last thoughts on the last night of the year about last things after I’m gone

will anyone scour my devices, drives and clouds

            discovering convoluted stories,

            half-assed poems and sparse excuses for books

            as well as angsty ramblings certain to be

            confusing to some and offensive to others

will people still watch Law & Order SUV

                        saying haven’t we seen this before

only to realize the answer is “sort of,“

but, hey, there are new cast members

so it changes the story, “sort of”

will anyone remember one-eight-oh-one-oh

my childhood home with memories

peacefully soul-warming and fearfully terrorizing

depending how and when you tell the story,

but always home, my home

who will continue to make corny jokes

about the Mariners winning a World Series,

hell just getting there might help generations

of Northwesterners

get a little of that long sought after rest on the other side

who will sustain

my grudges, petty though they may be, and the list

of those, who according to my standards,

have forfeited any substantive right to grace in this

world or the next

            who will find the shoes, still in the box, on the upper shelf

in my bedroom closet

and will they

know that such stockpiling

is a direct link from me to my Dad

will “my” saved money

fund the disposal of my (precious) remains or will Connie

finally take the kids and grandkids on that trip to Disneyland

all because I never took the trips

that I long dreamed of and (only) planned for

August Evening

it's national poetry day so i'm re-posting one of my favorites. 

August Evening

sitting next to Connie
old, hard, wooden stadium benches
red paint, chipped, gouged and peeling
she puts on her sweater
I put on my sweatshirt

band plays hits of some artist
we know little of and care less for
overbearing 80's synthesizer
annoys me
she doesn't seem to notice or care

beyond the stage I watch carnival rides
loop, spin and race into the evening
colored lights intensify
sky drifts to darkness

near full moon glows above the trees
growing smaller as it brightens
yellow to orange to almost white

we come to the fair almost every year
it's something we do
we learned this spring she has cancer
treatment, fear, hope shadow our days

we talk a bit, decide to leave
i am ready, but hesitate
how many more times we will go to the fair

merit award 2007 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest

I think it happened something like this… #5 - Russell

Russell

His puffy red face and misshapen mouth were the result of beatings and non-existent teeth. 

He collected bottles and scavenged garbage while mumbling threats to imagined people. He’d pedal fast, bent over the frame of his rusty, crooked bike. Kids would chase and taunt, but never really tried to catch him. Nobody wanted the game to end.

We heard rumors that he lived in a shack near the market. Some older kids bragged to a wide-eyed audience that they sure showed him. “We broke in and trashed the bum’s place.”

I stayed clear of Russell, out of fear or pity.

Thirty-five

9.14.74 Connie & I were married. I wrote this poem in honor of our 35th anniversary 9.14.09. I'm re-posting it today, our 37th.

Thirty-five

Sometimes I wasn’t sure
we’d make it
sometimes I wasn’t sure
I wanted to

When we started
I assumed we’d get here
expected us to stay together
but had no clue what was ahead
or what it would take

It’s not a milestone,
like fifty
but well past twenty-five
people notice twenty-five and fifty
appears thirty-five
Iis no big deal,
at least
according to public opinion,


Memories made
and more forgotten
seasons of devotion
and trials of anxiety
grace remembered
and offenses forgiven
and much forgiven again

It is the choice we made
the path we’ve followed
and I would choose it again
I think I do
I hope we do
everyday

April Fool’s Day

I am re-posting this poem during this our anniversary (37th on 9.14) week. 

Someone should make a law
That we hold all weddings on April 1st
Because only fools would make
Those promises

Promises to
Put another person first and
Stick with them
No matter what happens

To love
To sacrificially give
All because of a promise;
It’s almost un-American

There are too many examples
Of failure and despair
Outsiders mock it,
Rationalize, and degrade it

Some lie through their teeth
They make the hollow promises
For convenience
To get what they want

But some, the true fools,
Still make the promises
Maybe their youthful zeal
Blinds them to what’s ahead

And some, more foolish yet,
Keep their promises
Not because it’s easy
Or because they meet all expectations

But true fools believe the promises matter
That love cannot be forced
That it’s sometimes found
By two fools

Who learn to laugh together

I think it happened something like this… I Wonder (1 of 6)

This is the first in a series of stories based on memories of growing up in the 60’s. Each story is 101 words or less.

I wonder

I wonder what stuff in my memory is more story than fact. Like Johnny from Sunday school, who swallowed his gum and choked to death.

It happened at the grocery store. In my memory, he was wearing a navy blue suit with short pants, because that’s what he wore to church. I was always glad I never had to wear short suits. He was with his grandparents, so his parents didn’t see him go.

I think we would have gone to the same school. We might have been in class together, maybe even sat next to each other, but we didn’t.

Sadie

Mr. Parker gave us Sadie. She was brown-red with white flecks. Her tail and tongue flapped when she ran. She followed me to school and slept with me every night.

One afternoon, Billy, the biggest kid around, threw a punch at me. Sadie lunged, pressing her teeth on his neck as a deep growl escaped her throat. Billy squirmed loose and took off. I ran home to Mom, bawling, gasping for words of explanation. Sadie was protecting me.

Mom was sitting on my bed, not Sadie, in the morning. “I’m sorry. Dad took her to the pound. She won’t be back.”

Pondering

I heard a song recently
From when I was a kid
I’m sure it was recorded
In the sixties
Sort of country humor
Simple, catchy
I’d guess it
Crossed over to
The pop world
And worked its way
Up the charts
Hanging on as long as
It could hold
The attention of adolescents

But five decades later
I hear it anew
And what was sweet
And funny
Has become dark
And foreboding

I am left pondering
What has changed more?
The song, the world
Or me?