middleagedmiddlechild.

Every few summers
right before the kids return,
the cones & ropes come out
directing traffic somewhere else.

There's a potbellied trailer
spattered & smoking, surrounded
by men in fluorescent vests
& tarred steel toed boots.

The asphalt goes down
thick & clean, the oily heat 
rainbowing & distorting 
the new view.

Then a slower process,
stencils & block letters, 
striping & labeling: 
students & faculty,
 
visitors & diagonally reserved spots 
we hope never to need,
a reminder of the everyday horrors
that happen somewhere else. 

Years later the colors return
to the earth, as we all must.
Cracked & bubbled, a broad mottled stripe
thrown into relief by sun & time.

The lines, faded & crumbling,
can still keep us safe. 
We remember
where we belong. 

_{On April 27, I sent my students outside with their phones to return with photos of different colors. This is inspired by a color I found.}

Along with the usual noises
(washing machines, wind chimes),
this house has other voices.
Scratches, creaks, murmurs, all times,
all corners of the house. Like a
conductor tapping a baton,
a critter's feet ticks out a
path across the roof, lighting upon
the shingles faintly. Beneath 
the deck, deep in the shrubs,
a bit of digital-ish noise beeps
& chirps, then drops out, an abrupt
small wild world alive, persistent -- but each
time I approach, silent, just out of reach.

_{Written for this challenge, this sonnet features words & phrases from this record review.}

which is to say
in the darkest of hours
there's a flickering,
an easily snuffed light.

You can lift it,
you can move it,
but you must
protect it.

A hope chest holds
soft elegance,
handstitched care 
for the body & the bed.

A hope candle can last
if you're careful & still.
Keep it close. 
Keep it dry.

Watch hope dance then stand
to reveal dangers, to ennoble
wide eyes. Windowed, mirrored, 
it even grows. 

Hope throws big shadows,
darkening what's behind.
So look ahead, look close.
And hold your breath. 

_{For this writing challenge, I rolled some metaphorical dice, which gave me the three words that are the title & inspiration here.}

The light comes before 	the rumble.
The longer the gap		between them,
the further the storm		from you.

The first flash woke me.	For once,
my wife slept through	it all.

I lay alone with the sound	        and light,
watching, listening, 		        and counting.

Light, 				one Mississippi,
two Mississippi,		then

a rumbling menace 		                           above the roof.
Windows rattled, the dog	burrowing        between us.

In the next flash, 		a silhouette, a child
midstride, framed by		the illumined window.

He climbed through		        the thunder
into the flannel & heat		a safe dry place
between father, mother,	        and dog. 

The sound got as close		as the light.
It rained 		                        till morning.

_{Written in response to this writing challenge.}

There’s a rusty chair left over
from your grandparents in law, 
one the squirrels haven’t yet
torn to shreds.

Pull it from the corner of the yard
and right to the center,
the pollen crunching
under your feet.

There’s a neighbor behind you,
his garage door open. 
Music is playing. Something is 
being fixed or installed.

Push that from your focus,
and avoid being annoyed
by his perpetual busy
suburban nesting.

There’s a deck before you,
decades old, creaking & buckled
from rain & sun,
boards warped & bleached,
nails reaching upward. 
Some slats mossed over
fold beneath the lightest
of footsteps.

Give thanks for the long years
this space has given you, 
and avoid being annoyed
at this crumbling hazard.

There’s a vista before you,
a roof that’s never leaked,
a tree above it, right at the center 
of this part of your life.

Cross your legs. Palm the glass
of wine. Watch for mosquitos.
And look up.  

There are clouds & birds,
branches & wind.

It’s all starting again.
It always will. 

_{Written in response to this challenge.}

There’s a place for your hands
And another for your feet.

You look. You breathe. 
You count. You play.

It’s just as responsive as you 
would hope wood would be.

Eventually you learn to play 
with your whole body

like you’re gently blessing 
the music into the keys,

your elbows nudging,
your wrists pliant,

your fingers curved 
and lifting,

a fragrant sheet
caught on a line.

These days my mornings
begin outside with the sun
in my face. Texas
makes this difficult most days
what with heat and mosquitos.

But it’s a habit 
now -- a tan line on my nose
where my glasses sit.
“Here’s another day,” I think.
And here too am I. Thank God.  

_{This is another tanka poem. Sorta.}

The day's first email --
subject line: "Confidential."
A kid in crisis
is bravely getting some help.
Looking up from the email,

I see her come in
like it's just another day -- 
which, I guess, it is. 
Still, every word & gesture
becomes a sign, a warning.




If you or someone you love needs help, please know that there are resources out there. This is a kind of tanka poem. Sorta.