The long thread

The long thread
must continue in the background.
Your underlying endeavors
silently achieving,
even as your family duties take center-stage
(as well they should),
but all the while, your projects progress;
the long thread pulls,
it draws success.

Not present

I feel like a ghost.

When you’re sick,
everyone says they don’t blame you,
but it cannot relieve the heavy burden -
the viral load -
that inescapably weighs upon you -
within you.

I can be present,
but I can’t get too close,
I can’t hold my baby or kiss my wife,
I daren’t even open my mouth to speak
for risk of sharing more than words.
So I am mute, out-of-reach, untouchable,
unable to support my family,
unwilling to cheer up or smile, as requested,
for I am a ghost.
I am good only for haunting.

What does creativity mean to you?

Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks, and diner napkins.

The greatest effect that creativity has on my life is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing, or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks and leaving scars on my face (and grey hairs on my head).

Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve, than for what it helps provide.

Shattered

In reaction to reading ‘The Glass and the Bowl’ by Louise Edrich in a poetry book Ashley had gifted me.

—

You made me cry on my birthday,
and really, it was the best gift.
That kind of cry where you hold your breath
because you just know the moment you open your mouth
more unfiltered emotion will escape from your eyes
and rock your words.

It hit me a little. Then it hit me a lot.
And I kept re-reading the poem
to see if it would lessen, or if I could better come to terms with it,
but I could not overlook its subtle power;
the way it reduced me to uncontrollable tears,
I know it’s because underneath all the desperate levels of sadness
there is an infinite well of love that will never, ever dry up.

And so these tears will never, ever dry up.
I went to sit with you during her midnight feed,
to see if that might settle me.
Then her tiny hands wrapped around my finger,
and I lost it all over again.

I remember on Sundays

I remember on Sundays -
one of the few days he could have to himself -
without fail we'd drive down to Rowland's Castle
for surely another pulled muscle or skewed finish,
in the bitter-cold or utter downpours;
I'd always arrive with the discipline of polished boots,
and always leave with them caked in mud,
clapped together at the boot of the beamer,
before roaring home through country lanes,
Guns N' Roses blaring,
whereupon arriving home I'd clean my boots again,
and listen to the kerching of a Radio 5 Live gameshow
as he spent the next few hours preparing a feast,
then we'd all sit at the table, elbows off, backs straight,
and I'd ding my knife on the crispy roast potatoes
(to test the integrity of their crispiness),
and refuel my growing body
with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.

I'm learning now that these weren't sacrifices;
these many things he'd do for us.
They were the things that made him happy.

tiny trials

I'll never forget those early days,
the bi-hourly feeds, the tiny trials,
the early reward of Summer's smiles,
and the love that we grew in a million ways.

Now and forever

You have always been great at games...
but never was it as plain to see
as when (and how easily) you took to this,
a game amiss of definite rules
and well-worn tools in need of revision,
but never clouded your vision of how you would raise her.
You selected, appraised, and collated the ways,
developing a motherhood manual of your own,
through courses and the instincts that stirred in your belly,
perspectives renewed and a model for many
of willpower, and gusto, and inspirational poise;
determined to set yourself up for success,
and when the time came to push
you gave it all. Nothing less.

In a way, that was all expected.
You're the strongest woman I know (by far);
this challenge would never rock you.
But in another way, you entirely surpassed
even the strongest of our estimations,
revealing the mother I always knew
was deep in the heart of you.

Happy first mother's day, you beautiful soul.
Once again, you've excelled and amazed.
You're a natural, you're incredible, you're a love to behold,
you're a mother,
now, and for all of your days.

Forever inaugural

Not every day will be like this.
You can’t rely on this temporary serene
that comes of not poisoning or hampering your soul,
for the slow and boring days will come again
and again and again, and only then
will you know if the lesson has been learnt and burnt
into the habits of your new way of being.

It is pain to be forever inaugural,
never celebrating the anniversary of being renewed.

The plan I had

Some years ago now, I was challenged to write a 10 year plan,
if for nothing else but to devise direction,
but it left me disappointed
in its lack of dreams,
each milestone marked by dollars saved,
and children made,
albeit that felt like lofty goals,
aspiring for prosperous normalcy
and stability.

Here I am, 8 years later,
homeowner, married, fathered, naturalized,
in a new city with a great circle of friends,
career a little askew,
fitness a little off track,
and though some token goals
on that 10 year plan
have gone unanswered by year 8,
what I have experienced and achieved
far exceeds my expectations
and imaginations;

I thought I’d set lofty goals,
but had I known how I’d smash
right through them,
only to discover a reality much richer,
one of our own making,
one shared,
as I had prayed it would be
that night long ago when I stared alone
at the beauty of the moon.

