a wasted training
a waste of district dollars
a waste of my day
but at six-thirty
they shoveled mud off the path
giving me my ride
at least there’s a view
a day’s cycling release
to shed off the waste
poetry
Bono Vox
U2 speaks to me
(in ways simple words cannot)
with notes of passion
Fluff
yes, it’s in the blog.
everything you can’t recall.
that i’ve recorded.
that is what it’s for.
hard drive with screen. ready. use.
measure me my life.
they’ll come. and they’ll go.
but you and i? together
peanut butter, fluff.
my breakfast today:
on soft wheat bread that you bought
with our love dollar
Turnkey
be ready to grin
to back-stab, brown-nose your key
into their pockets
to be ignored, spent
keys in hand, ready to turn
(but it’s the wrong lock)
where is the right lock?
where can i turn them with ease?
whose damn keys are these?
rather than turn locks
i will remain taciturn
and find the right key
Ideology
in a search for faith
we forget humanity
in all its beauty
we judge; don’t reach out,
cast stones without confession
pit love against faith
flags fly in all camps
begging for new believers
each claiming the truth
what if we used hearts?
and arms and hugs and kisses?
would we be sinful?
here we lose our faith
in a connection-less void
we call religion
The New Drive-In
summer-teasing sky
in the midst of finals week
beckons this field trip
free lawn movie night
we can pretend school’s out
just four days early
Return
sunny skies return
for a barbecue birthday
mimosas and love
perfect city walk
through the perfect Denver ‘hood
gold gardens galore
kids with grandparents
treasuring these small moments
till the rain returns
Politics
is he that shameless
he’d admit infidelity
to an underling?
or. worse. that he runs
this broken-down version of
failed education
to be at the top
you need slime, distaste, and pride
in what you can’t do.
i would rather teach.
put my soul among the youth.
hope for the future.
Voices
younger girls’ voices
marred by oldest’s attitude
they just want to sing
i just want to hear
all their tiny voices sing
like when they were tots
concert on the green
plagued by rain, adolescence,
unforgiving looks
at home, peace returns
Daddy’s voice sings poetry
as he says goodnight
the oldest studies
in her hole of happiness
escapes into books
my voice escapes me
don’t know how to talk to her
no voice of reason
will she hear my voice
when in my dreams, she listens?
gives voice to my joy?
we all have choices
to hear the ‘tude or the song
listen… sweet voices!
Winding Wounds
no way to see her
as the crazy little girl
now so close to teen
i’d rewind our lives
to bring back those soft moments
without dirty looks
alas, i chose this
and still love her–so fiercely–
love can’t be rewound
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