Spiders the size of watermelons,
Proud, though outnumbered among their arthropod brethern,
Ring in the new season with celebratory parades along the walls of the house.
It's what you get after a too-mild winter -
Nature's way of reminding us that four, distinct and extreme seasons are
God's perfect design.
Friday, April 14, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-12-2017
Our old homes
In their old neighborhoods
Turn suddenly present
Yet unreachable,
The way of silent movies.
In their old neighborhoods
Turn suddenly present
Yet unreachable,
The way of silent movies.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-11-2017
The Straits of Mackinac
Will not cow to engineers,
Or promise that ice will never
Coalesce on towers and cables,
Loose in spring, closing the roadbed below.
Once we thought there was an easy way north:
Thick coat. Thin knife. Maps. Wind-proof matches.
Now we know how bridges get built.
You have to humble yourself.
Give your maps to the lake.
Will not cow to engineers,
Or promise that ice will never
Coalesce on towers and cables,
Loose in spring, closing the roadbed below.
Once we thought there was an easy way north:
Thick coat. Thin knife. Maps. Wind-proof matches.
Now we know how bridges get built.
You have to humble yourself.
Give your maps to the lake.
WaPoWriMo 4-10-2017
The list of skies I
Know,
That could be cleaved easily,
Rendered equal to
A lifetime of falling,
Is infinite
Like the wait for an outbound catch
Near an edge of churches
On the shore of
A great and unnamed inland lake.
Know,
That could be cleaved easily,
Rendered equal to
A lifetime of falling,
Is infinite
Like the wait for an outbound catch
Near an edge of churches
On the shore of
A great and unnamed inland lake.
Sunday, April 9, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-9-2017
The Boy Scout fountain along the tracks
In Park Ridge still bubbles away
Each spring.
And that half a tobacco shop across from it
Might still offer up
Delicious cigars to the young
And uninitiated.
And the moon, in October,
Still holds its orbit, somehow
Over Lake Bluff cemeteries,
And the green glow of FM
And tape deck spilling REM and Stone Roses
Into the murk.
Soon comes young Halloween;
Thanksgiving.
And old Christmas.
Easter, near new shores
Gone quickly familiar, and thin.
Spinning, and spinning, and spinning,
Glimpses
Of the old Boy Scout fountain
Along the tracks
In Park Ridge
Going long, and gold, and skinny, like fire.
In Park Ridge still bubbles away
Each spring.
And that half a tobacco shop across from it
Might still offer up
Delicious cigars to the young
And uninitiated.
And the moon, in October,
Still holds its orbit, somehow
Over Lake Bluff cemeteries,
And the green glow of FM
And tape deck spilling REM and Stone Roses
Into the murk.
Soon comes young Halloween;
Thanksgiving.
And old Christmas.
Easter, near new shores
Gone quickly familiar, and thin.
Spinning, and spinning, and spinning,
Glimpses
Of the old Boy Scout fountain
Along the tracks
In Park Ridge
Going long, and gold, and skinny, like fire.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-8-2017
These men were always dropping keys.
Or sometimes stealing, then dropping them.
Or hanging them from low branches near tears in chainlink.
Or filing them on wet cement
And using them to engrave or carve.
Always everything, anything, leaned
Against their design or intended purpose.
They had no earthly use
For the things, and still used them,
Or otherwise tumbled them in their pockets,
Constantly.
Or sometimes stealing, then dropping them.
Or hanging them from low branches near tears in chainlink.
Or filing them on wet cement
And using them to engrave or carve.
Always everything, anything, leaned
Against their design or intended purpose.
They had no earthly use
For the things, and still used them,
Or otherwise tumbled them in their pockets,
Constantly.
Friday, April 7, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-7-2017
When you lie down on the
Heat-thieving earth at night,
Clusters of galaxies
Nest in treetops,
Cradled in the crooks of
Dead branches.
Heat-thieving earth at night,
Clusters of galaxies
Nest in treetops,
Cradled in the crooks of
Dead branches.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-5-2017
We live in a house
That is unpredictable.
Sometimes,
We live upstairs,
With a thick, locked door
And a lockpit set
Hidden in the walls.
Other times,
There is an abandoned
Hospital appended to the living room,
Forbidden to us.
It always comes down to
Exploring when we don't want to;
Lighting a fire
On an old sofa,
Striking out when that fire has died
And the sun has set.
That is unpredictable.
Sometimes,
We live upstairs,
With a thick, locked door
And a lockpit set
Hidden in the walls.
Other times,
There is an abandoned
Hospital appended to the living room,
Forbidden to us.
It always comes down to
Exploring when we don't want to;
Lighting a fire
On an old sofa,
Striking out when that fire has died
And the sun has set.
NaPoWriMo 4-4-2017
You will remember
The great curve. The black wave.
The deep Earth undertow.
The road, taking; taking;
Dripping its scent,
Drunk licorice
Dreams of ways forward.
Clear skies.
Something in your sons
Remembers better.
The great curve. The black wave.
The deep Earth undertow.
The road, taking; taking;
Dripping its scent,
Drunk licorice
Dreams of ways forward.
Clear skies.
Something in your sons
Remembers better.
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
NaPoWriMo 4-3-2017
Under trees
Now gone,
Shaking still
Disestablished leaves
Over renamed streets,
Now gone,
Shaking still
Disestablished leaves
Over renamed streets,
Our mumbled arguments yet over-pour
Outline and fill,
And bleed
Long-worn words and their containing fonts into the page;
Their bird flight onto
Misremembered skies.
Science once
Wore paper animal masks
Near fire.
What has never changed?
Outline and fill,
And bleed
Long-worn words and their containing fonts into the page;
Their bird flight onto
Misremembered skies.
Science once
Wore paper animal masks
Near fire.
What has never changed?
NaPoWriMo 4-2-2017
What else are Sunday nights for, in new spring?
The sky boils black-blue and
Skirts just northeast of the county line.
Sheds and granaries are wrecked
There
As the birds sing above the backyards here.
Christ is resurrected for us, all of us, still
The sky boils black-blue and
Skirts just northeast of the county line.
Sheds and granaries are wrecked
There
As the birds sing above the backyards here.
Christ is resurrected for us, all of us, still
NaPoWriMo 4-1-2017
It is near spring again,
And the treebranches
Spider-leg into thin
Sky,
And the common grackles
Call themselves forth from
Nothing,
From winter,
And bring
The black of their wings
To all the edges of each blue.
And the treebranches
Spider-leg into thin
Sky,
And the common grackles
Call themselves forth from
Nothing,
From winter,
And bring
The black of their wings
To all the edges of each blue.
And again.
Where are we going
With our now-thin jackets;
Our unlaboring
Engines
Aligned along the old, old
Evenings,
Their sunsets growing long, long
Again,
A familiar migration?
Where are we going
With our now-thin jackets;
Our unlaboring
Engines
Aligned along the old, old
Evenings,
Their sunsets growing long, long
Again,
A familiar migration?
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
1/15/2017
The trees undo themselves once a year.
Each fall folds
Upon itself into a winter.
All is imperceptibly slow. Then
Fast, fast.
Each fall folds
Upon itself into a winter.
All is imperceptibly slow. Then
Fast, fast.
Until all time is a flickered blur
Of falling orange on white,
Misremembered sadnesses;
Hoped, dreamt light
In the deep dark
That goes
Over barn roofs,
The impossible miles
Of black limbs
Reaching, up.
Of falling orange on white,
Misremembered sadnesses;
Hoped, dreamt light
In the deep dark
That goes
Over barn roofs,
The impossible miles
Of black limbs
Reaching, up.
1/17/2017
Now again
The Geminids come -
Seldom spark
In dusks of hoped-for days.
The Geminids come -
Seldom spark
In dusks of hoped-for days.
In us
They round hard corners
And well-designed city blocks, and
Go feral and river-unstraight.
