Poem 48

I wrote this poem off of an exercise suggested in a book on writing poetry. The idea is to take a quote from a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher and write a poem that sort of goes against the "Show, don't tell" admonition. I came up with this fictional piece, which I'm actually satisfied enough to post. I looked at the quote in a way that is sure to be out of context and almost certainly wrong in its interpretation but which made sense to me in a way.

I have no idea where this hike is actually taking place.

Spring Break with My Daughter

“Old men were once young, but it is uncertain if young men will reach old age.” –Democritus

“The banks of the stream
keep it to one channel,
but with time, the river remodels
its course. Look at the walls
of this canyon; you see?”
my daughter announces
as if it’s been 30 years since
Geology, and for me, it has.
I can relate if the rock wonders
where the time has gone.

It must seem big to her,
the scads of years
to pry apart rock and leave
enough space for slow water
along the trail
and us along that, walking,
two hikers in jeans, boots,
the sweat of people who
spend the week indoors.

Jenn stops to swig water
and I look up through
sunglasses at the
sandstone and grass running
up from our low crease.
“Imagine how many years
it took to make this.”
“Yeah, when I was your age,
this was about three feet deep.”
She smiles, the dad-is-funny
grin: we’re getting along.

When she drove home
instead of to the beach
two days ago, I thought,
What can I pass to her
on a Spring break better
spent with friends?
And I thought of mine
back then laying on a beach,
trying to get laid,
mostly trying. Hard
to say it, but that’s what
I think college is for.

Monica made up the guest bed.
I thawed steaks and spent a vacation day.
Last year Jenn came home
and we had it all planned,
but that wasn’t sophomore year
when a kid is supposed to be
sleeping till noon
on a seven-beer hangover.
I’d like to ask her what’s wrong
and why she’s making good choices.

She clicks the cap back
on her water and claps her hands,
“Let’s keep going.” She starts.
My knees are reminding me
of the already three-mile return.
We stomp on down the trail,
another force tearing the canyon deeper
into earth, aging at every step,
all of us wanting to say,
I’m not sure how I got like
this, but I’ll tell you the story.

Poem 47

Here is another poem written in syllabics; I can't remember what number the previous one was. This one has seven syllable lines alternating with six for no reason other than that's how the first two lines went.
It typically takes me a lot longer to put together one poem like this, but on the plus side I can only hem and haw so much; I've fiddled with a free verse or five much more than I did with this one.

VHS to DVD

The machine hoards the disk and
waits, guessing the space left for
my grandfather’s old movies.
I slip from the cover
the old VHS cassette,
which carries, like echo,
my mother at the beach, her
head small behind large sun
glasses, a diaper bulging
her suit. A fast forward
later and Grandma blows out
thirty-eight candles. If
you watch until the static,
Grandpa drives the new boat,
nephews play croquet outside,
Mom dances, white dress on.

Ten years ago we paid a
man 40 bucks to spin
five reels onto cassette
tape; he went to church with us.
He seemed like a wizard,
putting this all to one slim
plastic box to sit on
the cabinet shelf, resting
against exercise and
old cartoons. I think of how
we once watched the tape and
slid it back in its slip case
like Grandpa putting books
on the shelf after bedtime
and leaving the hall lit.
That light projected shadow
on wall and floor: big shapes
he said were nothing, sleep tight.

When will we watch family
shadows at the Legion hall
dancing on a new screen?
The record button sinks in
to the remote control.
I pass on the stories with
plastic, as if etching
the things once more makes them last,
the signal fading, soft.

Poem 46

It's a new year, and I'm beginning to pull myself out of a winter slump in writing anything. Thanks for coming back.
I wrote this after hearing some piano music from the French composer Erik Satie. I don't get as much classical music as I should, but the three short pieces under the name "Gymnopedies" really got to me. I think it gives this poem a somewhat French feel to it. It's not a lot, but I'm able to post it, and in a dry spell I'll take what I can get.

After Hearing "Trois Gymnopedies"

What rain as fallen
left the parking lot
a constellation
of damp specks.

A Mazda,
two Subarus,
stand watch.
Their antennas
rattle.

The wind blows
more drops
from the awning
and branches
of winter trees.

It is how the air
mourns the lost
leaves here.
January, a warm
week, and
the rain wishes
for the leaves again.