Breathe in the moon and the stars.
Listen to the dark.
Fall night tells me its story.
-- 11/18/2008 0031 Hours, On duty
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Alright with Me
It was just another day.
On the job.
Flagged down by another citizen.
Nothing special.
How can I help you, sir?
Are you alright?
And he leans into my car
And he shakes my hand.
A city cop by experience,
I’m still adjusting to this.
But, I make myself smile
And I shake the extended hand.
And then he starts in.
He tells me of his terribly ill
Little boy in Kentucky.
He doesn’t know if he’ll be alright.
He tells me, the stranger in uniform,
That he had to leave his little boy
In the hospital there and come back here
To work so he can pay the bills.
And he smiles and he thanks me.
And I can’t imagine why, but he
Tells me. He says thank you, brother,
For all you do. For our community. For us.
And he tells me of his family members who
Were cops before me. And of his service
To his country, my country.
And I tell him I will pray for him, his family.
And that is all. I drive off. He is just one man.
But he is real to me now. No longer a stranger.
And, even though he is only half right about me,
He is alright with me.
-- 02/26/2008 Clifton, AZ
On the job.
Flagged down by another citizen.
Nothing special.
How can I help you, sir?
Are you alright?
And he leans into my car
And he shakes my hand.
A city cop by experience,
I’m still adjusting to this.
But, I make myself smile
And I shake the extended hand.
And then he starts in.
He tells me of his terribly ill
Little boy in Kentucky.
He doesn’t know if he’ll be alright.
He tells me, the stranger in uniform,
That he had to leave his little boy
In the hospital there and come back here
To work so he can pay the bills.
And he smiles and he thanks me.
And I can’t imagine why, but he
Tells me. He says thank you, brother,
For all you do. For our community. For us.
And he tells me of his family members who
Were cops before me. And of his service
To his country, my country.
And I tell him I will pray for him, his family.
And that is all. I drive off. He is just one man.
But he is real to me now. No longer a stranger.
And, even though he is only half right about me,
He is alright with me.
-- 02/26/2008 Clifton, AZ
I’ve never stopped (or a long, slow suicide)
I’ve never stopped
Being disappointed
I am not my father.
I am not my hero.
And I will never be
What he was to me.
I am not larger than
Life. Not invincible. Not
Perfect. Or perfectly noble.
I am not dead
Before my child knows I
Am not perfect.
I will never be anyone’s
Perfect ideal, never
Their light house.
I will never know what
It is like to have my
Beloved child mourn me always.
Never know the grace
Of my daughter’s selective,
Revisionist history of me.
Every flaw, every failure
Is all I can see of the
Me that is not him.
I have written backward on
My forehead in permanent marker:
“Not good enough”.
Everyone else sees a
Mysterious and lovely
Birthmark. But I know.
It is my reminder to myself
That I am not him.
And never will be. Ever.
I could try harder.
Start drinking more and
Never talk about my pain.
I could find some children to leave behind,
Young, hopeless, at the mercy of
A gray world, a broken mother.
Filled with my idealism and
None of my strength or
Knowledge or courage.
No idea how to be what I was.
No idea how not to be what I was.
No idea how to be.
Yah, I could do that.
But it will never be good enough.
Because.
Because to be tragically heroic,
You have to be seen by
Someone not you.
So, here is what I really want.
I want to save one life worth the saving,
Correct one horrible injustice while there is time,
Write one poem that truly moves one soul,
Love well one true and worthy woman,
Inspire one act of mercy and grace,
And do it all in front of one innocent witness.
Then, perhaps, I will forgive myself
For living. For going on
Without him.
-- 04/26/2007
Being disappointed
I am not my father.
I am not my hero.
And I will never be
What he was to me.
I am not larger than
Life. Not invincible. Not
Perfect. Or perfectly noble.
I am not dead
Before my child knows I
Am not perfect.
I will never be anyone’s
Perfect ideal, never
Their light house.
I will never know what
It is like to have my
Beloved child mourn me always.
Never know the grace
Of my daughter’s selective,
Revisionist history of me.
Every flaw, every failure
Is all I can see of the
Me that is not him.
I have written backward on
My forehead in permanent marker:
“Not good enough”.
Everyone else sees a
Mysterious and lovely
Birthmark. But I know.
It is my reminder to myself
That I am not him.
And never will be. Ever.
I could try harder.
Start drinking more and
Never talk about my pain.
I could find some children to leave behind,
Young, hopeless, at the mercy of
A gray world, a broken mother.
Filled with my idealism and
None of my strength or
Knowledge or courage.
No idea how to be what I was.
No idea how not to be what I was.
No idea how to be.
Yah, I could do that.
But it will never be good enough.
Because.
Because to be tragically heroic,
You have to be seen by
Someone not you.
So, here is what I really want.
