The coffee *** gurgles and coughs its
Aromatic reaction.
A nosey sun squeezes through the
Kitchen curtains. Eggs hiss from the skillet
And last night's pints whisper.
And Monday is a thousand miles far.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Cold whiskey bleeds on my fingers.
The glass a poison dart frog
secreting toxins,
staving off a thick summer night
and it burns my throat.
When I look for the moon
I find it tangled in threads of cloud.
It shyly asks to be part of my thoughts.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
The sky is sleepy and grey.
An orchestra tunes its long,
wet strings of drizzle.
The trees are restless children
enduring a long sermon of wind,
waiting to be dismissed into a
breathe of fresh sun.
Are we not all children
waiting to be dismissed?
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
I unscrew the plastic cap from the glass bottle
and pour another drink.
If I do this quietly enough she won't hear
what I'm doing from the other room.
I take my first sip and see my wife
appear in the doorway.
I smile and she tosses me a stare of objection.
She won't argue the whiskey back in the bottle.
She asks me for a sip and I smile harder handing her the glass
and I watch her face scrunch when she swallows.
Later we'll go to bed and I'll wonder if she is happy.
It's what she deserves.
I want to make her happy so bad that it burns
more than a thousand whiskeys.
My heart screams into a pillow.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
It was finished the day it was started,
and we flew it on the football field near our house.
Spring.
We built it in the garage.
A diamond of wooden dowels
string, and newspaper.
I sat in amazement at your sudden display
of expertise in kite making.
That's how dads are,
full of secret professions.
It was quiet sitting on the sideline
watching our creation look so tiny
in the sky.
You danced to the song of fatherhood that day.
And I sat captivated in the audience.
Time passed and your song stopped.
The kite never flew again and
I forgot how to make another but,
I am still on that field
sitting cross-legged
with my chin
in my palms.
Watching.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
I feel the warm morning sun on my skin
when suddenly I'm a kid again.
And the possibilities of today
flood through my brain
like pouring water into a bucket of gravel.
Every tiny rock saturated,
every idea flawless.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
As a grown man
I have to steal
what you could
never give,
and make
what you
couldn't live.
I collect
and acquire
and mold with
fire, and
send it through
my charcoal filter.
What I'm left with,
a mellow sting
sipped before
the end
of a
bittersweet
fling.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
With oiled arms
I carry
a crystal vase.
And
Steady I walk,
scolded
for not
running.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
I don't believe
my grandmother was ever
a little girl.
Or a young lady,
or a new mother.
Instead she spent
her whole life
being a grandmother.
My grandmother.
It's the only explanation
of her expertise
in the field.
I used to love
watching her write.
Her hand, with its
knotted fingers
wrapped in shiny skin,
producing quivering,
uniform letters. And her
eyes, glassy and pleading
when i'd say,'' I need to go now'',
much like mine
when her body
said the same. When
tomorrow ceased
to extend her a hand. I
remember.
I still remember.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC