Poems

First, write a lot of bad poems. Like thousands.
Like 45 years worth of really bad poems.
Poems with meter and rhyme but no passion
Poems with form but no function
Love poems about someone with whom you can't
Imagine yourself still with 5 years from now.
Poems about your dad's funeral that never even
mention how you kissed his corpse on the lips.
Poems about your sister that evoke the
sweetness of a life you and she never lived.
Write poems as if you were Jimmy Buffett and
All you needed was a Margarita, a pair of flip flops
And a baggie of marijuana.
And a woman, but one who is not actually present,
Someone you can miss so badly,
Someone who will come on Monday
Write those poems, pack them into shoeboxes
Leave them at your old apartment when you
get married and buy a house.

Second, listen to poets.
Real live poets, local poets.
You think there aren't any around but there are.
Poets are like cockroaches on the east coast,
Like slugs in the northwest.
They come out at night and freak you out a little.
Then sleep all day.
Go to an open mic.
You will see poets who look like you
Poets who look like 12 year olds
Poets who look like Jesus
Poets who look like poets
Poets who look like farmers
Some will have poems as bad as the poems
You left at your old apartment
But one or two will have electricity
coming out of their mouths
Listen to them and think,
"I could never write something that good"

Third, try and write something that good.
You will fail, but do it,
Then go and read it at an open mic
Try to pick one where they applaud politely
Even when your poem is about your 8th grade lab partner
Who stirred feelings you didn't know you had.
After your lukewarm reception, go home
And write a better poem
Then read it the next week and write another poem
Repeat until the open mic folks get used to seeing you
And can guess what trite cliche you will use next.
Don't worry about punctuation
Don't worry about a title
Just keep writing
You are finding your voice.

Finally, when you find your voice
Out of sheer persistance,
Write a good poem
One that says something
But maybe it says something else
Or does it?
Take that poem
And edit it with a sharp knife
Until it's half the poem it was
Throw out your favorite clever lines
Clever poems are only clever
I'm just telling you the truth
You can keep those lines in if you want
But I know you are using them like a crutch

Now you have a poem,
Read it at your open mic
The poets will be shocked
They didn't know you had it in you.
Some will ponder the meaning all night
It will be your glorious moment.

Then go home and write another.

Six blocks south of my house,
A beautiful woman is resting,
It's a rare moment when her energy is spent
Her fuel gauge touched Empty,
Her engine died and she coasted home.

She runs a lot, this woman,
Short trips to and from, back and forth.
She does not use the parking brake much.
High gear but not high maintenance,
She runs herself into the ground.

If she were a car, perhaps she'd be a Volkswagen bug,
The original Beetle; short, loud,
Engine in the rear,
Prone to rattling at high speeds,
But easy to start up and easy to fix.

When she breaks down, which is often,
She says, "Just spray a little starter fluid in the carberator,
Give me a push and I'll be on the road again."
She runs and when she isn't running she is planning to run.

For a college girl, she has a weak vocabulary,
She doesn't know the meaning of the words:
Quit, give up, take a break, relax,
Certain phrases and idioms have eluded her:
Tomorrow will take care of itself,
Easy does it. Stop and smell the roses.

I have to block her way to get her to
turn and face the moon when it's full,
Else she'd never see it.
Her mind is a hundred yards ahead of her body.
Her body is racing to catch up.

She says our days are numbered,
And we might be called at any time.
She has much to do.
I try to tell her that I too have much to do
All those roses, all those moons.

waiting in line at the grocery store
I glance up to see my son run to the front
(impulsive, past the people in line in front of us)
to look at the DVD selling machine
then he wanders down the way
my eyes on him the whole time
and comes, at last, to the newsstand
where the image on the front page
is of a charred blank
where a house used to be
where a man used to live
where his wife disappeared
where his life overturned
where he used fire
to clear it all away
including
his two small sons
the headline yells death
my boy stares and stares
at the image, at the paper
I pay for the food and walk to him,
hand him the cart to put away
(his special job, my responsible boy)
and we walk out the door
to the car, my arm
around his small shoulders
holding my breath
waiting for him to ask
but he never does

Ever grayer clouds muffle sunset
Evening's night comes with no stars
Island shades soon dissipate
Leaving specks of human light
Unknown in time's corridors
When nascent stars interviewed
For inclusion in this universe
Or another universe
With interactive resumes
Including disappearing galaxies
Shared black hole secrets
Nebulae bursting into being
In the middle of serious meetings
Of cosmological consequence

I have two sons
and life goes on.
I get up the next morning
and avoid the headlines.

My sons are grown
his were at the age where they love their daddy
with kisses and hugs and crayon drawings of kisses and hugs
They ran from the car ahead of the social worker to greet him

My sons are not perfect, but they are mine and I love them
I read a quote saying he was a narcissist who loved no one but himself
There have been years where I loved everyone but myself.
My sons, I would have died to protect.

I work in schools and life goes on
Today, I will see hundreds of children who love their daddies
Dozens who are afraid of their daddies
Many who don't have daddies.

I may see children who know their daddy's secret
I might see children who are starting to remember things
Children who are telling
Children in danger.

This is life and it goes on
Every day for those of us who are lucky
enough not to have seen,
Not to have remembered.

Is there a heaven for children?
Is there a god who dispenses justice
After the fact?
What is justice after this?

Braden and Charles, you are my sons now
You are our sons now
Too late to matter
Too late for life to go on