memorial

Oh, grandpa
I miss you
You know
that
But
I
need to
say
it
I miss
newborn
colts
in
spring
chasing me through
rolling fields
and raising
runts
from a
litter
of pigs
that would
sneak
out
during
a
bridge
party
my
Mom
your
daughter
was
hosting
and feast on
finger
sandwiches
But
most of
all
I miss
your smell
and
seeing
myself
in you.

"Sing your song. Don't let the bastards get you down."

Garrison Keillor

ode to Linda

I've been thinking about
your heart
How full it
is
and open
to let me in
and
giggle with you
and
now
needing
care
A giver
sometimes
becomes so used
to that
they
forget the need
to receive
to
revive
and,
so,
my
Linda
We are
here
to give
For
you allowed us
to
hear
green.

The Labyrinth of Solitude

There are specific moments in life when I feel that everything is just right. I suppose everyone does.

I was twenty-six years old. I had settled into a teaching position and was home for Christmas. My Mother and Father and I had Christmas Eve dinner together. My Mom has always been a fantastic cook. Her creativity is allowed to run rampant and she always fails to hold back. That year we had cornish game hen, with wild-rice and hazelnuts, and haricot vert.

Dinner had been cleared away and we were sipping on coffee and Bailey's and my Father said let's go for a ride. And we all agreed it was a terrific plan. So we set-off. Gently falling snow and all. And Johnny Mathis singing in the background. Which reminded me that when I came out to my parents that was my Father's only response. My Mother had three hours of prepared questions. My Father, in all of those three hours, just sat, staring, until he finally said, "You know Johnny Mathis was gay."

We drove north of the city. And came upon a nunnery on the top of a hill. The car climbed; following an ironic beacon of light. When we finally reached the top all we could do was stare, face pressed against frosted glass, steam from your breath adding a soft focus to these enormous plastic figures of Mary, and Joseph, and baby Jesus. All lit up. We sat there and felt small. Somehow it was all so beautiful.

My parents then took me on a tour of all the houses that they had lived in. And stories to go with. We had done this a million times. It always felt fresh.

There was the first house they owned. Where my father had gone away to play ball somewhere in the Midwest for the weekend. My Mother, pregnant, stayed home and chopped down a fifteen foot pine tree that was in front of the house because it was filled with box elder bugs. My Mother's theory was: Get rid of the tree get rid of the bugs. And Dad came home, and was extremely upset, but was so in love that the emotion became endearment.

There was the house where Eloise lived. She was the best gardener I have known. She always gave me a plant when I visited. I treasured these gifts. Once, she gave me a cactus. My grasp was so strong upon leaving that when I tripped getting into the car I didn't let go. We spent hours picking out thorns.

And then we drove by a house where my Mom said, "Do you remember this house where Grandma and Grandpa once lived, Kevin?"

I did not.

"Well, you don't probably remember it because we didn't visit here very often. This is where they lived when Grandma went through shock therapy."

"Um, what?"

"Oh, you remember. Uncle Gary got divorced and it devastated your Grandma. She cried for days. And that was the treatment then. Shock therapy."

And we wonder why she still has a distant look?

And we went to a midnight service. Holding white waxy candles to the sky as we sang Silent Night.

The snow crunched under our feet, I took my Mother's hand while she hummed, and my Dad put on Johnny Mathis, and we enjoyed each other.

always look up

i had busied myself
cleaning out beds
of decaying leaves
head to ground
i turned the corner
carrying a bag of
last winter
and it caught
me
as i walked down
the alley
the smell
of lilacs
and i looked
up
and what greeted
me
was a lilac bush
whose upermost
being
was
violet bouncing
off of
warming sun
and
the scent
i pulled
down a branch
and
buried my
face in it.

evolution

As a child; spring would present itself to me by way of my neighbor, Pauline Jorgensen's sheep, announcing that everything was new.

In between drinks, Pauline raised sheep, and chickens, and an occasional cow or two. She also taught writing at a local community college.

I would go through the whole process with Pauline. Birthing, castrating, loading them up for slaughter. Springs were especially busy. Except for when Pauline's son, Neil, would come over and explain that his Mom had bottle fever. And that day would be mine to go explore some ditches.

Castrating season involved taking each male lamb and placing a thick, blue rubber-band around their genitals. I quickly learned that it was much easier to do this if you held the lamb very tightly to your chest. Then the lamb would calm and the rubber-band would easily be placed. Thus, producing a lamb eunuch that would not consider sex and, instead, grow strong and fat for the sole purpose of becoming a meal.

These days enveloped me. Surrounded by the bellowing of youth, and a breeze that carried promise, and the unexplainable feeling of having a scared being soften to your touch.

I would leave these days. Skipping through flowering clover, lanolin gleaming off of my skin in shiny, silken brilliance, and me being too young to have experienced what dreams felt like. Knowing this felt right.

forever their normal

I was outside
because it was 8:09 pm
and the sun was
still shining
and a mother
went by with
her four small children
and I overheard
her say,
"He is locked up
and won't be
comin' home.
Repeat after me:
he is locked up
and won't be comin'
home."
and the children
sang in unison,
"He is locked up
and won't ever be
comin' home."
and they skipped,
and jumped,
and twirled
about.

And this is forever
their normal.