I read somewhere that G-d is merciful,
watching, judging, understanding, but still

merciful. The quality of mercy, I read
somewhere else, is not strained. It droppeth like ...

well, it's freely flowing. It isn't meted out
like some precious resource (though it is). 

It is worth much more than it costs to give. 
There is always a person to forgive

and a reason to forgive, if for no other reason
than that it gives you practice

in feeling how little it takes to bless
a person in error, in distress, deep in shame.

Even when we know that they'll just mess up 
again, in our mercy, we bring a part of heaven

to earth.

"kyrie eleison" means "Lord, have mercy." This was my last sprint write with my students on May 18, 2022, modeled after Clint Smith's "Meteor Shower". 

An orange shirt hangs in my closet. My second ever. 
It's got a sheen & a stretch altogether unnatural,
some space-age material that doesn't breathe & doesn't fade.

It's a golf shirt from another era, a stiff broad collar,
more buttons than are necessary, and a deep breast pocket.
There's a duck on the pocket, also from another era. 

Summer 1988, north Austin, I'm watching my girlfriend shop
in a fabric store. We were young enough & in love enough
to do everything together then, even things I didn't want to do. 

I rotated one of those product kiosks, bored & annoyed. 
And there the duck was on a tiny card, a bright silly thing
that I knew would make her smile. She sewed it right on

an orange t-shirt I wore probably once a week. Decades after 
we broke up, the shirt lost its snap, and I lost my taste for it. 
I threw away the shirt but kept the duck. I showed it to my wife,

who sewed it right on a new orange shirt. My second ever. 
Here in the closet, in the home we share, a bright sign of
how to adorn a simple thing, of how to keep love near your heart. 

_{Inspired by the love of two women and by this poem.}

You wear a white shirt,
grey slacks, and a plaid tie.
A uniform of academic
seriousness & middle class.

You roll your sleeves up
& unbutton your shirt
at the neck. You feel there's little 
on the surface you choose.

You are freest on your paper route,
especially Sunday mornings 
weaving slowly from curb to curb,
crossing the double yellow line.

All four lanes yours.
The city asleep.

Inspired by Erika L. Sánchez's "The Poet at Fifteen", which was inspired by Larry Levis's "The Poet at Seventeen".  

There is a tree at the heart 
of our house. A live oak 
reaching up in three directions, 
waist-thick master branches 
rough & mossy. 
I imagined it as mine 
the moment I saw it. 
The house would belong to all. 
The tree to me. 

From beneath it, I can see 
into each room. I don't look up 
often enough. I look around,
from window to window, 
at my family, my house 
alive & secure. A life-size diorama 
I'm growing old in. 

Every few years the tree gets trimmed, 
sometimes as much as a third of it 
gets sawn off, mulched, & driven away. 
The dust settles bright & aromatic, 
a sandy pattern within 
the ridges of the roots. 
The canopy lifted, 
the shade dappled anew.  

And my tree bounces back, 
quickly dense again with leaves, 
stretching up imperceptibly, 
inch by delicate inch over 
the chimney, over me. 
I sit, book & wine at hand. 
Breathing deep & waiting 
to be called back inside, 
back home. 

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.