Poems

Step by step
we work out the kinks
smooth the rough spots
grind sharp edges
modify tempo
stretch compress polish

I imagine it's like the way
they used to make musical instruments
before it was done by machines;
the hand-work,
eyes telling fingers
where to rub, what to carve away

Yes, by hand
gradually
an unfolding
plenty of breaths
lots of careful observation
and steady refinement

Eventually,
always surprisingly,
the thing emerges
formless to form
shakes off its husk
and makes music

If you can call it that,
My 50 year old legs hoisting my fifty year old torso
Into the air and down with a thundering crash
Car alarms are going off
Cracks are forming in the sidewalk

I must be a sight
In my reflective yellow hoodie sweatshirt
That cost $5 at the Goodwill
My shoes that are not Trainers
Not orthotic-friendly
Not antimicrobal, lightweight, vegan runners
Not made of moisture-wicking memory foam
Or gel.
Just sneakers.

I pound up the street,
Feeling more comfortable
Among the commuters driving home
Than on a track or trail
Though Bellingham is full of tracks and trails.
I like to watch the drivers
As I gasp for breath.
Here and there, among the hands free talkers
I see someone singing at the top of their lungs
I imagine it's Jumping Jack Flash
Or I Saw Her Standing There
But it is probably not.

When I catch my breath,
I start singing in time to my steps
A slow song, naturally.
More of a funeral dirge than anything else.
Until I see someone running toward me.
He may see me as a fellow traveler,
I see him as competition
And I pick up my pace
If just for a few yards
I manage a nod
Hold my wheezing breath
Til he passes and then I slow.

I come upon a white haired man of maybe 75, walking slowly.
Wonder what song is going through his head
As I pass him. Maybe a Bob Wills tune.
Soon the 75 year olds will be the ones singing Jumping Jack Flash
That will be something to see.

I love that man as an older brother.
I too will be walking when I am his age.
No more jogging, my bones will be brittle
Like dried bamboo sticks
I nod and leave him to his Yellow Rose of Texas

Couple blocks to go, I am tired
My steps barely qualify as running
It's downhill but I'm shuffling
A middle aged lady walking ahead of me
Overweight, carrying a large backpack
Yes, she's smoking too.
She need not worry though,
I will not be passing her at this rate.

The day moved from concave to convex
Who knew it would be so random
Although I should have remembered
Robert Burns best laid schemes
Often ending in grief and pain
In equal measure for each and all

We are not children, you and I.
We know about love
and how it fills you with hope
and promises.
How it clouds your view of the future
Like a vaseline covered lens
Like a cataract

We know that what we each called love
twenty five years ago
was something else
Not infatuation
Not even lust
It was fear
and loneliness
and desperation

It was not trust
It was not benevolence
Not devotion
It was not giving
It was taking
And you and I took
And so did she and so did he.

We were all children
And we were selfish
And we were scared
And we were stupid
But now we are older
Now we know

So we didn't want to say that word
When you and I finally met
Though we both were thinking it
And it almost came out a couple times
As you were getting out of my car
Or in your bed

But we refrained
And that made us both feel
Like liars again
Like we were keeping secrets again
Like not saying it when you felt it
Was as bad as saying it when you didn't.

So I wrote to an advice column
On a website
And the answer was not what I expected
"you get to define love" was the reply
"in whatever way you want,
"It might mean lets live together,
"Or it might mean, let's not make promises"

"But Johnny," (I had signed the letter, Johnny)
"the point is to say it"
"the point is to talk about what it means"
"the point is to ring it like an iron bell"
"the point is, stop holding back"

It was good advice
And the column got much response
from readers.
Two years later, I saw that a woman
had tattooed an iron bell
in the small of her back
As a reminder of that advice
stop holding back.

This is no story of immigrant pride
of recipes handed down
adapted and refined
over generations

We’re Irish mostly, anyway
and dad was no cook
made meals from duty and necessity
had no great love of the culinary arts

I remembered the manicotti
last night: a couple of us
out at a bar for a late-night drink and snack
ordered their version

In fact, whenever I hear the word I think of dad
his epic kitchen struggles making this dish
the swearing and the pale litter of pasta
on the countertop

You see, he’d cook the pasta first
all the way through
limp as the fainting ingenue in an old horror flick
then he’d stuff them

I don’t know whether he loved the dish
or hated the defeats it handed him
but he’d try it again and again
his mouth working, making sucking sounds

I learned from him
either to persevere
or not to learn from my mistakes
I’m not sure which