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.

church

My grandfather lived to be 97. Throughout this time he was my father-figure, role-model & constant friend. This poem is about him but can be expanded to mean THE Grandfather, God, or the sacred masculine if you prefer. Pa displayed many of the virtues I think of when I think about what a man should be. I like to think the god is something like him.

The choir, by the way, was made up of rabbits.

* * *

I went to church

last Sunday morn though

not a pastor spoke.

The only choir

gnoshed oats with teeth

and did not sing a note.

With my grandfather,

I worked on the sabbath

but did not suffer sin.

His sermon rich,

entwining hope

with stories of where he's been.

The pews were plastic

no need to kneel

and neither of us tithed.

We talked as men

on equal ground;

a sense of respect and pride.

Nobody swooned

and no one prayed,

nobody bayed in dread.

There was no shouting

nor threats of hell,

the hour was never more sacred.

I went to church

last Sunday morn,

I did not find it odd-

between Pa's voice

and the joyous work

I felt the hand of God.

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.