At terminals, we embark and disembark

To all those who forgot about this blog gently festering and molding in your RSS feeder, and are reading this now, thank you for your accidental faithfulness. After a year of silence, I am returning briefly to close up this little cheese shop for good. This blog has been a wonderful avenue to try my hand at poetry and get feedback from all of you, my lovely readers. Many thanks for your readership and encouragement.

But never fear! My writing hand has not yet grown sluggish. The reason for this cessation is that I would love to try to publish a book of poetry at some point in the future; so I will be depositing my future poems in a different hoard. While my verse will always have more refining to do, this blog has brought me to a point where I feel ready to set my sights on other poetic destinations.

If I start another blog I will let you know here.

Again, many thanks for your good-hearted interest in my writing!

Surrender

Surrender 5/18/14

Maybe you know that ache: when you’re

broken but not humbled
clean but not cleansed
rested but not refreshed
restored but not reborn
still but still not at peace
but you...how you tried.

And you know you need the New now more than ever

and that it was never in your reach
and somehow that’s why it’s in your grasp
and somehow fighting on looks like giving up
and somehow falling on your knees steadies you
and somehow starting over brings you to the finish
and somehow it’s the easiest thing and the hardest thing

Because it’s not up to you somehow.

It’s not how you tried
It’s not how you gave
It's not how you reached
It’s not how you strove
It’s not how you worked but
It’s some(body’s)how

Because the how isn't yours when what’s yours is His.

Strong Hands

Strong Hands 12/25/13
My father has strong hands,
                                            hands that
Build, setting threaded finger-tips to tools
that drill and level making good increases
of toil, soil, bolts and wooden pieces,
that conjure, gird, and hem with metal rules,

that Point to points on maps with labeled lakes
established in his mind but by his aim,
that Work at keyboard keys almost the same
creating quick, sure-fingered things he makes,

that Fold with equal readiness to say
his thanks to He who gives good things and pray,
that Falter,
                 testifying they are truly hands
and better for it, by it proving them a man's.

Ode to Swing Dancers

This was a Christmas poem for my sister.

Ode to Swing Dancers 12/25/13

 It's commonly known that the dancers of swing

Are one of the greatest of all of the things.

While everyone knows that this isn't a lie,

It's common to ask for the reasons of why.

As easy to ask as it is to reply,

Below are the reasons swing dancers are fly.

One: Swing dancers see the whole world as spinning

(Which it is, is it not? ever since the beginning.)

This fact merely proves that not only delightful,

But swing dancers also are rather insightful.

Two: Swing dancers keep both their feet on the ground,

But not all that firm as to keep them earth-bound.

They're prone to take off at the least provocation,

Whether Lindy or Charleston, it's like levitation,

Not flying, not walking, not hopping nor prancing,

Not magic nor earthly they just call it dancing.

With their grace and their charm they surpass all the rest,

Whether gentle or lady, swing dancers are best.

If you doubt, simply watch, just observing them twirl

And you'll realize these folks are unmatched in the world.

Marriage

I wrote a few poems as Christmas gifts and I decided to post them here (with permission.)

This one was for my brother and his fiancée.

Marriage 12/25/13

There's a place where the stream meets the river.

You can look up the side where the streams

flow alone with zigzags and shivers,

where the children toe-deep in their dreams

catch big sharks like the crawdads that quiver,

and build bridges of steel aspen beams,

Or

You can look down the downstreaming side,

where keen oarsmen and fishermen dwell

forging life in the seasonal tide;

choppy rocks make it fracture and swell

but the river is deep, true, well, wide

and one, strong though the path may rebel.

And there's beauty in the water that glimmers

at the place where the stream meets the river.

Sleep

Sleep 7/25/13
Sleep: plastic contentment between his lips
rests in his mother's center,
his small frame enveloped in her
voluminous ocean of warm warm
warm all around.

She fills her seat with sleep,
her only rest her infant's comfort,
The two enfold each other,
little arms in her lush limbs,
little head in her soft middle.

Each rests in the rest of the other,
all is still in their one world.

Stereotypes and Stories

A Plane to Africa    6/25/13

      leaving home:

abercrombie with
rolled up jeans and
a couple loafers (or)

oiled gold watches
fiercely greased hair
slick suit stripes (or)

dreadlocks draped over
colorful shawls over
toes tucked in sandal loops.

      coming home:
depths of robes
the colors of august
flaxen scented (or)

dark suits with
barely intelligible
perfect English (or)

abercrombie with
rolled up jeans and
a couple of loafers.

like a bad joke or a better story:
a nun a preacher a Muslim a hippie a tourist a family of ten a petroleum engineer and
I walked onto a plane to Africa.

      me:
orange ray-bans
a red v-neck and
plaid sh(or)ts

I mean, they were
gifts, I don't normally
wear, this s(or)t

of thing, and the shades
are more of a joke,
Am I the only n(or)mal

one here?

My stories are still quite young
My new-sewn clothes unsung.