Poem for the Older Set (NaPoWriMo17 7/30)

Poem for the Older Set

 

The proper term of respect

for my elders

is

“sexagenarian.”

 

Not that I want to think

about that

and the laughter swells

(even if they cannot)

with the words that

raise

the level of seriousness

awareness

of the problems

all men their age

must one day face.

A Christian Man Tries His Hand at Parenting (NaPoWriMo17 6/30)

I think I tried this

last year. Struggling

through the day:

amid laundry, dinner,

dishes piled high.

 

Bathtub, filling up, just enough

the rest upon the floor,

now, your eyes

taken out too early

off to bed too late.

 

“Take my hand, oh fisher of men.”

The waters as they

rise, course above my head

upended by the waves

capsized, baptized

looking for the light, found,

saved,

by the side of the road, in a

puddle, muddy, muddle, shallow,

reflecting me.

 

 

Sundowny (NaPoWriMo17 5/30)

The golden

seething summer sun

settles in the west.

Beams, like bristles,

a pointy sundown crown.

 

I don’t know who you

are, but I’ve been waiting

as you walk away from the forest,

animals following behind you

frolic as you call to them

with your magical whistle.

 

Seated beside you

holding your hand

holding back

holding on.

You are here,

but I am waiting for someone

else, for this to be over.

TTOWBW: Last 4th of July: Plan of Attack (NaPoWriMo17 3/30)

20170403_131712Founder’s Mound on the common green

where heads of state still sleep

rings of concrete and of trees

be careful where you step

Circles kept them safe at bay

from rolling over in their graves

gazes baleful, turned their way

should the two dare aim to misbehave

Stood stock-still as ceme’try stones

as the two boys hurried past

the Red Eyes rose to their full height

to the old rules they held fast

Quirk Hollow (NaPoWriMo17 2/30)

Sleepy little burg

that isn’t on any map, you

can’t get to it from here

and were traveling back

is the only way forward.

 

Population varies

dependent on how the light

catches, the facets

of my star-studded personality

in the dark.

 

Ringing hollow in here

echoing off walls that won’t release

us. There is an emptiness

I cannot grasp.

Yet it reaches out to me

NaPoWriMo: Thirty//Thirty #5: At His Word

THIS:

is why the chicken crossed the road.

Only, it wasn’t a chicken,

maybe a quail, or a ruffed grouse,

the state bird of all things

strutting his stuff in the middle there.

 

Staring back at me,

I, as unfamiliar with the animal

as I

am with the state of affairs

concerning my own

preening feathers.

 

Calling out,

these great and unsearchable

things I do not know.

Hazy, like a mirage,

is an answer,

that He will bring me back

from captivity,

gathering, and restoring fortunes.

You may not see it,

I know, yet,

even I barely have an inkling.

 

Arms and hearts

making a highway.

Crooked is now straight,

mountains and hills brought low,

rough places made smooth.

 

Thank you, Lord, for hindsight.

 

Let my belly do the talking.

I’m hungry.

There’s chicken for dinner.