch

Resting on my shoulders

Her head settling deep into my arm

Minutes from a nervous sleep

Because it’s a way for a kid to deal

When they are eleven

And afraid they might be minutes away

From some strange person

Sticking a large needle in them

Just for the fun of it

She yawned

Asked for food

Stared at the invisible fish

And then puts on that look she has

That lets you know she’s thinking hard

You know my friend?

She hates the term “surgically removed”

She thinks it’s icky

            I think I will say it all day tomorrow

That’s what I was waiting for

Even in the face of uncertainty

She still sees the weird

In all the possibilities ahead of her

POEM - My September Story

I sat at my desk

With nothing to do

Except answer phones

Apologize

Stare off into the distance

Walk outside now and then

Look up at the flight path over head

And see nothing but sky

The planes were all grounded

The silence noticeably eerie

It was unreal

Pictures of something

That looked staged

All the way over there

Another world apart

From my desk in cubicle land

Somewhere in the Arizona desert

What I latched onto

In the moment of chaos

Was September Thirteenth

That was when Cake was coming

The tickets sitting at home

I’d had them for a month

And it was all I could focus on

When buildings crumble

It’s often the flowers that bloom

From the discordant rumble

That rebuild the path to hope

My hope lay in impossibility

That a band on tour

Could make it into town

When all the planes stopped flying

Luckily the buses still worked

Luckily Cake understood

That we might need them to make it

Even if it was just for a few people

They could make a difference

Maybe help heal something broken

Understood it was no coincidence

That their song Comfort Eagle

Had a Middle Eastern sound

Which meant all the more

As they played intensely that night

Because we weren’t afraid to be there

And we weren’t afraid to sing

Spirits free to soar

Unobstructed

On a clear September night

POEM - Wonton Soup

The gray air sat

Motionless

On the shoulders of everyone

Bustling along

The busy Portland street

Fall tries so hard

To hold you in place

The set up for winter

When the crystal ice

Covers every stationary inch

I thought nothing of winter

My hand grasped tight

As my father led me along

We’d met him for lunch

Found him standing on the street

Awaiting our arrival

Just outside his office

Near the Lloyd District

We sought sustenance

In the Chinese restaurant

Nestled in the bottom corner

Of some old building

Bright and warm and welcoming

The cold, wet outside air

Clung to the windows

But got no further

The steam rose and gasped

While delightful smells circulated

Soon I received soup

Something new

Not the egg drop variety

I had become enamored of

This was thin and savory

With floating noodle triangles

As I bit into the slick noodles

There was a little surprise

A tasty little cube of pork

The sky tried hard to break in

Hurt by how easily we forgot

That just outside the window

A chill wind blew

Indifferent I warmed my belly

Slurping down wonton soup

POEM - The Thing

The year The Thing came home

To live with us and be ours

Life was just better

Because it’s hard to have worries

When the top is down

The wind is in your hair

And the sun is shining just right

And we had our troubles

It was a difficult relationship

The Thing had some baggage

Left over from its previous resident

A bum motor and a crummy generator

But it was a labor of love

Each time I sat there

Twisting a bolt

Or changing a part

In anticipation of our next journey

After I got the new engine in

And four new tires

I was sitting at work

Answering phones at SkyMall

Thinking more about my car

Than any of the voices in my ear

It was more than I could take

I asked Loren if he wanted to go for a ride

We jumped in the car

Fired up the engine

And drove around the parking lot

Then I took it too far

But at the time it was purely practical

I needed to show him

That my car wouldn’t bottom out

No matter what

So we raced off across the dirt lot

That sat inside the work compound

The future site of something

That never came to be

I plowed through a huge indentation

Did a few donuts

And never once hit bottom

I guess I should have known

When Agnes or Gretchen or whatever her name was

Came walking out of the warehouse

I knew she’d snitch

Just to make someone else

As miserable as she looked

Back in the lunch room

We were jovial and happy

The heady rush of adrenaline

Slowly receding

When our supervisor found us

            Were you doing donuts. . .

                        In the parking lot?!?!

Yeah! I said emphatically

            Um . . . Don’t do that.

