We are family room people
Everybody knows to come in
Through the back door
Except strangers, peddlers, campaigning politicians,
First timers and shoe-string relatives
Our family room pulses, with no dividing line into the kitchen
Thanksgiving is the best, our annual celebration
Our gathering, our Holy time
Our living room looks east, toward the mountain
It is quiet and usually empty
At times, mostly in the winter I go there
To read, waiting for the fire’s warmth to
Touch me from across the room
Two, maybe three, may gather there
To get away from the crowd, the noise
For serious, or private conversation
My great-grandfathers desk sits
Between the window and fireplace
It’s been refinished and is missing the
Fold-down writing surface
I think of him resting his head
On his open Bible, the one I have,
Preparing a sermon for the small congregation
Of Methodist farmers, who would certainly,
Faithfully be at church each Sunday
After tending to animals and chores
Because that is what people did
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
I tried really hard
I’ve never met L. L. Barkat, and I tried really hard
We were both at “Jubilee”, Pittsburgh in February
Sam told me about her, said I should meet her
As we talked he spotted her, and pointed her out
Across the room, by Byron’s books
In an animated conversation with Lauren Winner
Who I have met, a time or two
At conferences and classes
But she wouldn’t remember me, or have reason to
I watched them, two “real” writers
With books and all, probably agents
Huddled, protecting each other,
Peers in a sea of hopefuls
I walked closer, thinking of how to
Introduce myself without sounding like
A smooth faced schoolboy grasping at
Pick-up lines
I waited for an opportunity
For their conversation to end
A time to introduce myself
I would not interrupt, I’m not that type
I feigned looking at books
While circling the table and waited some more
It seemed they talked a long, long time
Yet, I was determined and waited some more
I may have begun to look at Byron’s books
Maybe even thought of buying something
But then I’d have had to carry it home
Or maybe I met someone that I actually knew
Or got caught in the crowd push
As another session started
Soon the conference was over
I’d flown home
And I’d never met L. L. Barkat
We were both at “Jubilee”, Pittsburgh in February
Sam told me about her, said I should meet her
As we talked he spotted her, and pointed her out
Across the room, by Byron’s books
In an animated conversation with Lauren Winner
Who I have met, a time or two
At conferences and classes
But she wouldn’t remember me, or have reason to
I watched them, two “real” writers
With books and all, probably agents
Huddled, protecting each other,
Peers in a sea of hopefuls
I walked closer, thinking of how to
Introduce myself without sounding like
A smooth faced schoolboy grasping at
Pick-up lines
I waited for an opportunity
For their conversation to end
A time to introduce myself
I would not interrupt, I’m not that type
I feigned looking at books
While circling the table and waited some more
It seemed they talked a long, long time
Yet, I was determined and waited some more
I may have begun to look at Byron’s books
Maybe even thought of buying something
But then I’d have had to carry it home
Or maybe I met someone that I actually knew
Or got caught in the crowd push
As another session started
Soon the conference was over
I’d flown home
And I’d never met L. L. Barkat
Monday, July 27, 2009
I’m really glad
I’m really glad my mom
Can’t see her kitchen
I know, it sounds cruel,
Like I’m happy she’s going blind
But, I ache watching her
Arch her neck, tilting her head
Toward nothing, looking
The wrong direction, eyes lost, unfocused
She wants to fix dinner
Like she used to, cook a feast
And revel in watching us
Rush toward satiation
I offer to take her to dinner
Anywhere she’d like to go
A poorly veiled attempt to distance myself
From eating from her kitchen
Tiny sugar ants,
Smaller than the ones we’d find
Summer afternoons on the curb
Aligning a magnifying glass
So the sun focused in a spot
They could not escape
We’d watch them sizzle and smoke,
Occasionally igniting a flame,
Then look for more,
Like I said these are smaller
And look black until sunlight reveals
The ruby shine of their shell,
And they are not an army
Swarming every open surface
But small groups of up to five or six,
They crawl over calcified food bits
Long past identification
On counters and in drawers
My wife and I have “deep cleaned”
On our past few visits
A conflicted attempt at love and self-preservation
Yet when we return
Our efforts have vanished
Clearly we don’t visit often enough
When sitting in my mom’s chair
By the front window
I discovered they had migrated
To the living room
There were a few on the side table
My guess is they found where she
Sets her partially eaten cookies
Or where the crumbs settle
When she flails her hands while talking
Or the syrup of her soda pop sloshes
I have tried to explain
To help her see
Little things she should do
To make it better
Only to instigate mutual frustration
That results in no change
She is at peace in her
Lack of knowing
And it may be best for
At least one of us to be
In that state these days
Can’t see her kitchen
