Friends by Default

Here's day thirty's submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month). This is the last day of April, and I've done something I thought was impossible for me – write a poem a day for a month. I wondered at the onset of this project if I had the discipline and the creativity to pull it off, but the people who stuck with me and read the posts (and commented to let me know they were there) helped me expect enough of myself that I showed up to the computer each evening. And the creativity – what to write about and how to write it at least passably well – was a surprise every night. The most valuable piece of that was this jewel I found right here in my pocket: that  my daily life is filled with moments perfect for poems. I think I'm paying way more attention to my daily doings as we drop into May than I was when I stumbled onto April, and that is indeed a gift. Thanks again for joining me. I'll try to continue to post these, if not nightly, at least frequently.



Friends by Default

We weren’t all that close growing up,

but our parents were best friends,

so that made us friends by default, I guess.

We played together when we were little,

a few times is all, the two of them and me

while our moms and dads drank cocktails and told jokes.

I grew up first – four years older than him,

six older than her – and in my adolescent wisdom

blamed mom and dad for everything that was wrong.

I cleaned that house thoroughly

throwing out anything my parents liked,

including their friends, and their friends’ children.

It was after my siblings and I scattered from the Indiana corn

like field mice running from fire,

his father died, and mine was available and alone.

He became the good son we never were,

he overlooked the long list of my father’s failings

with a grace I could never touch.

They spent a lot of time fishing together.

Who knows what all they said in that boat floating on a northern lake,

but the words hardened into something solid,

and after dad turned his Cadillac up the last country road,

we became friends again, and he taught me to remember

my father as more light than dark.

At least he used to… until the disease broke

his memories into jumbled rubble.

His sister called today in tears:

they moved him into another home

because his roommate struck him –

who knows what was said in that boat without water?

He didn’t recognize his wife that day,

but he knew his sister.

I have a trip planned: in a few weeks I’ll visit

them their mom, his wife.

I’m not looking forward to it, no, not at all.

but my midwestern roots apparently grew deeper

than I ever expected: my mirror tells me I need to go –

for him, for me, for our dad. Our dad.

I wonder what we’ll say

or if there will even be a boat.

First Birthday for Ella

Here's day twenty-eight's: submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month)

First Birthday for Ella

You stick out your tongue

smiling, wag it in and out.

“Blablablablab,” you say,

and I answer, “lahbahlabahlabah.”

We collapse into laughter

for a breath until you purse your lips

“Pftftfbtttt!” And I’m right there with you,

motoring my lips until they connect

with the side of your neck

as I lift you from my lap.

You arch your back and squeal

and I am filled with delight.

You point at me and pinch your lips tight:

“MMMMMmmmmmmmmm.”

I nod. This is indeed delicious.

Under the Weather

Here's day twenty-six's: submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Under the Weather

What a deceptive phrase.

Under which weather?

Sunny? Rainy? Windy?

Under the fog we had this morning?

And why ‘under’ it?

Wouldn’t it make more sense

to be ‘within’ bad weather?

Or ‘caught up’ in the crappy climate?

It would be easy to write

a depressing poem tonight,

as the cold, flu, or whatever

this is reaches into my mouth

with long, ragged fingernails

and rakes the back of my throat.

It is joined by a compatriot,

who clamps off my sinuses

with slow-turning vice-grips in one hand,

while the other pounds a hammer on my temples.

“Shut the door, you guys!” I cry in vain

as chills race down my spine.

But the wind continues its low whistle

as they turn their attention

to stretch each joint and muscle

until even my skin aches.

I could write about the failings

of the body, this temporal curse,

that never is as dependable

as we’d like to make it seem.

Or the fragility of any current state of being –

health or love or depression: how change

is the only constant. this too shall pass.

But I’m feeling sick tonight.

And I’m just not up to it.

Fishing

Here's day twenty-five's: submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Fishing

These days I frequently cast my net

over my northern Indiana hometown,

fishing for childhood memories

that swam away, into the dark water

of hidden coves, deep eddies

far from the shadows that stalked

the water’s surface during my adolescence.

I was a fingerling when I left that pond

and spent too much of my time afterward

swimming upstream 

against currents that were more than willing

to throw me at the nearest rock in the river.

It wasn’t pretty.

I eventually reached salt water
on the deck of a boat bound

to catch fish, and had to take a hard look

at this swimmer in the mirror –

face the fears I would confront

about really being at sea.

Dozens of hands

tossed me tow lines when I lost power,
or helped me get started again;

a few even secured me to the dock

so I could float up and down

with the ebb and the flow,

and not drift away again;

where I finally feel safe enough

to take a small skiff onto the water

and toss a net in a secret cove,

hoping to snag one that’s

not too big.

Breathe

Here's day twenty-four's: submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Breathe

Clock’s tickin’.

Can’t you hear your heart beat?

Count your breaths for the next minute:

how many?

What are you doing right now?

If those breaths quit

on the next one,

would you be glad you stopped

right then?

Would it be okay?

Or would you say,

“Shit. If only I’d known.”

Because we don’t.

Know.

None of us.

We guess at our odds,

plan for more

than we ever get.

I feel lucky already.

But I wouldn’t want to go out

playing video games.

I’d rather I was lying next to you

your arm draped over me

your eyes locked on mine.