middleagedmiddlechild.

Deep within, a rediscovered country
alive, verdant, teeming, clean all along.
Each step into that before effortless,
a note found in a long neglected song
of praise, of joy. I wonder why I left
and what I've found since I've been gone and where
I thought I'd find a place that would nourish
the hunger of that me, barely aware
of what dust he shook from his worn sandles
as he walked away from that house of G-d
(but never away from G-d, no, never
away from the light). A decades-long wan-
dering enriched me and humbled me. Then,
I knew where I had to go. And went. Amen. 

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators that writes a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: "think about the landscapes that shape you". 

High above our neighbor's house
a flock of cedar waxwings,

egg-sized birds (must be hundreds)
gathering, resting, waiting

to take wing as one across
the equator. When they sing,

it's a crystalline morse code --
the bare live oak crowded, sounding

their own password primeval, 
their own kind of belonging.

Now they've left, replaced by spring,
green canopy delicate,

its too brief default setting
before the summer descends.
 
Somewhere else, those same birds sing.   

There is no perfect child.
There is no time like the present. 
There is no one coming to rescue us.
There is no reason for alarm.

There is no guru.
There is no method.
There is no one coming to teach us. 
There is no natural law.

There is no going back.
There is no use in crying.
There is no one coming to save us.
There is no better time.

There is no perfect pitch.
There is no top tier.
There is no one coming to dazzle us.
There is no true blue.

There is no Mother Nature.
There is no bird in the tree.
There is no one coming to restore us.
There is no light on the porch.

There is no moon for the moon.
There is no center of the universe.
There is no one coming to judge us.
There is no will to matter.

There is no angel that fell.
There is no demon that tempts.
There is no one coming to guide us. 
There is no last day.

There is no sunset.
There is no alpha dog.
There is no one born to love us. 
There is no last word.

There is just a celestial thread 
that we hold for safety,
that we pluck for sound,
that we discover and trust.

A kind of writing-myself-into-a-corner exercise inspired by Paul Averitt's "Saying Goodbye"

A rare morning with nothing
to grade, no one to pick up. 
His teenagers were asleep,
His wife was in the shower.

He made a coffee, 
put on his earbuds,
sat in the still living room
of his comfy house.

He thought, before pushing play.
“What can a guy even learn
at one point five speed (or worse)?”

Earbuds on transparent mode,
he could just make out
the clicking of the dog’s paws.

He’d have to get up
to take him out & make sure
the coyotes & bobcats
weren’t out & about.

(It is the suburbs,
but the animals don’t know.)

Softer, his wife’s footsteps come.
She laughs at some FB post. 
Her eyes, clean, joyful, turned up — 
her dark almond eyes.

She looks five years old,
like in that one old photo,
seated between her brothers,
her whole body saying “cheese”.

She looks just like that.

He joins her in the kitchen.
They talk and take the dog out
together in their pjs.

A boy, a girl, & the dog.
The kids still asleep.

Another sort of jueju, this one inspired by a prompt suggested by Tricia Ebarvia & Kim Parker -- "What's saving your life right now?"

His hat & his belt, 
his stance & his stare
all announce the gravity
of this moment at the plate.

He'll finally get to run -- 
a rarity in this game.

I lean against the chain links
with the other dads,
letting them chatter,
knowing that he knows
I am there, watching
behind the hot cage of boys.

He steps to the plate, 
plants and grinds his cleats
in the white striped box. 
I feel something pool
deep in my stomach, worry
that he'll miss, or worse,
that he'll be thrown out at first.
But he sees the pitch’s arc
and he knows. He knows. 

A ping of aluminum,
and a flash over
the dad who's pitching.

I gasp at my boy, 
delight in his hopeful speed. 



This one is years old. I've written about this subject, this child before : )  

We stopped at the farm
because Mari wanted to see
her grandparents.

The highway turned 
to farm road
to cracked blacktop 
to gravel winding
between rows 
I couldn't identify.

A straw hat moved
among the rows, stopped.
A shot ran out. I jumped
in the back seat.

"Grandpa must've found a snake."

I walked with Mari
to the house, comically citified
in vintage store Dickies & Vans.
Grandpa shook my hand, 
a child's hand in his rough, raw
shotgun hands.

We drank chicory coffee,
eating a storebought lemon cake.

"Come see the peaches."

Grandpa plucked one
hanging deep in the boughs.
We ate beneath the trees 
heavy with fruit, 
sequined by the sun.

I have never known
the name of the creek
that winds through the neighborhood,
brackish, slow, beside the road,

but I have smiled at 
its myriad surprises,
gifts unique to inhuman
spaces everywhere -- 

burrs, spores, and flowers,
rainbowed still water,
dragonflies & unseen birds
resting, drinking, taking flight.

A Google maps search
reveals the name (White Rock Creek),
a name neither fitting nor
jarring. I log off.

And in my mind, see
it as I know it, nameless,
wild, quietly following 
its own old path through

our too busy lives. 

Any less than ten yards, you have to punt.
The momentum lost, you now hold a line.
Back & forth it goes, ten yards the standard.

But something matters about the near miss.
Falling short does not equal standing still.
Seeing the summit awes like reaching it.

Go the whole nine yards. Notice the distance--
beyond your reach but within your sight,
close enough to go back where you belong. 

Ours is a campus distracting, 
downright manic in its care. Counselors,
specialists & advisors lining
its expensive halls. Every student an honors
student. So the manicured 
lawns & catalogued trees fit.
One tree so young no bird
could find room to nest in it.
One tree in a line of dozens
not yet tagged but firmly roped
to the ground, a blue ribbon
low on its wrist-thick trunk. Hope
springs eternal for small things.
Listen for its wind-tousled rustlings.