infused

When you came to me-

Held fast to my thumb

I transferred my muse,

infused the spark-

creation and thought,

my every turn and

intuitive hop

into that moment,

hazel hit hazel,

my breath got caught.

When you came to me-

all zen, unimpressed,

stoic and satisfied

I transferred my trouble-

the rage from the struggle,

eternally asking

the reasons why,

theorizer, moving

striving toward

the unreasonable,

hazel hit blue,

my voice got caught.

When you came to me-

angelic and feminine

I transferred my bliss,

euphoria seeking

light from love,

the terminus of same-

my thirsty search for

a singular wink of serenity,

of comfort and family-

hazel hit blue,

my heart got caught.

When y'all came to me-

held little bodies

cozied your heads,

contented to sleep

I was defused inside,

echo of breath,

of voice, of heart-

sounds as solids

cuddled into my chest.

This, your inheritance,

please live it fully-

it's all I have to leave.

It's all I ask.

pa's hat

I first wore the hat at the age of two

in a picture my mother took.

It swallowed my head- its immense size;

an adult's hat on a child's head.

My grandfather wore the hat around the 1950's-

when it was stylish. It fit him funny

we always laugh about the way it sat

on top of his head.

When off it came, a part of him was left inside and stayed for years as it sat alone in the top of his closet.

When I grew bigger, I lifted the hat from it's lonely perch.

Now it fit me-the brown hat hugging my head snugly but not too tight.

And all of a sudden, I left the place where the hat and my grandfather were for years.

But when I wear the hat, part of Pa infuses me.

His love and laughter spring to life

and make me into a man such as he.

And neither hats nor grandfathers are forever...

But I'll wear the hat, and I'll keep that part of him

left so many years ago.

And when he's gone, there will be a man

who laughs like him, and walks like him, and cares like him.

Still wearing his Pa's hat.

inside sun

2/1/2011- Garron, you're turning nine. So glad to have somebody as enthusiastic about Star Wars & Blue Devil comics as I am to talk to. I wrote this for your Celebration of Life at WMS a few years ago. When you were a baby we called you our inside sun- you would rouse us to wake the moment there was light outside. It still pertains to you, for you are fiery & prone to flares of exhalation at any moment about any number of subjects. Happy birthday to a wonderfully challenging son! Daddy wouldn't trade a second of you!

* * *

He tells me so much more than expected-
utterances so unfettered they soar-
super-powered, mud-splattered action-rocket-stegosaurs!

Bam- Pyoo- Crash! Than stop. Daddy guess what?
Today- today we learned the sun is burning hot with gasses
and it has spots!

Miss Rogers says someday- actually- it will be a super-nova!
Miss Rogers says it- it is so amazing!

Suddenly, his story ends,
his arms embrace me,
tension strays from its orbit
ordained to dissolve, a runaway planet
reflective of the sun's keen rays- 
snuggled- snoozing- super-nova son

Miss Rogers is right. He is so amazing.

questioner

For today, I am posting a poem I wrote when on the road for a job I used to have. I was lonely for my kids & wrote this poem in honor of my daughter, Amara. It became the most popular entry on my old site, with double the hits of any other poem each month. I read this at Amara's celebration of life at WMS. 

Update 2017- she has now graduated high school, and is headed to UNM. She still prefers to do things her way.

* * *

My girl says,“I want to do it my way.”
Cyphers how its done without being taught
lessons would simply muddy her thoughts,
her trials spinning silk from everyday ether.

My girl says,“I think God is us.”

A bold declarative
her narration on life,
on her drifty soul
after a day at the waterpark
with Daddy on the trip back home-
a sudden insight on deity.

My girl says,“Oh my GOSH...”
A blurt before giggles
grandly juggled in throat
unleashed upon world
with accompanying snort
she laughs so hard-she's wild and brazen with life.

My girl says,“Amenandsomoteitbe.”

Speedily, sprightly
ending her prayers, only
pretending to be prepared
for bed- in reality ready to pounce
on ponderings pulsing thick through her always-busy head.

My girl says,“Was that a good question?”

And I pause, marveling at her confidence, her wit
to have these queries at six, her mind ablaze, and I respond,

“They're all good.”

I'm hopeful she'll never run out of questions to ask,
nor I answers to the symphonies and strands
my girl says.

arrangements for the gathering

Your doorbell rings
I wring hands I’ve
been sitting on
God knows how long
more feet tread the carpet
more eyes study my face
looking for a trace of you
or maybe an inkling of
some long-lost solace
deep-set in brown-black eyes
we improvise conversation
all the while gazing down
the darkened hallway my
thoughts lost on spent medicines
and floral bouquets
and making arrangements
for the gathering and
how to make it one you’d praise.
I stand around people shaped
the same as you and I
they reminisce, shifting sorrows
into long, writhing sighs
while I cannot do a thing but smile-
think about throwing balls
and fishing songs
and swimming pools long ago-
your hand guiding my shoulder
steering me surely down the sidewalk
the jubilation in your voice
when I’d call- your “Hey, Bo!”-
that may be the thing I’ll miss most
I’ll take your spot, though
in the recliner chair, remember
I’m only there to keep it warm,
for you.

* * *

This poem was written for Pa- Dudley Lee Tankersley. My grandfather, my role model of fatherhood. We got to be with him during the last few years of his life, and they were great years. I'm so thankful for that time. PUBLISHED in the August 2013 Edition of The Rag, Albuquerque, NM.