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Three Haiku, written April 29, 2013

ONE

Bombs bursting in air

Four Eighteen, mocking Revere

Logan’s Run Monday

Note:  I wrote this just after the Boston Marathon bombings, which happened to be on the same date Paul Revere issued his famous warning.  The opening echoes the National Anthem and the closing, a film about life ending too soon.*

TWO

A sailor’s delight

Marching in like a lion

Aunt May deflowered

Note:  I combined three unrelated adages, from folklore.

THREE

Cloudy wet mirrors

Swallow things without question

Reflect truthiness

Note:  This last was inspired by a walk in Atlanta’s Piedmont Park, where I noticed city buildings reflected in the moving waters of Lake Clara Meer.  The lake swallows everything in its path, and then spits it back as altered reflection - as true, but not.  That struck me as a great metaphor for addiction.

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*Some say that poetry should need no explanation, but that seems like an unnecessarily pretentious reason to keep my mouth shut, so I didn’t.

Kitchenette Set Realness, written June 16, 2013, Father’s Day

I just had a 20-minute conversation with my dad, which for us is something of a record.  We talked about yards and yard work, property taxes and how he won’t have to pay school taxes next year because he’ll be seventy-two, how he’d almost gotten back his 20-20 vision after two eye surgeries, and about his difficulty breathing because of the heat and humidity.  I suggested that smoking might play a part in the latter, which led to him to issue a brief yet conclusive statement that he will not see a doctor because of the possibility of cancer and he’s already seen his wife and eldest son die of that.  I could not argue the point.

While he talked, my mind reimagined earlier days.  I remembered a battery-powered white helicopter.  Since these were the days before wireless anything, ©Whirly-Bird was tethered to a control box by a hard-plastic line.  It could only move forward, even if in circles, but that was enough for this kid.  Then I remembered the toy train that greeted me after I had jumped off the Blue Bird bus and hoofed it up our gravel driveway.  The engine was already chugging and pulling the cars along, they too in circles.  My dad bought and assembled these moments of happiness.

Then another virtual keepsake of sorts popped up, from just a couple of years ago.  Greg and momma were already long gone.  Daddy and I found ourselves in a rare moment of realness at the kitchenette set.  Our vinyl-covered chairs allowed most things to slide right off, but not all things.  He didn’t say much, but these words stuck and became one of my most treasured memories:

When you and your momma were down in Atlanta when Greg was real sick, she’d call me and keep me updated about what was goin’ on.  We knew he was gonna die.  I used to sit right here at this table and pray to God that he would take me and not my son.  ‘Please take me,’ I’d beg.

His eyes were cloudy with tears that affirmed every word.  In that moment, I knew that I already loved my warts-and-all father.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love, Unfallen

For too long, the past has consumed me.  It has felt smothering and abusive, unwilling to give me my freedom.  I did not want this, and still, it happened.  Some things are beyond our control.  I do not know whether I am free.  I may never know.  Yet, some experiences are clearly behind me and so I can say, if hesitatingly, “This part is done.”  Some can retrieve the past, I’ve seen it happen, at once wanted and unwanted.  Magical powers are great, and dangerous, and healing.  For me, now is the time to look ahead and leave you to muck around in who I was or perhaps never was.  You make those decisions, and I will do my best to abide them with either joy or forgiveness.  I deserve nothing less.

Love, Unfallen (Inspired by Enigma’s Return to Innocence) written June 13, 2013

The aging young man dreamed on this long

Midsummer’s Night

Of persimmons and lemons and raspberries

Unpicking, causing

puckered lips to unsour

Roads drawn in chalk on blacktop, rain-soaked

Unsplatter; multicolored paths appear with signs that say Stop and Yield and Go

An orange bicycle with a tall flag rides the broad highway drawn by HIS hand (you thought I meant God)

Unpiloted, unremembering what happened in the house overlooking his quickly designed Way Out

Uninviting what never belonged

Penciled words on a page

Unwriting; erasures leave forever-tainted traces

A man with a scythe in a field of cut cornstalks

Unslashes; severed pieces reconnect with root planted firmly in the earth

A unicorn plays nearby, wary, but mindful of the sickness to be healed

Grace and purity quietly at war with a looping background

Rain from a dog’s fur: Unshaken

A stone across a lake: Unskipped, unrippled

Pottery to clay: Unmolded

Wine to grapes: Unstomped, unfermented

Blood to vein: Unweaponized

S.O.S. to sand: Unwritten, unshifted

Tongue in mouth, Unkissed

Pain inflicted, Unhurt

Love, Unfallen