I know, it sounds cruel,
Like I’m happy she’s going blind
But, I ache watching her
Arch her neck, tilting her head
Toward nothing, looking
The wrong direction, eyes lost, unfocused
She wants to fix dinner
Like she used to, cook a feast
And revel in watching us
Rush toward satiation
I offer to take her to dinner
Anywhere she’d like to go
A poorly veiled attempt to distance myself
From eating from her kitchen
Tiny sugar ants,
Smaller than the ones we’d find
Summer afternoons on the curb
Aligning a magnifying glass
So the sun focused in a spot
They could not escape
We’d watch them sizzle and smoke,
Occasionally igniting a flame,
Then look for more,
Like I said these are smaller
And look black until sunlight reveals
The ruby shine of their shell,
And they are not an army
Swarming every open surface
But small groups of up to five or six,
They crawl over calcified food bits
Long past identification
On counters and in drawers
My wife and I have “deep cleaned”
On our past few visits
A conflicted attempt at love and self-preservation
Yet when we return
Our efforts have vanished
Clearly we don’t visit often enough
When sitting in my mom’s chair
By the front window
I discovered they had migrated
To the living room
There were a few on the side table
My guess is they found where she
Sets her partially eaten cookies
Or where the crumbs settle
When she flails her hands while talking
Or the syrup of her soda pop sloshes
I have tried to explain
To help her see
Little things she should do
To make it better
Only to instigate mutual frustration
That results in no change
She is at peace in her
Lack of knowing
And it may be best for
At least one of us to be
In that state these days
Friday, July 17, 2009
Hot Summer Night
Sweltering summer evening shifting toward night. Kids playing in the street.
Biggest ones wedge open a street drain. Can’t move the cover far.
Childish impulse leads to a fire. They scour for stuff to feed the beast. Flames grow and faces glow crowding to see, dripping sweat into the hole.
Someone laughs, grabs a younger child, and holds him over the blistering inferno. “Welcome to hell!” The little guy screams, squirms and begs for mercy.
Light breaks around the corner, reflecting off the eyes of each turned head. Somebody yells, “CAR!” and everyone scatters for the safety of home.
Biggest ones wedge open a street drain. Can’t move the cover far.
Childish impulse leads to a fire. They scour for stuff to feed the beast. Flames grow and faces glow crowding to see, dripping sweat into the hole.
Someone laughs, grabs a younger child, and holds him over the blistering inferno. “Welcome to hell!” The little guy screams, squirms and begs for mercy.
Light breaks around the corner, reflecting off the eyes of each turned head. Somebody yells, “CAR!” and everyone scatters for the safety of home.
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Choir
“We really need you. One more guy and we’ll be ready be ready to tour.”
“I don’t know much about music.”
“It’s OK; you’ll equal the guy/girl numbers. Balance. Susan, she’s in the choir, and said I should talk to you. Let me show you where you’ll stand. Up here, second row, right of center. Yeah, there. Perfect. Next practice is tomorrow at 4. Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“One last thing, just move your lips. I mean don’t sing. Susan told me about your voice. But, we really need you for look of the group. See you tomorrow…”
“I don’t know much about music.”
“It’s OK; you’ll equal the guy/girl numbers. Balance. Susan, she’s in the choir, and said I should talk to you. Let me show you where you’ll stand. Up here, second row, right of center. Yeah, there. Perfect. Next practice is tomorrow at 4. Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“One last thing, just move your lips. I mean don’t sing. Susan told me about your voice. But, we really need you for look of the group. See you tomorrow…”
The Choir
“We really need you. One more guy and we’ll be ready be ready to tour.”
“I don’t know much about music.”
“It’s OK; you’ll equal the guy/girl numbers. Balance. Susan, she’s in the chorus, and said I should talk to you. Let me show you where you’ll stand. Up here, second row, right of center. Yeah, there. Perfect. Next practice is tomorrow at 4. Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“One last thing, just move your lips. I mean don’t sing. Susan told me about your voice. But, we really need you for look of the group. See you tomorrow…”
“I don’t know much about music.”
“It’s OK; you’ll equal the guy/girl numbers. Balance. Susan, she’s in the chorus, and said I should talk to you. Let me show you where you’ll stand. Up here, second row, right of center. Yeah, there. Perfect. Next practice is tomorrow at 4. Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“One last thing, just move your lips. I mean don’t sing. Susan told me about your voice. But, we really need you for look of the group. See you tomorrow…”
summer
I have been trying to post twice a week. this summer I am working on some bigger writing projects that may be posted later. For the rest of the summer I am shooting for one post per week. thanks for looking in.
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