she begged me to read
the private words
(what would she discover?
what did she want to know?)
i had to remind her
of her age, her attitude,
her focus on the future
(even if it’s just tomorrow)
she’ll forget by then.
and the words? they’ll
still be there, waiting for
the day when someone
other than me is
ready to pry open the book
and discover the
window to my soul.
i knew what i had
held within my hands
(held right before my eyes)
in perfect amazement
how perfectly you
mesmerized them (me)
now i stand to the side
awkward and disappointed
holding back tears
as i ache for what we had together
(what your light shined
upon me, upon them)
she will never know this.
only you and i could
possibly understand
the perfect harmony
held within our hands
that they (we) will
have to live without.
As stated matter-of-factly
hundreds of times, this tower
(brick-not-steel, pointed
and dominant) was the tallest
building in Denver when
at age twenty-one, like the
pioneers two generations back
(two generations back from me)
my great-aunt Frances walked
through downtown (1937)
We enter it for the first time in
my life tonight, year twelve of
our young marriage. “Finally,”
you say, “something you haven’t
already done,” opening the door for me.
Did she see it? Painted crown molding
on the ceilings, intricately laid
white marble (smooth and cool
against the skin on a summer night),
architecture from a bygone era.
Would she care about the cabaret
burlesque show that emanates from
the basement stairwell? Or did she know,
with her domineering, independent shoes
that carried her here from Kansas,
that, just like the steel-concrete-glass
skyscrapers that have tried to trump this,
it still stands in a changing world,
here we stand in a changing world,
its strength (our strength) unwilling to give up
its place in the heart of the city (of love).
For Olivia
walking together
hands apart
we could climb
slope after slope
it could be pretty
with shrubs
and wildflowers
and young scrub oaks
it might sprinkle,
sparkling your eyes
just a tad with
twisted rays of light
you could lead the way
and i could follow
(something new for me)
and give in to your desires.
but
it wouldn’t build
our hamstrings
with the ever-harder
mountain climbs
it wouldn’t bring
us (no matter how many slopes)
to the glorious
tops of fourteeners
it would never be the same
as tall pines giving way
to snow-covered peaks,
to insurmountable beauty
it would be you and i
new and rounded
(soft and wary)
not as hard-won as the years
(the poking-into-sky
sharp-at-our-cores
daring-to-be-ourselves
mountain peaks)
i have given to her,
my mountain,
my home,
my love.
with water everything is pure
from sandy shores to lakes demure
it washes off and cools us down
and shatters each internal frown
with water we wash out the weak
replacing it with a stronger streak
of life that breeds within the deep
bringing forth the hope we need to keep
with water we have a clearer light
on days that inevitably end in night
it guides us there and guides us back
and washes out what once was black.
for a thousand miles
we see the reach of
the Mighty Mississippi,
the river we bought
for pennies on the dollar,
the river of dreams
(sometimes nightmares),
the river that feeds us all
and doesn’t feed us.
after cornfield gives way
to soybean field and
amber waves of wheat,
all i can think about are the bison
who ate and fertilized
this prairie, feeding
ten thousand generations
and yet
we destroy it
with unnecessary crops
feeding cattle that could
(and would) do the same as the bison.
as night gives in to day
we cross the border
and see cows in pasture
(home at last)
a truck with a Kentucky plate
(home at last)
and hope that one day
we will release
the native grasses
and allow the prairie
to be home at last.
ninety degrees, heading into the sun,
hour three of a dogged day’s drive.
my sweat gives in to my need for
some cool caffeine, even if it means
stopping at the food devil’s door.
i stand in line behind their typical customer:
400 pounds, greasy white hair,
pack of Marlboros tucked into its home
in his back pocket, he orders his
super-sized meal and waddles around
while the too-thin cashier rings it up.
i catch a glimpse (all it takes)
of his 4X gray T-shirt that
bubbles over his belly
like an ashy house dress.
“Fit for Life: Jesus Christ’s Gym.”
when i discover the latte machine is broken,
the irony leads me across the street where
i put $2.46 down on the gas station counter
for a canned Starbucks, the Indian brothers
taking my money, their heavy accents reminding me
of home, home, home.
it is not for this view of farms
with old wooden barns
in the early mist of morning
that i rise early and ride
(though it could be)
it is not for the excitement
of a road I’ve never traveled
its twists and turns leading me
into a maze of forests and fields
(though it could be)
it is not for the muscles in
my legs that have tightened
into circular mounds of strength,
carrying me endlessly without pain
(though it could be)
it is for them, three souls lined up
to lead a life that they will choose,
and in my silent guidance they will see
that there are many roads, many paths,
that will lead each of them to happiness.
they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.
in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.
yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.
How to cope with a broken water heater
in a house with eight sweaty people:
one—swim in the backyard blowup pool
two—wash laundry in cold water
three—debate about the causes
four—boil water on the stove
five—ride your bike in 90/90
(degrees/humidity) for fifteen miles
and enjoy the sluice of ice cold water
that will wash away all your frustration
with the sweat that swirls down the drain.
Six—call the landlord and pray
(we are in Kentucky after all).
Step Write Up 