Photos at the Graveyard
We visited the graveyard often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a hill
As if to place the dead skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I would
Snap photos of the markers, hoping
And simultaneously not hoping
That in one of them there would be
The wisp or specter of a ghost
When the products popped out
There was always that moment
Of ethereal mystery as the image
Faded into firm being.
Standby
Wait a moment says the click
Dull slumber, the lull of crowds
A spark, then darkness
Feedback of the microphone
Poison to impatient ears
The program will continue
For now, we pantomime
With uncertain, strange gestures
Waiting for the earth to resume.
Superhero City
Fourth grade math, split with fifth graders
The aged eagle swooping over the room
Resting at his nest on occasion, then up again
Back and forth, spreading grey feathers
“Sleep with your math books, class
Practice your fractions, and then practice more”
Last year, the kid had won a division contest
Now he is confused, one number over another
A strange display, another language
With about half his mind, the pencil forms walls
Small figures in tights, vigilante emblems
Of course, the paper is snatched by the talon
“Superhero City,” the pedagogue intoned
“Will not solve your math problems.”
Missing Dog Metaphors
Down the bends of the road, they called his name
Over and over again like a meditation
small dogs have a flaw in feeling larger
All the world, all people, constitute a friendly place
Surely, there is no harm to be found here
So, the family searches the familiar places
Around them, the homes of strangers are quiet
After two hours, they discover their dog’s betrayal
He has taken up with another family
The new father already purchased food and a bed
“We’ve always wanted one,” the new mother says
The smile spreads across her face like butter
They walk away sadly, members of the old pack
Listening to the yaps of the tiny Brutus.
Soothsayer
an ancient wisdom
or just scribbles from
yesterday
prophecy
or product of a bad
dinner
tiny words to bind
compress and heal
a wounded soul
Start Stop
silent men around me
seem to know
there is a time for rutting
and feeding on corn
a time to sit still in cold
start the cleaning
of the firearm and stop
start the squeezing of
target practice trigger
stop again
a preconfigured notion
of manhood starts
and I stop it at its
bubbling source
thereby redefining.
Fragments of the World
moments floated past me
as I walked the old courtyard
photos suspended in the air
images of a younger me
a more frightened person
I thought of the crisis time
when I had to decide
between who I was and who
others made me out to be
every poor decision
and choice of wording
navigating to my purpose
and how soon
rain would come and autumn
would be thicker than memory
Fried Mushrooms
mother fried them
in butter
like everything else
they started as brown
and webbed
then were rolled
and carefully breaded
we ate them at the small
metal table
my father made for her
always patently
domestic in his gifts
