•August 5, 2010 • 1 Comment

This time last year
I was waiting for you

25 hours into it
I stopped believing in God

But at 6:29 in the morning
I couldn’t help but believe again

You finally showed up
Late as you could possibly be

And now a year later
You are my life

One-year-old and you have so much power
A smile or a kiss can make my day

Thanks for sharing my birthday month
Buddy Bear



•May 21, 2010 • 2 Comments

The idea of naivete knocks
on the door of my thoughts.
You think this praising God thing
falls under my territory? It asks.

Naivete makes a good case sometimes.
I see pain and heartache and rejection all around me. All day.
And I don’t mean on the news.
I mean in my life. In the lives
of my friends.

How can I keep up with this stuff?
How can I…
How can I….

Salle Des Departs

•May 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I heard a story about this
musician who was commissioned to write
a piece for a morgue.
A stretch of violins and
angel-esque voices to
comfort the family of the victim.
This does not comfort me.
If I were called to go identify a loved one,
Drove to the morgue, processing
as I passed all of the living
walking on the sidewalks.
All these people who are not my family sitting cold in a morgue
across town.
So when I get there, I want to hear nothing.
No pretentious stringed instruments I hear in the
movies in the similar scene.
I want to deal with the silence.
Deal with the heartache.

Out-of-date Filter

•May 4, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Last night as I fell into bed,
My thoughts spewed out of my brain,
Through my sinus cavity,
Down into my mouth
And sure enough, right onto
My tongue.
And now whatever my
Mind was spinning in those seconds…
Now that’s fact. Now its how I really feel. Even if it isn’t, its what left my lips so who can argue with that?
That’s the danger of not replacing the out-of-date filter
In your head.

Return of the Poet

•April 3, 2010 • 1 Comment

It’s National Poetry Month.  I can’t help but think about my poetry, and where I’ve been since the last post on here.  I haven’t been writing much lately, and I accredit that to several things.  Mainly, I have a seven, almost eight month old daughter who occupies almost all my time at home.  I’m not complaining.  I am 100% head over heels in love with her.  But I haven’t had much time to write lately.  Also, I feel like I haven’t had much stuff coming into my head worthy of writing into a poem lately either.  I’m not saying I’ve been thinking bad thoughts or anything, just simply the inspiration hasn’t been there.  I reckon a writer’s block of sorts.  Anyway, I feel that I should share some poetry because of the celebratory month at hand, so I’ll share someone else’s.

Of Politics & Art
for Allen
by Norman Dubie

Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula
The winter storm
Off the Atlantic shook the schoolhouse.
Mrs. Whitimore, dying
Of tuberculosis, said it would be after dark
Before the snowplow and bus would reach us.

She read to us from Melville.

How in an almost calamitous moment
Of sea hunting
Some men in an open boat suddenly found themselves
At the still and protected center
Of a great herd of whales
Where all the females floated on their sides
While their young nursed there. The cold frightened whalers
Just stared into what they allowed
Was the ecstatic lapidary pond of a nursing cow’s
One visible eyeball.
And they were at peace with themselves.

Today I listened to a woman say
That Melville might
Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked, “And why not?”
The first responded, “Because there are
No women in his one novel.”

And Mrs. Whitimore was now reading from the Psalms.
Coughing into her handkerchief. Snow above the windows.
There was a blue light on her face, breasts, and arms.
Sometimes a whole civilization can be dying
Peacefully in one young woman, in a small heated room
With thirty children
Rapt, confident and listening to the pure
God-rendering voice of a storm.

Papa Poet & Baby Poet

•July 30, 2009 • 2 Comments

There are four kinds of poems.
That’s it.

That’s all we have to work with?

There are poems about God.


Poems about girls.

What about guys?

Those poems are really about girls.

What else?

The poems about the shuffling of paper, or about fruit… Those poems are about nothing.

Well, that’s boring.

Not at all, those poems are the best.

Let’s see… What about poems about war and history?

Those are usually really about God or women.

Okay.  What’s the fourth one?

Poems about poetry.

Like this one?

Yes.  Like this one.

Bob Dylan Goes to the Movies

•March 19, 2009 • 3 Comments

Bob Dylan Goes to the Movies

Starting the car, I hear
“Mr. Tambourine Man”, the Byrds version.
Disgusted, I put in a
Patti Smith CD a friend
gave me the other night.

She was sounding marvelous
“Changing of the Guards”
Jesus Christ.

In the lobby, “Like a Rolling Stone”
is wailing over the crowd.
Holy hell.  I can’t even escape
my life by going to the theater because
my life is there in the speakers.

The picture starts and “Rolling Stone” rolls
through the credits.  I almost
throw up my popcorn.

It’s hard to keep the Coke down now as an emo-punk
version of “Desolation Row” plays…
They brought my eleven minute brainchild
down to a three minute clamor.

The climax of the film features
Jimi Hendrix covering “All
Along the Watchtower”.  I can’t avoid myself
anywhere in this country.