Bourbon vs Scotch

When tasting Bourbon
you are aware of the fast expertise
crammed into its hot, caramel flavor,
reveling in its excitement,
like a fiery prodigy.

When tasting Scotch
you are walking through fields of barley,
fingers brushing through centuries of craft,
whispering celebrations (and sad affairs)
in romantic wisps.

SUMMER

S oft understanding murmurs my eternal reverence.
U nique moments memorialize existence, rendering shadows
M ere mists; even rain shines unbeaten.
M ay every reality seek us, moreover
E ach rare star utter miraculous messages,
R eciting stanzas unwritten; making mysteries emerge.

Summer Unearths Meaning, Marking Everything Renewed.

I see you in her

I wake a hundred times a night
to hear, to see, to feel you breathe;
on tenterhooks for any sign
of struggling, or spit-up, or a gurgling wheeze.
And when you finally dissolve
(with heavy eyes, and wrapped in place),
I roll to my side to see your mum’s eyes
but what I see instead is your face.

In my half-awake state, sometimes I’d see Summer when looking at Ashley sleeping.

No matter what, you made it through

No matter what, you made it through,
and I’m so proud of you.

Our love began in saddened eyes,
coincidentally shared by two;
no matter what, you made it through.

Your dream return to Texas skies;
you freed your heart to go pursue,
and I’m so proud of you.

You took my dream and recognized
how many shots to make it true.
No matter what, you made it through.

There are not many who trusts and tries
this many times to say “I do”,
and I’m so proud of you.

Till forty weeks you exercised,
then pushed the miracle that you grew.
No matter what, you made it through,
and I’m so proud (so in love) with you.

This is not a poem. This is not a test.

I am a poet.
I am a photographer.
I am not a drinker.

I love my coffee in the morning,
my tea in the afternoon,
but alcohol is not part of my plan,
it is a rare treat.

I am a husband,
I am a father,
I keep my body fit
and my mind sharp,
I do not waste my time in a haze,
I do not lose the early mornings to pain.

I am intelligent,
I make good, long-term decisions,
I am funny,
and I form strong relationships,
I do not have drinking buddies,
I do not go out on the piss,
I treat my drinks with ceremony, and respect.

I am alive,
I am interested in experiencing the world,
I do not numb myself from it,
I do not romanticize the image of drinking whiskey,
I recognize that cocktails are fun,
I partake only on occasion,
but enjoy making them for others, too.

—

Update: it took till March 2024 to actually commit to this vision of myself.

Something is different

Maybe it was the cold morning,
bundled up on our walk for coffee,
hustling back so I could head to the hospital,
car seat inspections,
practicing the motions of buckling in,
maybe it was that imagining,
or the nostalgia of brewing a cup of tea
to stave off the parking lot chill,
there’s just something different in my vision,
in that part of me that’s self aware
and aware of everything around me,
it feels like a center is forming,
an inward force that pulls it all together,
a dazzling core that opens my eyes,
it is love, I think,
an evolution thereof,
in a way I have never quite felt before.

unswallowed

Deep, impending moments
press their weight into the fabric of our being
a gravity that pulls us to the inevitable core
and we claw claw claw at anything that’ll keep us unswallowed

Wouldn’t it be easier

Wouldn’t it be easier
if all the sins were buried too;
turned to ashes like the flesh
that brought to life the quiet crude
which should have stayed a fantasy,
and even then examined hard;
for all the living in that moment,
the life of love that you discard.

Wouldn’t it be easier
if all my family showed me ‘how’
instead of all how not to be,
as if I could simply not allow
the drink, the smoke, the wondering eye
to rise in me like the meeting of storms,
not lessons learned or lines in sand,
my soul holds on to prior forms.

Wouldn’t it be easier
to treat you as an effigy
and not a victim of an ancient thread
that binds us not with empathy
but mutual disappointment
for what we could not overcome;
an unattended funeral awaits for those
who falter and succumb.

Now you can’t see the mountain

Now you can’t see the mountain,
the smoke that silks the hazy green,
the layers on layers of silhouette peaks,
the sheer descent that seeks the deep,
the heat, the breeze, the forever-view
that better men have led me to.

It used to be

It used to be that when the waves
delivered me toward the shore,
the ocean reeled and wound the strings
that knotted through my salty heart.

It used to be that the shrinking land
in turn diminished every woe,
and opened up the world beyond
the sun, the moon, the forever-fold.

It used to be…but the gravity has shifted,
in the heart of this nation are the dreams that I have lifted,
are the roots that I’ve buried,
are the branches that I’ve tended;
full-steam ahead, before I’m dead,
let it grow where once it ended.

Effigy

This campfire is an effigy
of the man I was before your heart
began to beat like pulsing flames,
and drew from me the soot and dark.

All the things they say will go away,
I throw them to the fire and pray
the trade is fair, and the tales are true;
that life will never be the same with you.