And he walked off shaking his head

I hadn’t expected such disapproval

It made it even funnier

Loren and I cracked up

When we were sure he was gone

In the end The Thing went away

Based on a foolish assumption

That we needed to be responsible

What we needed was a convertible

Let our problems go

            Fly away in the breeze

                        Whipping through our flowing hair

POEM - Flaming George . . . I mean Gorge

I didn’t go to the cabin

Nearly as much as the cousins

They lived just down the mountain

But I loved it there

Whenever we got to go

To see my grandparents

After they left the SoCal hustle

And adopted the slower pace

And the quite life

Of a place off the beaten path

But we never really change

Wherever we are we are who we are

See, things are funny in my family

Everything is funny

And grandpa loved his words

So he called the place wrong

Whenever grandma was around

Told us we were going to Flaming George

Then grandma would slap him

Roll her eyes and say Oh Don!

And he’d apologize

            I’m sorry; that’s Gorge. Flaming Gorge

Just in time to begin his dam jokes

As we drove down the dam road

To cross the big dam

And see all the dam water

Flowing into the dam river

Wave to the dam people

And have a fun dam time!

The further he stretched it

The less of a pun it was

Until he said one that really was a curse

And my grandma would roll her eyes

For the fourteenth time

Just during the ten minutes it took

To get down to where the rafts launched

And it wouldn’t be long

Until the rafting was done

Or the cliff diving was over

And the exploring was suspended

At least until tomorrow

And we’d all return to the cabin

To be together

Play games and laugh

Hear more puns

            And exaggerate our groans

Because that last one

            Well, it was actually kind of funny

POEM - On the Shore of the Sky

This evening my team didn’t win

Off the TV goes in disgust

But I am greeted with near silence

The rumble of the refrigerator working

Is the only disturbance

I lean my head back on the couch

Rest it against the window

And look up into the sky

There is something different about this view

The tree overhead

Seems like it is the tendrils of an aquatic bog

Thrusting out into the graying blue sky

I can watch and meditate

In the background I hear a couple of kids

Playing nicely in the bedroom

So I return to the scene overhead

As a bird swims by in a flash

Takes refuge in some hollow of the pond

Out of sight

Next to the deserted wasp colony

At rest on the shore of the sky

I must look like I’m drowning

To all of these free swimming creatures

Who can spin through the eddies of the air

Catch the waves of the wind storm

Narrowly avoid crashing into tree and bush

While I am trapped in my tank

Curiously observed

By a crimson cardinal

Or the pointed head blue jay

With its feathers like stained glass

As they float by so at ease

While I foolishly think of my comfort

How much I gain from my civilized life

Arrogantly holding the elements at bay

Unaware of the pity afforded me

As I only watch the ebb and flow

And never wash myself in freeing waters

Nor fly amidst the azure sphere

POEM - Jungle in the Corner

In the corner of the front yard

Of my grandparent’s house

There is a little area

Where the roof line comes down low

And there is a little garden

Where we would always play

The little corner is secluded and peaceful

It’s where the elephant ears grow

Up over the birds of paradise

With their striking plumage

Silent and watching

As I enjoy my jungle life

And I liked to sit in that corner

Under the shade of the giant leaves

Watching the light push through

Change from the bright yellow shine

Becoming a soft green caress

As it filters through the chlorophyll

I watch a crawling snail and hear the echo of lions

POEM - Flock Visits

Another twilight comes

Finds the two companions

Walking up to another door

Of another unlit home

Trying to make their visits

Check on the flock

And support the downtrodden

The older man on the left

Lacks the youthful bounce

Found in the step of the man on the right

But he has the determination

A will that is the deep, still waters

Created from raising a large family

And coming from a humble upbringing

Taught by good parents

A father who showed him the way

To visit the half-hearted

But treat them like they were fully committed

A mother who never stood in the way

When duty called

And others were in need

So the man walks up to the door

A prayer runs through his mind

Of hope that this time will be different

That someone will be home

Will have time to talk

That he will make a difference

Instead of just an effort

All day driving around

Thinking about what he could say

He read a story

About a group of housewives

Who had helped out their neighbors

For over thirty years

            Anonymously

Without even their husbands knowing

He wants to help like that

And that brought the tears

And he was glad no one came by

Interrupted his meditations

He had the moment to himself

As he let his old eyes wash away

When he looked up

He wore new eyes

And his heart had replaced his mind

POEM - The Proper Way

Walking into the large old building

There is a space