I want to save one life worth the saving,
Correct one horrible injustice while there is time,
Write one poem that truly moves one soul,
Love well one true and worthy woman,
Inspire one act of mercy and grace,
And do it all in front of one innocent witness.
Then, perhaps, I will forgive myself
For living. For going on
Without him.
-- 04/26/2007
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Arc of a Goddess
She leads her life
As she swims through waves.
As if she is water.
Pouring herself out
In raging torrents, crashing,
Flowing with all the force of natural grace.
As if her attack on life
Is a force of nature.
Impatient. Inexorable. Relentless.
Like gravity.
Like water
Seeking level ground.
All white caps and chaos one instant.
Then a limpid pool,
Reflective as glass.
When I remember her,
I will remember the arc
In the small of her back,
As she kicked into the wave,
In one fluid movement, like a dolphin.
Or a mermaid. Or a goddess of the sea.
No creature was ever lovelier
Or more perfectly,
Naturally at home.
-- For CJ, remembering her diving in La Jolla in early July while flying into PWM 07/30/2006 2020 hours
As she swims through waves.
As if she is water.
Pouring herself out
In raging torrents, crashing,
Flowing with all the force of natural grace.
As if her attack on life
Is a force of nature.
Impatient. Inexorable. Relentless.
Like gravity.
Like water
Seeking level ground.
All white caps and chaos one instant.
Then a limpid pool,
Reflective as glass.
When I remember her,
I will remember the arc
In the small of her back,
As she kicked into the wave,
In one fluid movement, like a dolphin.
Or a mermaid. Or a goddess of the sea.
No creature was ever lovelier
Or more perfectly,
Naturally at home.
-- For CJ, remembering her diving in La Jolla in early July while flying into PWM 07/30/2006 2020 hours
Drunk
I am drunk
on cheap liquor,
loud music,
wild abandon.
Drunk on the intimacy
of dancing
and talking all night
with this beautiful woman by my side.
I am drunk
on the touch of her fingers,
the light in her eyes,
the music of her laughter.
I am drunk
on this very moment,
as we stand on the pier
looking east over the river.
Our whole world
illuminated
in surreal relief by
the pre-dawn light.
We watch the sleeping ducks,
heads tucked perfectly into wing feathers,
gently rocking to the beat of tiny rippling waves
that lap at the rocks on the shoreline.
Our hands find the rhythm of the waves.
They caress each other.
Gently.
Hungrily.
I dare not
gaze into her eyes
lest I break the spell
of this perfect moment.
“Look at the ducks”, she says.
“Yes, aren’t they perfect?
Like this moment.”
This one perfect, precious moment.
Eternity is as close as the
infinite number of shades of blue
in the very-early-morning sky,
or the constant river, so close we can touch it.
And I say to her,
“This is why I write poetry.
To capture perfect moments,
like this one.”
Rare and fleeting as they are,
when I grasp them,
pour out their essence in ink on paper,
I touch the infinite.
And I know,
at this moment,
I am drunk
on love.
I am in love with this moment,
with these perfect, sleeping ducks,
with the perfect white, infinite light
on the pre-dawn horizon.
And, at this moment,
I am in love with the woman at my side.
I am drunk
and in love
with this perfect moment,
this glimpse of the infinite.
-- For CJ, 06/17/2006 0330 Hours, 5 and Diner Restaurant, Remembering Laughlin…
on cheap liquor,
loud music,
wild abandon.
Drunk on the intimacy
of dancing
and talking all night
with this beautiful woman by my side.
I am drunk
on the touch of her fingers,
the light in her eyes,
the music of her laughter.
I am drunk
on this very moment,
as we stand on the pier
looking east over the river.
Our whole world
illuminated
in surreal relief by
the pre-dawn light.
We watch the sleeping ducks,
heads tucked perfectly into wing feathers,
gently rocking to the beat of tiny rippling waves
that lap at the rocks on the shoreline.
Our hands find the rhythm of the waves.
They caress each other.
Gently.
Hungrily.
I dare not
gaze into her eyes
lest I break the spell
of this perfect moment.
“Look at the ducks”, she says.
“Yes, aren’t they perfect?
Like this moment.”
This one perfect, precious moment.
Eternity is as close as the
infinite number of shades of blue
in the very-early-morning sky,
or the constant river, so close we can touch it.
And I say to her,
“This is why I write poetry.
To capture perfect moments,
like this one.”
Rare and fleeting as they are,
when I grasp them,
pour out their essence in ink on paper,
I touch the infinite.
And I know,
at this moment,
I am drunk
on love.
I am in love with this moment,
with these perfect, sleeping ducks,
with the perfect white, infinite light
on the pre-dawn horizon.
And, at this moment,
I am in love with the woman at my side.
I am drunk
and in love
with this perfect moment,
this glimpse of the infinite.
-- For CJ, 06/17/2006 0330 Hours, 5 and Diner Restaurant, Remembering Laughlin…
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