Supported Vacation

“I know myself” he says to me
Every time I try to guide him
He cannot think of any need
For anyone beside him.

I can think of hundreds,
Thousands, given time:
Murder, theft and multitudes
That can’t be made to rhyme.

For he may know himself, but not
The city, state or nation
Mostly blind and mostly deaf,
Hence “Supported Vacation”.

He could be made a victim
In a dozen different ways
But of us two in Central Park
I am the one afraid.

But I saw Times Square divide for him
And 30 Rock bow down
Before his perfect liberty
The Statue cast her crown.

“I know myself,” he says again
And we are silenced by his claim.
For neither I nor New York City
Would dare to say the same.

A Secret

Down by the county road

Playing little boy games

Waiting for the school bus

My son looks up and says,

 

“I want to tell you something,”

I lean down so he can

whisper it in my ear:

Then, “I hate you, Daddy.”

 

Just to taste the words come out

Just to watch the knife go in

Just to watch my face change

As I feel it.

 

So don’t tell me that we

Can make it if we try

Because he’s just like his daddy

And his daddy’s just like his.

Snow Day

I am given silence,

For a moment.

snow comes down this morning

Steady, heavy enough

 

To mute the trucks on the County Road

To stop the bus from coming

To wake and whirl the kids away

And so they are sleeping still.

 

I sit here and soak it in

The silence I so often seek

But soon enough is soured

By the empty noise within me.

 

Up the stairs I hear begin

The music of their wakefulness

They are coming to transfigure

The silence, and the snow outside.

 

I was given silence

And it was good and blessed

But now I am given sound

And I am grateful for it.

Potty Training

The boy has wet himself again

And he thinks that I can’t tell

But it is very evident

From his bearing and his smell.

 

He doesn’t seem uncomfortable

He doesn’t seem to mind

It’s nice and warm, a little while,

After all, it’s his behind.

 

But pretty soon I’ll chase him down

Pretty soon I’ll scrub him clean

Pretty soon I’ll wash his bits, and

Everywhere his hands have been.

 

And then the boy will howl at me

And then how the boy will weep

And then the boy will gnash his teeth

As I my foul harvest reap.

 

Being clean means nothing to him

For naught he knows of diaper rash

Freedom is all he wants of me

So those little teeth, he gnash.

 

And I would let him run and play

I would leave him to his mess

I would let him have his way if

I only loved a little less.

Sharps

When I was young I asked to be
A spear in the hand of the Lord
And if I couldn’t be a spear
I asked that I would be His sword.

I’m older now and I have seen
Exactly what a spear can do
And what becomes of those live
By the swords they say are You.

So make of me a warm wet rag
To wipe the blood and shit away
And make of me a tourniquet
To keep the rush of death at bay.

If I must tear my brother’s flesh
If I must make my sister bleed
Make me a needle in your hand
When You the surgeon intercede.

Thanksgiving 2018

For the shape that things have taken
For the bending of our days
From the place we were forsaken
To the place our heads are laid

For what all the ravens brought
For the bread that wouldn’t last
For the water from the rock
For the wandering that’s passed

For the scroll that tasted sweet
Then turned to sour halfway down
For how we are made complete
By being buried, burnt, or drowned

For a tale we couldn’t write
The verse we can’t compose
For a love we couldn’t fight
For however this thing goes,

We give you thanks, oh Lord.

Evening News

When the kids are in their beds,

I sit on the porch and look

To where the gods are warring

Just over the horizon.

 

See their distant lightnings

Silent, scar the southern sky

Too far to be heard, but I

Feel a tremor pass beneath.

 

When the chill sets I turn

Back to book, and mug, and chair

To a house so deeply still

I can hear the children breathe.

 

But when I lie in bed at last

To surrender to the night

Lightning flickers on the wall

And the tremor follows it.

Act Of God

Come quickly Lord

To kick the doors

Out of my locked

And alarmed heart.

 

Break the windows,

Weather-sealed, and

Let your winds and

Rains awake me.

 

Let your lightnings

Terrify, though

You are God of

More than thunder.

 

Call your children

Through the doors and

Empty hallways

Of my vacancy.

 

Fill every room

Beds with weary

Tables with starved

Silence with song.

 

All buildings burn

Down in the end.

Let my ruins

Be a temple.

Seed-Hymn

Lay me down beneath the earth,

And I won’t care if I’m buried

Or sown,

So long as your hands hold the shovel.

 

Pour the rain down on me,

And I won’t care if I’m baptized

Or drowned,

So long as your hands hold me under.

 

Cut me down when harvest comes,

Be it for the burning

Or the barn,

So long as your hands gather me.

Sabbath Beach

I could see that you were tired

Though I knew that you would weep

I took you from your mother

To walk with you and make you sleep.

 

You break on me like a wave

Pitched between your grief and fury

Wailing out your love for her

Howling your hate for me.

 

Against your will I rock you

To the sound the breakers make

Cradle all your love and hate

Up the shore of this great lake.

 

I walk all your weeping out

Until you are sleeping in

The hollow place between my

Aching shoulder and my chin.

 

Just another year or two

And then I will not be strong

Enough to carry you

For so far or for so long.

 

Just another year or two

And then I won’t be able

To force you to take your rest

Sabbath bed or banquet table

 

And I fear that no one will

And I fear therefore you won’t

As I find that I cannot

And as then I find I don’t.