Walking and Watching

It is good to go on a walk
past the house of a high school friend
and see each window lit up,
tall rectangles of warmth in the gray evening --
snow and sky and siding --
someone in each room,
wrapping presents.
I can picture him and his family.
It's Christmas Eve.

It is good to watch a snowflake
for the last five feet of its life,
pulled into the pavement or onto the lawn,
joining fellow flakes and losing shape.
"The death of individualism," I think.
It saddens me, and I remember holocausts
I survived secondhand, flipping the pages
to discover my own chance survival.
How many snowflakes died each day
during the Holocaust?
And yet the end of their flight
is the cause for my joy,
piles of snow I can lie in
tomorrow, when
it's Christmas Day.

Birds for Windows

The birds have the truth,
carry it on their wings to their death
brought on by the advanced technology
of cleaning products,
which make windows and glass doors
completely transparent,
a trait worth paying for,
apparently,
or no one would ever upgrade their Windex.
But they do,
sealing the doom of the winged.
And after the impact of Bird and Windexed window,
someone -- a boy in a flannel shirt with one pant leg rolled up,
the right leg -- finds the body
and endeavors to preserve it.
Borax and scalpel in a wooden box
covered with national pride,
a red and blue flag papered on the inside.
Ironic ownership for a Mennonite taxidermist.
He pinches, pries, with long and beautiful fingers
blue eyes. Peels back the skin, looking for truth,
but it isn't there.
It is the part of them that no longer lives post-Windex impact,
the part you heard from the corner of your ear
outside a window at night --
Nightingale, sing us a song
of a love that once belonged --
singing truth as you fell asleep.
The birds know, but they're dying
for the sake of transparent windows
and doors.

Fountain

I ran away with all your love --
filled my pockets,
cupped my hands to catch it,
poured what I could
in the curls of my hair
and my morning, afternoon,
and evening mug --
"Call Your Mother"
it says.

You laughed at me,
playing in the arc and splash
of your love,
like the children
who play in the fountain
in the Park on Queen Street
in the summers,
the ones we said
we wanted to be like.

and then I ran --
mug and pockets and hair
arms and eyes
full of what you gave so freely.

The Evolution of God

Shadow in a speckled wood

Rustle of the leaves

These that haunt the hunting man

keeping safe his seed.

Under-haunted, unbelieving

taken by surprise –

the brother of the man who lived

and gave us El Shaddai.

Pages, pens, and ink away

Israel’s story thrives

Learned people hunting hist’ry

For the reasons why –

Shadow in a speckled wood

Rustle of the leaves

These that haunt the hunting man

keeping safe his seed.

Sleepover (4/30)

Pillowed heads

side-by-side in bed

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see 

with the lights out.

Bare feet

poking out from the sheets

that cover the bed

with the pillowed heads

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see

with the lights out.

Unquiet minds

that speak whispers 

and rustle the blinds

beside the bare feet

that poke out from the sheets

that cover the bed 

with the pillowed heads

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see 

with the lights out.

Scene from an Auction (4/29)

75 and now 80
80 dollars and we're onto
90! 90 dollars from the lady in the back.
And now who'll give me 95?
90 dollars now going at 95
95,
90 dollars and now 95,
do I see 95?
90 dollars and now
95! 95?
Sold! for 90 dollars!
and your number is...
11, number 11

Study Break Poems (4/26 - 4/28)

Finals week proved to be the hardest week for me in April's poetry challenge. Instead of taking my 11:30-12pm block of time for poetry writing, I started taking advantage of small study brain farts and moments of exasperation. When such a moment crept upon me, out of the books and papers strewn about me, I would lean over to the wall beside me, and make a magnetic poem. These poems were use small collections of words, like the ones you see below. Usually, the words were close together, so all I really had to do was push them into form with my pointer finger (Things have to be simple during finals week. Anything passed simple is strictly overwhelming.) And so, without further introduction, I present to you, my simple (and semi-humorous) magnetic poetry.