Friday, December 26, 2014

Weekly Worded

       Among the Many Arms My Father Wore

I remember hiding,
though my brother had better things to do,
until my sister just quit looking,
until the house grew still
and all I could hear was my heart.
The closet held the darkness,
it surrounded me like a cloak.
In a crowd of shoes I sat untrodden,
my finger tracing the blued length
of my father’s shotgun. 
The closet played the movie of my history
on a hundred glossy photographs,
and when I placed the album back
on its high shelf I knew that I too
contained multitudes. 
I remember how his closet
embraced me until the sound
of my name grew soft, and the moon
came out from behind a cloud.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Weekly Worded

       Snow Prayer

How softly snow arrives in the night
to cover the darkness with light.
By morning the world is uniform white
and because it’s still snowing

the sun’s inevitable rising
will be anything but bright.
You see, I’ve got to get going
but visibility is poor.

I can barely open the door
with all of my might.
Oh snow, my lovely
and treacherous angel,

if nothing I say here will do,
I pray, please, at least close the school.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Weekly Worded

       Partial Eclipse

If you wait any longer
the moon will have slipped
like a shiny quarter

beneath the earth's velvet upholstery.
Try as you might to retrieve what’s lost,
there will only be popcorn husks, cookie crumbs,

a nest of shredded tissue, at least one paper clip,
a dried up ink pen and a tough little nugget
composed of either meteor fragments

or the desiccated remains of distaste.
The fullness of each moment
held tight, then tighter.

Friday, December 5, 2014

Weekly Worded

       Writing Like a Radio

I’ll hold the pen like a microphone,
lean over the poem repeating test, test, test
until I can hear my own voice
bouncing back off the paper.

Later, after I’ve rambled
about weather, time, and the usual sponsors
I’ll turn to the day’s calendar
and write a line like, “This just in…”
so what often goes unnoticed
glitters with worthiness, as if my life
was breaking news.

I’ll imagine readers calling, asking
that I use a favorite word,
that I dedicate some portion of my time
to their loneliness, and really
what can I say, I’ll try to work it in,

and maybe
if after an interview
and a few anecdotes
designed to keep the poem upbeat
and family-oriented, maybe
I’ll go to a prerecorded commercial,
lean back in my chair
and ponder for thirty seconds
what’s next before the dead air’s back
and all I can think to say is
“This one’s for you.”