The gone campus;
The stands of tall ashes;
The misremembered maps and declinations
Keep guard, now
Over where we were, sure,
When first for us
Came the Geminids,
Seldom spark
In dusks of hoped-for days.
They round hard corners
And well-designed city blocks, and
Go feral and river-unstraight.
The gone campus;
The stands of tall ashes;
The misremembered maps and declinations
Keep guard, now
Over where we were, sure,
When first for us
Came the Geminids,
Seldom spark
In dusks of hoped-for days.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
1-3-2017
Municipal gradings
Bleed along
Glacial melt.
Answers beg,
Question,
What
Do you know
About this world?
Those mornings
Cousined up before
Light
And chasing snakes
On the river.
What do you take to you
In these half-finished
Houses of your
Ways north?
Monday, October 17, 2016
10-16-2016
There, the low gold glow - upheld over unharvested
Fields along the bled-black journeys - north, west - undid locks.
And the hid way through went clear when daylight left our dusks.
The elms and maples rose up in frightful silhouette.
Crew changes went wrong in fogs; October lost our heads.
Someone said, "Hold close what God promised to you bastards."
And then it was dizzying dives into pools of black.
Some nights I build fires in the backyard dark, after work.
I remember, like some still do, what it meant to hope.
Fields along the bled-black journeys - north, west - undid locks.
And the hid way through went clear when daylight left our dusks.
The elms and maples rose up in frightful silhouette.
Crew changes went wrong in fogs; October lost our heads.
Someone said, "Hold close what God promised to you bastards."
And then it was dizzying dives into pools of black.
Some nights I build fires in the backyard dark, after work.
I remember, like some still do, what it meant to hope.
Monday, October 10, 2016
10-9-2016
The edge of the Milky Way.
You could strop it sharper
If you had the time.
It would be easy,
That edge against
All those others:
Waiting, silence among them.
But there was no time,
The dusks too soon dawn,
And those step-stones
Each night
Lulling you and
Your friend's father
Out
From the shore
To the bottom of
Lake Michigan.
You could strop it sharper
If you had the time.
It would be easy,
That edge against
All those others:
Waiting, silence among them.
But there was no time,
The dusks too soon dawn,
And those step-stones
Each night
Lulling you and
Your friend's father
Out
From the shore
To the bottom of
Lake Michigan.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
9/25/2016
Autumn passes over the world,
Brimming
Quiet and certainty.
The cicadas go.
Then the katydids.
Then the memory
Of what the
Dead trees looked like in spring.
Brittle gold,
Finality, pass
To the stalks and fields,
And the twilights make their
Agreement again with
Fire,
Low
In the early night.
Green and growth
Shrink from old pathways
And the space between homes.
The secret ways north
Turn obvious again.
Brimming
Quiet and certainty.
The cicadas go.
Then the katydids.
Then the memory
Of what the
Dead trees looked like in spring.
Brittle gold,
Finality, pass
To the stalks and fields,
And the twilights make their
Agreement again with
Fire,
Low
In the early night.
Green and growth
Shrink from old pathways
And the space between homes.
The secret ways north
Turn obvious again.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
8-13-2016
Cirrus clouds
Flake like flint
Against the half-moon,
Shifting,
Fine grain in knife handle
Where that moon,
Ever noted, has remained,
Cat-eye
Over maples,
And where train sounds have gone
Too close to the sleeping children.
All night,
The sky
Thins to edge and whittles away
The top of the old world’s breath.
I am still waiting underneath it,
Carving my names into
The triangles made by the
Stars above this hemisphere
Flake like flint
Against the half-moon,
Shifting,
Fine grain in knife handle
Where that moon,
Ever noted, has remained,
Cat-eye
Over maples,
And where train sounds have gone
Too close to the sleeping children.
All night,
The sky
Thins to edge and whittles away
The top of the old world’s breath.
I am still waiting underneath it,
Carving my names into
The triangles made by the
Stars above this hemisphere
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