Between the outer doors

And the rest of the building

Like a deep breath

Where the air is different

Just for a moment

In this vestibule

Sound plays with the walls

And I wonder how long I can stand there

Let the sounds bounce around me

Listen for the changes in pressure

As other bodies flow past

Mostly unaware that I am stationary

As I close my eyes

And lean my head back

Facing the high ceiling

Just being in that space

Walking around  with the revolving door

I wonder for a moment

If I am really going to exit

Maybe I will go around once more

Or twice if the mood strikes

An unexpected obstruction

To any new passengers

And when I hit the round about

I do the same thing in my car

Go round and round

Until I'm nearly sick

Dizzy and delighted

All my passengers screaming

If I could I would close my eyes

Hold the wheel in a locked turn

Enjoy the tug of the centrifugal force

Pulling in a playful way

Imagining the swirling currents I'm creating

A miniature tornado in genesis

How long would it take

How fast would I need to go

To make it really happen

But I don't often stop

In the empty spaces

As I breeze through

Carried with the crowd

And I exit the revolving door

At the time I should

Mindful of my polite upbringing

And of course I keep my eyes open

When driving on the round about

Though I take an extra lap

More often than not

POEM - Tedium

I can’t let on

That I’m not

All that busy

Or else

Everyone

Might have

A few tasks

That I could

Probably

Help with.

And it’ll be

Something

Completely

Awful,

I’m sure

What I have to do already is awful

Updating a single box

Buried four levels deep

In a cumbersome program

On part after part

One at a time

Into infinity

I’ve done the math

Well, I started to do the math

Realized the number was insurmountable

Dropped my pen on the paper

Left the computation undone

And decided to make something up

An exaggeration that will prove itself

To be a gross under-estimate

That’s what the numbers were saying

And I would rather play solitaire

Than see the concrete evidence

Shhhh!!

Eyes ahead

Move the mouse

A little to the left

Type four words

Move eyes purposefully

From screen to screen

Left to right

Up then down

Lean in and squint

Point to a spot

Look back

To the other screen

Type a number

Move mouse again

Click and lean back

Now I’ve bought another fifteen minutes

Where I don’t have to do much

As long as I keep the program up

Sitting as if I’m mid-action

While I stare at the screen

Deciding if I need a snack

My mind drifting on the backs of falling leaves

Unaware of the berserker blood

Boiling in my Nordic heart

POEM - The Bread Drawer

She told me I buy things

That are very different

From when she is all alone

Walking the rows of the Wal-Mart

Intent on covering the basics

My purchases are frivolous

Often sweet and fluffy

And frequently cream filled

There are also a lot more marshmallows

Whenever you come along

I don't buy marshmallows

She tells me in that tone

The one that suggests sternly

I should know why already

They remind me of your mother

And I'm sure she will know

Somehow. Subconsciously.

That we have those things  

And show up at our door

And I just can't handle her right now

As I hear this my mind wanders

And I remember a story

One I feel I must tell right away

Something to change the mood

I first thrust my nose against the bag

And sniff deeply of the comforting scent

It carries me back to my youth

And visiting grandma in California

Her house was always wonderful

The perfect grandma’s house

Toys and games in almost every closet

A playhouse in the backyard

The cool basement under the washroom

And grandpa’s office up front

Full of typewriters and National Geographics

This specific memory relates to the kitchen

And a wonderful drawer under the toaster

It was known as the bread drawer

But it was so much more

That drawer had bread it is true

But it usually also held marshmallows

And the aroma of bread and sweet

Entered the olfactory like an old friend

Sat down and settled in

Wafting along on a delightful visit

That you hoped would never end

And that is why the marshmallows come along

I sniff the bag once again

Wallow in the memory a moment more

As a blissful look settles on my face

POEM - Painting Flowers

As an artist

It’s good to have an obsession

A go-to thing

A place to land when stuck

I paint flowers

Not real ones

Just generic representations

And it does nothing

For my poetry

All those dumb flowers

Just sit there

Mute splashes of color

Festering and taunting

Acting like they want to help

Assist in the dismissal

Of mental blockage

But I don’t write about flowers

That’s the Romantics

Garnished with knights

And chivalry and fair maidens

All that historical mysticism fantasy

Now dismissed

As archaic and non-topical

Unfit for the enlightened

Of the post-modern discipline

But I’m a modern

I believe in fantasy

And I like the lilting oration

Unabashed Shakespearian fare

And to make flowers appear

All over my waiting canvas

Flowers that would make a botanist weep

For the loss of reason

The artist must surely have suffered

I mean, these are crazy flowers, man

Genus and species a violation

Of all the rules of biology