Waiting for Dad

The sundraped buildings mark the evening sky
As whispers tremble liquid in her ear–
She scarcely heard a word, nor met my eye:
A twilight twinge of unabated fear.

The night is here, her neon signs ablaze
(Small comfort for a country child of eight)
I do not know the city or its ways,
Her silence makes my small heart palpitate.

Another bus approaches and is gone;
Some strangers wander past us in the dark
And still we linger on and on and on.
Another bus, more strangers disembark–

“That’s him!” she cries, and then he’s in our arms:
A father’s presence ceases all alarms.

Creator’s Cathedral

These wooden beams like hallowed pillars rise
Upholding platforms primed with painted praise;
Sweet clay aromas mark the potter’s prize
And incense wafts from every glossy glaze.

Each eye beholds small molded offering,
Real sacrifice from heart and hand and mind–
This barn has been a place where scoffers sing,
A sanctuary for the art-inclined.

North by Southeast

A thousand arrows pointing different ways,
We sold off every brick of yellow road–
Each man a compass rendered to himself
What sacrifice was made for trick of gold
Or passion–wanderlust without the wander–
Or power, how we laughed and labeled it
As freedom.  True!  For we defined the truth:
A half-ton balderdash and half-ton @#!%

Lucky Day?

A dazzling dress so white, so cold, so clean;
I pinched the yard because she didn’t wear green.

Cella Sonnet

A cold, clear morning perfect for a drive:
—The frost-like snow lends softness mild and clean,
While twisted tree limbs fist-bump and high-five
—A crystal fountain drips down auld ravine:
Gold water catches sunlight like a star,
—A Canopus in aqua constellation–
Here Pollux, here Mimosa, here Hadar–
—Swift shifting shapes with each new undulation.
With paint-dipped branches birches arch the stream,
—A natural mimicry of wind-wisped snow,
Like whitewashed towers built from paper ream;
—They bend and beckon where to come and go.

The road that brought me by this starry scene
—Is all that interrupts this place pristine.

Hope She’s Got Extra Energy

I signed my name in cursive on the sheet
Then took her hand and we walked down the street.
I asked about her day; she said but little
And even that was difficult to hear,
For cars make noise in passing and she’s shy,
But what I caught was that she liked the snack–
They’d eaten cookies (highlight of her day),
She dances hip-hop, tap, and pure ballet,
Her favorite song: Be Careful Little Eyes.

A Moment in Passing

I hear the clatter, watch the hubcap roll—
Surreal, it spins its own route down the road
Without a guiding wheel to follow now
It steers itself with purpose to the left
Into the path of an incoming bus:
A metal crunch, it disappears from sight.

Don’t Call My Number

A narrow spot and gravity takes its toll:
The matrix falls as fours and threes collide
While casting sixes, 8, and nines aside
To bump along, as only the 0 will roll.

In Dependence Day

In June I tiptoe to offset the noise
July will bring: a New Year in mid-year—
Explosions loud, we celebrate like boys
When parents leave and there is none to fear.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Not yours)

And what, oh death, would you remove from me
By dimming lights?  I do not fear the dark,
For like Alaskan summer nights that see
A flick of black, an unimpressive arc—
Your cloak shall fall; it can’t contain the light
And life of him you do not own.  The seal
And signatures are proof you lost this fight
And I was part and parcel of the deal.