Winter Fire

It’s eighty-five in here.
My father
lit a fire in the new fireplace.
The tea’s gone cold.
The dog’s run off.
Everyone around me is smiling together
and rattling ice cubes in high-ball glasses.
I look for a safe place to stand
among these statues.
I land in front of the fire, the heat shrinking my skin.
I realize I’m older than I’ve ever been
as I watch the clock wind down
and the snow stack on the eaves.
Even the birds know when to leave.

Slipped Disc (for Dad)

His gasket blew.
He was running fine,
hoisting his body to work every morning,
bending at the waist and
reaching above his head,
until wham!

A transmission slipped
along his spine,
a deteriorated disc
caked with rust
finally skidded
to a stop.

It took every doctor
to check under the hood,
to bleed his brakes,
to test his fluids with a dipstick.
But they finally
built him back up
and all it took
were the right parts.

Heirloom

A team of seamstress crows
takes to wing,
seaming the two halves of treetops together.

One side of the road to the other.
Repairing the wound
left
to unite us.

I have been writing like a fiend.

Oh man! I have two poetry classes this semester and a fiction class. I'm reading so much that I'm writing in higher volumes, and producing higher quality work. Hopefully I will keep it up. As it is now, I write about a poem a day!

We all know love is not like in the movies

but that doesn't stop a million players
in a million roles from saying their lines
on cue.
Cupid's aim is horrible and his bow bent.
More of a little devil than a little angel.

We know love is not like in the movies.
No serendipity.
No long-lost-reunited flames.
No kiss at the end that means they can be happy now.
No soul mates.

Yet when we watch these films,
we still think that with enough wishing,
we will all feel Cupid's arrow
and the world will be right.

We still feel the piercing blow of jealousy
in our Achilles heel
like when the birthday girl gets
the impractical gift of a pony,
ripe with a fluffy pink bow,
even though years later
the girl will be grown
and have to watch her pony die.

When I watched a documentary on factory workers

in China
I wept
less than three dollars
for fourteen hours
I think of Ginsberg's America
his two-dollars-thirty-seven-cents
this was the girl's bright future
a girl my age
twenty-one this was her
better life
away from the farm her parents keep
with arthritic knuckles
sunrise to set sunrise to
set
they believe
our American dream

I read once that a liter
of diesel fuel
does the work of a thousand
hands
how many now
hang idle
like the stars glittering in the gap
between now and later between
someone else's world
and mine

littering the road
or stepping stones to
salvation

First visual poem. "When I was a child; I heard every whisper"