20191110.0430

February would seem to have been the lovingest month of the year for my family, as for many others, because we run long on November birthdays. My own was not long ago, and my father's is today. He is sixty.
Being so old, having done this as many times as he has, whether there is anything left to say about him or to him is an open question. So I'll confine myself here to the obvious and appropriate

Happy birthday, Pop!

and leave it at that.

20191109.0430

I flatter myself that my fingers fly
Pressing on points that perk up when I do so
Running on ridges and ribs to bring release
A peculiar pleasure from pounding away
But the traces that trickle out as I follow that tack
Speak less sensuality than solace in form
And intimacy inheres in other things
Than following a function a form might suggest

20191108.0430

There are some days
The well seems to run dry
The hose fed from it dangling
Flaccid and empty
But there are others
That see it turgid and full
Pumping out blast after blast
As hands struggle to hold it
Guide it to the place that needs spraying
Make it to enter through an opening door
And make steam where it finds heat

20191107.0430

Having the higher title
I find that my favorite part is giving
Returning in some small part to those
I am said to lead
What they give to me
And those who seek us
Is it a strange thing that I value it so?

20191106.0430

Shall I open the pages
Look closely at what appears between
Smell the smell of ink not quite dry upon them
Linger over the texture under my fingers
That is so smooth against them
Thrust my bookmark deep within
Lodging it where the pages part
Only to pull it out again
And put it in once more?

20191105.0430

I do not remember the fifth of November
I first had occasion to see;
I had just been born on the fourth of November
And it made no difference to me.
But now that I know the fifth of November
For gunpowder, treason, and plot,
I look all around on this fifth of November
And see many others forgot.
When I go to vote on this fifth of November
And in the election partake,
I hope those on the ballot will ever remember
They lie in the bed that they make.

20191104.0430

Today's my birthday, and I probably ought to take some time to reflect on growing older again. I've done it before, and more than once, as this webspace will attest. It's not inappropriate, as many might argue my poetry is (and the poems I've written recently have been fun to write for what many would call the wrong reasons). But it's also not to my taste at the moment as I sit in front of my computer right now and write. Instead, rather than looking back, I think I'll look forward for once--which is not something I often do, but something I probably ought to do more often.
I have things to which to look forward, certainly. I am in a pretty good job, and I have side-line income that is markedly helpful outside of that job. I get to do a fair bit of what I want to do for no more reason than that I want to do it (though some of it does help others in one way or another, which is good). I am in pretty consistent contact with a good bunch of people who support me, even if they've seen me only rarely in "real life," if they have seen me at all. (I still marvel that friendships that develop through physical correspondence are regarded as "real," while there is still disdain for those that develop through online correspondence. Is it a question of effort expended or material costs incurred? I still do not know--but I am happy to exchange letters, and I am generally quick about returning replies.) My family loves me--my wife and daughter, especially so.
That I recognize what I do have that is good does not mean I do not believe things can be better. I do, and they can. And I am in a position to be able to help make them so, if only in small, local ways. My job, of course, is one such thing; I work to help people with their substance use problems--and they are problems even when they involve substances that are legal or should be legal. And I've been working with students and with alumni to foster more of a sense of community than would otherwise have been the case. Too, I'm involved in school-support organizations that make things better for (other) students and teachers. And, when I can, I lift my voice in support of equity and right and against fascism and racism that still permeate too many places (I'm looking at you, medieval studies, that part of the country of academe where I had thought to settle and to which I still in some ways belong; get your shit together, tenured folks, and at least repudiate Nazis and Nazi-wannabes from your positions of protection--or get out and let those willing to do so succeed you). So I am doing what I can to improve things.
As I said, I ought to look forward more often.

20191103.0430

I died a little
Oysters' children garlanded
Price I gladly pay

20191102.0430

Spring flowers open
Spreading their pure pink petals
O, to be the bee!

20191101.0430

She clamors to go home
To wait for what she believes will come
And which I expect, as well
But I know that the call is but the first step
And that the road leads to echoing loneliness
I am familiar with it
Too much so
Summoned by it myself and made to do its bidding
I would have her spirit ring
With peals of laughter and joy
Not the fading retort of cracking solitude
It is a far finer melody
All told