Six Poems

The difficulty of poetry

When I was nineteen
my poems were a flock of geese.

I’d look up and watch
where they were going

though I had no idea,
flying in some direction

taking shifts leading
with the rest drafting behind.

Today I burn cardboard
in the backyard after a short rain

wondering if this poem
is the cardboard

or if it is the match
or the fire or the rain.




Biden on CNN

I am well-meaning
and I’m an elderly man
and I know how to get this country back on its feet.

I am on a TV screen
and I am not live before you
and things that came out of my garage were moved by my staff.

That is your judgment
and that is your judgment
and I am the most qualified person in the world to be president.

It was not classified
information in that document
and when I look back at this incident, first of all.

I didn’t know how
half the boxes got in my garage
and it was in my house and none of it was high-classified.

It didn’t have that red stuff
on it, I thought it would all be moved
and I think a special counsel should’ve been appointed.

I did not break the law,
period. Thank you very much.




Dream Poem

I had a dream where I
beat a weird guy to death
for sticking his nose in my business

I also beat him for
following me around
when I was with my friends

I also beat him since
he gave me a bad feel
that I did not want to feel




Poem About Open Mic

My dog is lying on the couch beside me
as I write this poem. She is bored.
Nonetheless, she is patient. I admire that.
I want to be as patient as my dog in a poem.

I left her alone at the house last night
to attend a poetry open mic in Wausau
headlined by a former poet laureate of Wisconsin.
His name is Max Garland.

As I was listening to Max Garland read
I kept thinking about my dog at home alone.
What was she doing? What was she thinking?
Was it right that I had left her alone this evening?

Then I would pay attention to Max Garland again.
After a while, the open mic portion began.
A number of local poets read their work
and I was moved and inspired by all of it.

When I read my poems, I realized they lacked
the depth and sincerity of the other readers’ work.
The humorous bits didn’t get a laugh,
and I felt like a dilettante and an amateur.

A man in an electric wheelchair read a poem
about how his belief in Christ helps him accept
that he will not achieve worldly success,
because his relationship with God is what matters.

A non-binary person with cerebral palsy
read a poem about surviving suicide
and living in smoky, abusive homes as a child
and using ketamine to overcome depression.

An older man read a poem about how very real
aging is to him, and I could see in his face
and hear in his words the ways he wrestles
with the pain of getting older.

This all left me with much to think about
as I drove home in the dark from the reading.
What was I trying to say in my poems?
Whatever it was, I wasn’t doing it very well.

When I got home, my dog didn’t greet me
at the door. She seemed upset with me.
I took her outside and played with her.
I had to find her in the dark.




Jack

Listen man, we’ve got twenty-five years to uh –
roll down the window, let some air in, it gets hot
like this in summers, hotter’n it used to…

But it’s somethin’ my dad used to say,
Joey, it’s never as cold as you’d like on a hot one,
and when it’s hot the cold one’s never as cold as –

as you’d like it, or as it used to be, helluva guy.
Ancient forces erupted at that dinner table,
solid oak, polished to an honest-to-God mirror,

Dad with his Lionshead Light like damn Narcissus,
reflecting himself himself himself, after a long silence
he looks up, says, “Hard times, Joey,”

But it was like that, in those days,
tables with backbone, my dad’s hand on his beer,
the cup runneth over, you could say.

But I’d say now, Dad, if you’re listenin’,
hard times, I say, hard times. Put the A/C on a little,
take a bath, man. What’s the harm?

And look – this house ain’t a bad place to live,
thick carpeting, big windows, nice big driveway –
but it comes with a whole lotta responsibilities,

steering the ship they say, like – okay, my Dad
could sail a ship, aright? Southampton coast line,
sunsets that had you eight ways from Sunday,

and Sunday, reminds me of Easter. Now there’s
a special something to that crucifixion,
a young man, not a bad looking guy,

hung up like that, stretched out,
it’s a beautiful thing the male body,
in the old Scranton days that was plain fact,

now it’s more of a well-kept secret
you can mention in the right company,
the look of that thing all stretched out,

but I digress – it’s an honor and a privilege,
like driving a ‘67 Corvette, you have to treat her gently.
Take your seat back, relax man,

let’s take this for one last spin before dinner.
Jill’s making ‘sandwich au boeuf’,
that’s French for hamburgers.




Saying Goodbye to My Dad

In the living room they wait
eating cakes and chocolate
with mimosas and morning liquor

A room worn down and heavy
with powers of attorney,
broken Easter bunnies, cough drops

The carpets are hairy, crumby
impressed by chair legs
exposed by the shifts in furniture

that were bent and rearranged
to greet the many poses
death takes

as it makes its way,
water displaced from a cup
when a tea bag drops in to steep

A friend knocks softly on the screen door
then thuds in with socked feet
muttering a prayer, carrying wine

I drink my coffee in the bedroom
with you as you burble
and water rolls down your chin

I offer for them to come in
one by one (Ted calls me
and I hold the phone to your ear)

Some tenderly do, poking inside
astonished at your death
they hug me at the bed’s foot

Objects from the end of life
linger in the room like sleeping midwives:
handles, walkers, Crocs, socks

inhalers, pills, more cough drops,
things I forgot, more pills, pillows,
the cat steadfastly resting at your legs

A bed you insisted on buying
is sitting upstairs. The pillows, sheets,
and mattress were the best they had

I told the owner you were sick
as I put the duvet in the trunk,
she followed me and wished me luck

You never slept much either way
At night I laid with you
watching TV on my laptop

as you moved in and out of sleep
waking to fumble with an inhaler
I would eventually press to your lips

As if it were the antidote
for disease or insomnia,
and very quickly it ran out

It was the stillness that would wake you
when I turned off the show
you would bolt awake grasping

so I would put on another
and watch you drift uneasily
back into your snore

this morning is so different
it is quiet and easy
only chatter from the kitchen

your body is unmoved by pain
the open window ripples the curtain
the room is barely moving

and in my shock I am at ease
to be beside you resting there
as friends arrive to see you off