Poem 17

I've fiddled with this one for a while, since at least spring of '03. It's sort of a sequel to "Haunted" but not originally meant to be one. It was strange to be moving my grandfather out of the house, almost like a final indignity to the guy. He's doing fine in his newer place in a mobile park in West Richland.
This one fits in with my weird ghost motif that I do. I don't believe in ghosts, but I like the concept and their usefulness in writing.

Moving into the Double-Wide

With the last of the clocks packed,
time at my grandfather’s house
is like a metal hourglass
full of bolts and sockets,
dented and dashed,
greasy to touch,
sifted over the bent edges of tools
or the cover of a John Deere manual.

We have come here,
this basement lit by humming tubes,
to rummage,
to scrounge up generations-old tools,
work shirts with faded stains,
and fishing poles his hands gripped
even as they began to shake.

They shake now as Grandpa
looks over the grease and metal
of a tool I can’t name
or imagine a purpose for.
He explains it well to my uncle,
and I would quote him
if I remembered
or could find the punctuation
for a voice like obsolete machines.

We don’t talk much here;
opinion drowns before it forms
in the sound of my father rattling through
old spark plugs and pipe fittings
in the drawer next to me.
My brother and I know how to box conflict,
to seal it up with brown tape.

My head buzzing like a flourescent,
I imagine for the second time
that I am a ghost here in this house
or that the house is a ghost
roaming caves and hallways
somewhere in the electric tomb
of our brains.

But the only ghosts small enough
to fit here among the junk,
are the cat ghosts.

For years
The strays bred in the bushes
spawning years of cats
mewling by the door at seven.
Grandpa set plates of cat food
and bacon scraps
for them each morning.
He took over the job,
cussing at their damn racket,
when Grandma died.

Now they stalk about
after ectoplasmic mice.
or try to nibble the dry food
that lies scattered on the concrete floor.
Their jaws pass through the bits
but keep nibbling.
They rub against our legs,
not crumpling our pants.
We might hear the soft pad
of their feet
if the old lights didn’t buzz
and we weren’t in such a hurry.

We turn off the light
when the boxes are in the truck.

Poem 16

This poem represents a larger pattern in which I write about things from a child's perspective with an adult voice. Sometimes kids have a unique perspective and can say surprisingly insightful things. I'm not so sure I ever did; some things were too big to talk about. It's probably a good thing that I write about this now instead of then.

When It Was Raining and Shining at the Same Time

I never knew the clouds could peel
back at the edge of the city
and still sail, dark above the trees
like big ships. Those water owners,
dropping their wet cargo in bits,
don’t seem like they know how the light
sneaks under them to warm my face.
Rain spatters into my cupped hand
and onto the street with a smell,
itself a bath, cleaning the day.
And, being five, the little I know
is that the ground is wet with rain
and the clouds are split by the sun.
What joy to run on these wet feet.

Poem 15

I didn't write this until long after the electricity was back on.

The Third Night without Power

There’s enough light on the desk
to see the matches and candle.
I’ll need that light
with the lines drooping
like sleepers’ fingers
under the branches
and trunks torn down
by air that worked in the night.
Tired of all that labor,
the town holds its breath.

Even in the dusk
before the candles,
I'm alone at my desk
looking across the lot
getting ready for another night
on the flickering pages
of Johnny Tremain.

The white lines below
that used to glow under street lamps
fizzle into the asphalt.
I falter, match head
to the friction of the book.
In three tries--
better than yesterday--
I forget the 20th century
and accept the wick.

One by one,
as a race
the renters across from me
light dim stars
two or three,
one at a time.
Their candles chase
the night into corners.
Their doorways disappear.

The sky joins us,
trying it's best
with all those tiny lights.

Poem 14

For this post I'll show you the original draft/sketch that I had to try to make sense out of today to post. Sometimes it helps to put a poem away for awhile and come back to look at it with different eyes. You can see how things might work out better or trouble spots a reader might pick up. In today's case, I had to figure out what the hell, if anything, I was getting at with this poem. The original seemed like two or three poems, but that wasn't working. Instead I tried to tie it together by switching into a different speaker. The revised version is first; you can view the original after if you're so inclined.

The Woman from Ephrata

I swear sometimes these are
the oldest tires still on the road,
and the rubber cracking at seams,
the whine, hum, squeal, and shake
is all I have against speed.
I’ll get a better car,
better than this old Chrysler
when he comes back with the kids.

Left here in Grant county
like I’m
some damn road off to somewhere
into the distance.
Like this one-
how it mocks and knows
I am going home
to flies and the radio
catching the edges of stations
from Spokane and Yakima.
The kitchen table
and three chairs always saved
just in case; I’ll eat standing again-
back hurts from sitting.

The ghosts in the backseat
buckled up -they are safe ghosts-
see through that window,
rolled down for breeze,
to the flip-book of sagebrush.
and horses dancing in the fence grid.
And the fence says,
“Stay here.
Know this place and trust my wires.”
There are schemes among the horses.
But the horses can’t talk.
Horses know grass
and swishing that tail against the flies.

With the last half of a tank,
I’m back to the double-wide
with the light on for no one,
getting more important
with the sun down like it is.

Original

The oldest tires still on the road
and the rubber cracking at seams
and the whine and hum and squeal and shake
are all we have against speed.
The damn road off to somewhere
into the distance
and it mocks and knows we
are going somewhere home
to flies and the buzzing radio.
The ghosts in the backseat
buckled up -they are safe ghosts-
and the window rolled
south; the handle is busted.
The ghosts see through that window
to the flip-book of sagebrush.
with horses dancing,
horses dancing in the fence grid.
And the fence says,
Stay here.
Know this place and trust my wires.
There are schemes among the horses.
But without words the horses know grass
and swishing tail against flies.