For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have
I make noises like a squeaking door
When I get up from sitting cross-legged
On the bed, where I’ve been tapping
On the laptop surface that sits in front
Of me, there
I make the noises verbally, that is—for
Now, my joints are fine
I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into
The silence and the solitude: a way to
Say, I’m here
For all the world to respond to, which,
Of course, it doesn’t
And Now One Is Found
The Nigerian schoolgirls
(hashtag)BringBackOurGirls
Remember
How would we
Understand two hundred
Seventy
How would such a number
Be taken without our
Noticing
In what kind of truck
And to what place all
Hidden
In our neighborhood-filled
Planet-parts, this is
Hard
From our earthen places
We cannot count
How
But in part we can’t believe
Not because it didn’t
Happen
Tragically, criminally,
Numerically—what transpired
Transpired
And with our questions and
New trepidations here is her
Body
Now we have her with
Child and husband on the fringes
Found
We can understand, now
Perhaps, a new story of
One
MS804
While they were up there
God took them home
Not to be taken as a platitude
Anger remains below
Confusion, aching concern
Managing all that’s in
The brain and
The human heart
That breaks in the world
Around, while more loss
Is measured out
And poured over like
Ashes, reminders that peace
Is not on board
Above or on the ground
War of attack
War of flawed things
The first mark being profit
Safety will never work as second
Psalm 39
a psalm of lament
Why must we kill each
Other, Lord? Why is
Cain more of an
Example than a single
Lesson?
Your word tells us to
Love; yet you have
Commanded war, I
Know—does war work
When you are its
General?
We kill each other in
Small ways as well
In kindness withheld,
All respect scorned,
And in quotidian
Wounding that will not
Subside, such is our
Wayward will
And lack of empathy
Keep showing us the
Better way, O Lord
And when we must be
Brutal, let us yield
The field to your
Strategy and control
This Is What I Care About
This is what I care about
Family—three brothers, sister,
Brother-in-law, sisters-in-law,
Too
Niece and nephews, two
Children in the next generation
Four dogs for now, no cats
I know of (since mine died)
Friends—those who have
Work and those who need it,
Who are healthy and who
Struggle to get through the
Day without so much pain
Neighbors—those who make
Up my community and those
Who try to disfigure it
Peace that hardly yet prevails
Love and grace that it might
Abound
God who doesn’t need me
But regards me as one part
Of creation, anyway
And you
For so many reasons
For I know that you care, too
No Time for Corruption
Hell, no time for disagreement
The Kurds need recognition
Identification as a community
Militias need discipline
If they’re going to exist at all
Iraq needs to find its center
If it’s going to overwhelm ISIS
And not defeat itself
What do we do, we from the
Outside?
We have resources, maybe we
Have time, we have perspective
More importantly, we can care
Stratagems and de-stabling
Agendas aside, sixty-six persons
Died—were killed—in a bombing
In Sadr marketplace
I know we don’t know this place
We might not know how to say
It
But sixty-six
How many families is that
I swear, we should invoke the
Real Isis, god of wisdom and
Brother to the god of the dead
Let her sort it out, if we cannot
Find the wisdom in ourselves
Young Frankenstein
This phrase came to mind
Out of the season’s time:
When the veil fails, speaking
Of Hallowe’en
This is what those of ancient
Lore believed—that gossamer-
Iron webs and steel-misty
Vapors held the other side
On a spellbound, ritualed
Line
Except for
This one time each year
I don’t know what this means;
The child in me didn’t
Care
I dressed colorfully, unusually
Looked through eyeholes
Of masks sweated ’round
The fabric on my face
I was young and relatively
Free
To run my neighborhood
Receiving chocolate reward
For feeling the thrill of cool
Air as more night rushed
Over my skin,
Through folds in costumes,
The faster that I moved
Cosmology
(who we are, materially)
I look away
Not always with my eyes
And I think
I cannot see my thought
I cannot see yours
Though I might fancy
In the expression of your
Eyes, your face, your
Body lines
That I know something about
What’s going on inside
Of you
And if you want something
(Hopefully good) from
Me
And I can become
Frustrated knowing that the
Container of my thoughts
Is simply this body
Nothing more
How do we get together
How do I get myself
Over to you
Maybe I don’t
At least not for now
Somehow electric thought
Remains inside flesh
And form, which
Move if my synapses
Are moving
For the better day
When we can do better
Than this to have,
To hold each other
Work in Progress Process
Blank page awaits
No, it doesn’t wait on me—it’s a
Blank page
It doesn’t do anything
But I do
When inspired
Wait—must I wait for that?
It’s a process, you know
Discovery and meaning
I might not have just now
I might have them later
When in composing
Something happens
It’s here—hang on, it’s
Coming
On the way, I’m sure
And maybe with regret
I’m late waiting for Godot
The sun sets on my day
But wait—the
Breath of day is ending
Yet exhale and breathing-in of
Night is more inspiring!
(Waiting for Godot, a play by Samuel Beckett)
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