you’ve heard the old story
of almost throwing stones,
how they dropped
them and turned
despondently back
to their business.
but i returned
a few hours later
and picked them up,
one by one, enough
to fill twelve baskets.
i didn’t know the crushing
of bones would be my own.
Tag: poem
croup
croup
we re back in the e r
you couldn t breathe again
this time 3 am and your little
lungs straining for life and breath
your cough shook me from some dream
your eyes were desperate
daddy
yes son we re going
will i get a shot i don t want a shot daddy
no son you won t get a shot today
because i don t want a shot
the doctor will help you breathe son here hold my hand
and i won t get a shot
the white walls of the tiny room
are the same as they were five years ago
the time you stayed three days under a plastic canopy
i slept in a chair
friends brought food
nurses brought needles and tubes
and i find the same thing now
as i realized back then
you are stronger than i am
life inside
the machine’s howl
scorches our ears
and minds. everyone
wears the searing scar.
even the deaf weep,
for the machine screams
not across unbounded
skies, but from within.
can we stifle the roar?
can we purge the pain?
we search for anything
to make us whole,
that will not disappear
as its name forms
on our trembling lips.
On the Gift of a Fountain Pen – Seamus Heaney
On March 4, 2013, I attended one of Seamus Heaney’s final public readings prior to his death. He was the featured poet at Baylor University’s Beall Poetry Festival, and he wrote a poem for the occasion. It hangs on the wall in the English Department’s Carroll Science Hall. Enjoy.
emptiness
the emptiness
the watching
waiting
sunlight glowing
quickly fading
falling inward
outward gazing
when will hope arrive
* In response to a writing prompt from Creative Talents Unleashed.
The Visit
she stayed a few days longer
even after she left. i felt
her presence when the cats
looked up from napping and stared
bewildered at something over
my shoulder, circled twice
and laid back down to dream
of worlds we will never know.
From Awaiting the Images
High Tide
This is the first poem of mine ever published by a journal. It was published by Offerings in its 4th Quarter 2000 issue. I have no idea whether the journal still exists, but I am thankful that it encouraged me to keep writing, as I encourage you to do the same.
High Tide
He is too far away from the sea
to notice the sun dance on water.
He will never hear waves
pound against sand.
Too far away to play with children;
to believe sand castles
will never fall, then rebuild
when they do.
Instead he is fifty stories above
ground, grinding towards
a muddled dream as the first
floor fills with water.
Awaiting the Images 