driven home

last hurrah
last call
latest warning
the stakes
of stasis
grow
and ferment
I have too much
to lose
in the exercise
of this freedom
I must
change masters
apprentice myself
to higher
and healthier
disciplines
everything I love
rides on this

June 2009

fights & flowers

we live and love
and we mark the time
with symbols
of our efforts
cemeteries, monuments, altars
hallowed grounds
that evoke the emotions
of our trials and triumphs
of what we have lost
and what we keep
of fights and flowers

we know how to engage
in civil warfare
familiar triggers
familiar firepower
familiar tactics
we test defenses
for vulnerabilities
for rare and rash and risky
is the head-on all-out charge
we exhaust diplomacy

fights and flowers
and what do we learn?

assemble the armaments
line up the troops
dig in to old trenches
trade volleys of verbiage
try to keep the weapons
conventional
knowing the madness
of the big guns
the big one
mutual assured destruction
D-day
must never be visited
or considered
so we keep it hand to hand
face to face
bayonet close
whites of the eyes
turning red

fights and flowers
and what did we learn?

funny the buttons we push
and those we don’t
funny the methods we use
and those we won’t
funnier still:
the fights we choose
to not engage in
are most telling
most revealing
of our battle plans
and our hopes
for armistice
for peace

fights and flowers
and what have we learned?

we hope we will emerge
from this skirmish
stronger, softer
more viable
we hope where we hurt
we will heal
we trust what does not
do us in
will not shut us out
we hope
we resolve
our differences
doing life
doing battle
ceasing fire
making war
making love
making up
as we go along

fights and flowers
and what will we learn?

June 2009

when I’m bigger

I wait
for my epic moment
when I’ll summon
deep reserves
of greatness
I pass
the waiting hours
until that time
failing to be faithful
in a few things
in the small things
that actually define me

March 2009

talents

to risk or to bury
both court loss
though one actively
how to please a master
we’ve imagined as a monster

to risk or to bury
what’s a servant to do?
prepare for an audit
we assume must come
or put capital to work
and see what it
and we
are really made of

the myth of the master
is a ghost story:
we’re playing with allowances
in the backyards of our parents
at lemonade stands
and rummage sales
the streets are safe
and Dad is home

to risk or to bury
what’s a child to do?
do something
anything
just do
use it or lose it
we need not
even use it well

April 2009

messy people

we asked for this—
I know—
but the embodiment
of this philosophy
we have purported to support
reminds again
that so much of our humanity
is not beautiful or tasteful
or clean
but sloppy,
achingly flawed,
awkward, rough
disappointingly,
predictably weak
in a word—
messy

their very meager existence
is an affront to our aesthetics
these tired brethren
with the poor taste
to be hungry
smelly
needy
these shabby beggars
that unabashedly
hobble through life
as widows, orphans, cripples
bastards and divorcees

take my brother here
standing in my way
blocking the path of my day
his hand out looking for one
I can’t just slip him a bill
and be off
from the looks of him
(that too-sweet reek of him)
he’ll drink my offering
faster than I earned it
so I have to walk with him
buy him lunch
spend time with him
enduring the eyewatering stench
of his presence
before I can be on my way
there’s no photo-op
in this benevolence
the smell of this encounter
which distracts my senses
and will linger with me
all day:
will I ever learn to like it
or at least not notice it so much?

take my sister
the persistence of her loneliness
is like a sick, shrieking infant
I struggle to listen
it requires every ounce of will
just to inquire how she is
knowing she won’t take the polite route
and say she’s fine
like the rest of us have learned to do
knowing she will latch on
and describe every homely detail
every empty, dusty, forlorn corner
of her sad, pathetic, broken life
I will struggle to maintain
eye contact and attention
and try to not fidget
why is it so hard to listen?
why does compassion wear
and give way to frustration?

we don’t get to choose
the members of our family
or the size of it
the ones who most need us
are the ones we believe
we are least like
and would never stoop to befriend
absent some divine impetus
who, then, is my neighbor?
we sigh
because we know the answer:
the thieves
the chronically depressed
the ones who can’t get
or keep a job
the scruffy scofflaws
the cheaters
the drunks
the drugged out
the penniless
the prostitutes
the prisoners
the heretics
the mentally unstable
the whole messy
tired, limping,
begging, crying, howling
fucked up lot
of rejects
we have to accept
yet sons and daughters all
closet royalty
adoption papers in hand

this is our community
this is family
with their rough edges
coarse language
the salt of the earth
thirsting for
and thereby bringing forth
living water
reeling in the darkness
and inexplicably reflecting
the light of the world
how we respond to them
to each other
says everything
about who we are
who made us
what we will be
and whether
what we’re building
will survive
the rains
the winds
the floods
and the inevitable fires of testing

March 2009