With love, your sun.

A bargain struck, 6/17/11

I said I love you

He said good bye

Walked out the door

Until that day he had been

On borrowed time

A deal had been made

A bargain struck

The one in need had been saved

Under the oak

He went home

My father had been many things in his life: a thug, husband three times over, a father four times over, brother, son, grandfather, drunk, sponsor, friend, and human. Dad drew the short straw in life in life, but through some kind of miracle he was able to stretch it out for sixteen additional years. My father was many things, wore many hats, but to me he was larger than life.

                The day dad died is imprinted in my memory, burned into stone. Even though he passed at forty seven he lived ten lifetimes.  With Father’s day on Sunday, I wanted to write a little about him, and to him.

Dear dad,

Over and over you asked me to write you a letter, even if it was just to say fuck you. I wanted too, over and over, not to say fuck you, to say I love you. I couldn’t, not because I didn’t try, I just couldn’t, life didn’t give me that ability. I was ashamed to tell you, I didn’t want to disappoint, to let you down. You are my hero. Happy birthday, happy father’s day, happy Fourth of July, thank you for the birthday presents, merry Christmas, and happy New Year. I know this can’t hope to make up for all the years without, but this is what I can do. I hope your journey home was pleasant, and you can get some rest.

With love from your son.

Almost he was so good at science they named an elephant after him

Some times it is funny how my brain works. That shouldn't surprise some of you, this brain of mine has taken me to some strange places(some of them real). I was on a friends blog and he had a picture of elephants. This amused me because of a slip of the tong he had while describing a acquaintance from years ago " he was so good at science that they named an elephant after him" said my friend. After discussing this gaff we agreed that I had the privilege of writing a poem about it. After seeing the picture on his blog I thought that was what I would do, then I read his blog. This was my response to his post,

Day by day, 6/15/11

He went by day after day

Living life and loving that way

He went by day after day

Until the day

He didn’t go by

No living No life No loving that way

Where is he now

Why didn’t he stay instead of go

You ask this

At least you think you do

It was not he who left

Instead it was you

He still goes by day after day

Wishing you could have stayed

I still hold the privilege of writing that poem about the man who on a lighter day had his science celebrated that way. This I will do on a different day.

fuzzy

Walking hurt, step after step
He sits, finally
Hands shaking, Eyes down
Fuzzy shoe outline blending
He raises his hand yet again
He is thirsty


This was inspired by my friend Christopher

walk

So I found myself writing a bunch of meaningless crap tonight because I had a hard day and am confused about what to do. That is something I am skilled at, filling up the air with crap so that I don’t have to actually and honestly look at things that hurt. A friend of mine said one time that he had a “rainbow belt in bullshittsu” this has always stuck with me; it has been the belt that kept my pants from falling down and baring my ass. While I was writing the meaningless crap earlier it had a hard time coming out. Although I want people to like what I write I don’t need that as much as I need it to not be bullshit to me.

I feel that I need this writing thing, like I need air or food, I don’t want to get in the habit of wasting it. Back to the bullshit, no, the reason for the bullshit, I am hurting, my arm is being amputated while I watch. I’m seeing my writing hand disappear and trying to see life as it will be without it. Of course I am speaking figuratively but that is how it feels; knowing that I don’t have the ability to see in that way leaves me in a position that I have to rely on something other than myself.  Here goes, God I don’t know what to do, I can’t do this on my own so I’m asking you to carry me when I can’t walk, to help me sit and be still when I feel I need to run, and help me be kind and gentle when I feel angry and mean.

Mine is the...



I jacked this picture from a friend of mine, a man with a view.

This is me

Mine is the picture

The vivid

Sometimes overwhelming colors

Weaving line by line

Traipsing through flower strewn valleys

Marching

This is me

Mine is the sword

Aching to swing

Weaving its deadly arc

Slashing through foe and fiend

This is me

Mine is the boy

Alone

In an attic

Surrounded by the clutter

Unwanted discards left here and there

This is me

Chris McQueeney 2011


Here is a late link to jingle poetry at the goose berry gardens