Poem: Mists Now Gone

Mists Now Gone

Just before I wake my dreams are vivid.

I see one of my classes lying late

In bed with snores

While all above them

Little angels arise

To do heavenly chores.

But all the while I know

The little angels are nothing more

Than my own students

At task with their chores

And it is only me

That lies in bed and snores.

Those tasks I had are finished.

I’ll assign them work no more

But leave the work I started here

With someone who me ignores.

So to my class I’ll offer

What knowledge I can 

Offer them I’ll present no more

Even if it is only them I’ll always adore.

Alone in bed I waken,

The students are off at school

And all the tasks I would give them

Are dreams in my head

That are as substantial

As the mists in the air

Now gone.

September 2020

About This Poem

This poem is about my sudden retirement when the pandemic hit. It was difficult for me to do, but to be honest, I probably would not have retired without something just forcing me out. I loved teaching more and more every year. This poem shows that and reveals the lack of faith I had in my replacement. It also reveals my dreams that on occasion I still have--stress dreams, feeling like something isn't finished. The poem is also like that, a little rough and unfinished. But that's how it should be, so I present it here to you. The photo is of my classroom as seen from my desk, probably some 8-10 years ago.

 

Poem: I Can't Breathe

 

I Can’t Breathe

Wildfires rage across the west.

A black man attempts to buy a package of 

Cigarettes but the cashier suspects

The twenty-dollar bill is counterfeit.

The fires are a bigger problem than

Simple forest management and

We need to work to stop climate change

Say’s an expert to the president

who replies,

I don’t think science knows.

The police are called and they put 

Their knee on the man

Who attempted to buy cigarettes.

He says, I can’t breathe.

But they ignore him and he died

And the fires rage on

And the smoke continues

While disease ravages the land

And the counterfeit isn’t a twenty-dollar bill

Or any of us who say,

I can’t breathe.

September 2020

About This Poem

I wrote this shortly after the death of George Floyd. We were also engulfed in smoke from wildfires here, so the sense of suffocating was overwhelming with the news of Floyd's death, the willful ignorance of climate science from the administration and the constant fear from the pandemic. You can see all of that in this poem. I also think we are already repeating some of the state brutality against citizens and I am amazed we let it happen again, just as I am heartened by the public response. The photo is on Kootenay Lake in British Columbia this past September when we were, again, suffocating in wildfire smoke. 

(This is a little more political than usual, but I think times call for it.)

Poem: Seeing Life Through

 

Seeing life through

Not natural

What will happen will happen 

With or without us

Does no good

Impatient rushing

Things are what they are

Believing I can’t go on

End it all

Or do this or that 

So wrong things happen

Senseless

Brings no peace

Makes it worse 

For ours 

Things will fall apart

Let it be

August 2024

About This Poem

I wrote this a year ago in August despairing a little about life and frustrated with how things seem to be going. Sometimes you try to do so much and nothing seems to come of it. That was how I felt, but I also know that I'm impatient and that things take time. I also take faith in the fact that things that take time may never happen until I'm completely out of the picture. This poem acknowledges that. The photo is a picture from a couple weeks ago when we got a dusting of snow.

Poem: A New Day

A New Day

Upon a new day and a new month

I think things should start anew,

But I am hindered by my same old self

And it seems that nothing is new.

I don’t know why I am weighted,

I don’t know why I feel blue

That I’m the same old person

And that nothing seems new.

I should be thankful for my friends

And yes, I am, it’s true.

I should be thankful for my health

And yes, I work to keep it, true.

But sometimes my mind is hindered 

That things don’t seem so true

To all the things they’ve promised

And it can make me feel blue,

Not because they have failed me

But I’ve failed them, it’s true.

So, this new day and month

I will vow to make my faith true

And not neglect my fellow man

Nor myself in promises to you

For only in that faith right here

Can this day prove to me new.

August 2024

About This Poem

I wrote this poem a summer ago when I was discouraged by the fact that I was not meeting some of my goals. It's exactly why I don't make New Year's resolutions: I am still me. But I do believe in incremental change and this poem speaks to that. I found that incremental, small changes work better in achieving goals than broad sweeping platitudes that do nothing but set you up to fail. This poem also speaks to my commitment to others above myself which I believe is the true source of purpose and joy. The photo is a picture of the sunrise in my back yard.

 

Poem: Being A Kid

Being a Kid

The important thing about being a kid

is running in the field,

riding horses,

throwing rocks at my brother,

swimming in the river,

pretending I didn’t hear mom say, “Brian, come home!”

and playing in the treehouse.

What’s important about taking a bath?

November 1987

About This Poem

I wrote this years ago and I can't remember what inspired it. And even though I used my name in it, I don't think it was actually about me but just a kid of any sort who didn't want to take a bath. It's like not wanting to go to bed. The picture is, however, me as a kid.

 

Poem: On This Cold Winter’s Day

On This Cold Winter’s Day

On this cold winter’s day

The snowflakes seem to play

Like so many bugs in the bushes

As suddenly arrested from the rush

Of falling to the ground

They rise and twirl around.

Perhaps they are born aloft

By heat from a house draft,

Perhaps by a door opening

Or something closing?

Whatever it is, they rise

Like gnats but it’s only disguise

For again they downward drift

To the amazement of my swift 

Look o’er the piling heaps

That I will trudge in deep

To shovel them away

From the walk today

So that within this house

We aren’t trapped like a mouse

In the piling wrecks 

Of a zillion white insects

So perfectly formed on wings 

Of crystalline six strings

Like the musical guitar

Now silenced where they are—

Those little white flakes

Making sounds seem mistakes

Or frozen symphonies here

Not quite buzzing in my ear

In the silence of music 

Stilled somehow, yet so rich.

December 2021

About This Poem

I wrote this quite a few years ago when it still snowed in December and stayed around here. I was watching the snow fall outside of my window and I noticed how the flakes would rise in the air as if they were gnats, so I put that image to words as they gradually covered our lawn. The picture is a close up of snowflakes (the six strings) that I took on the railing of our deck. I hope you have a Happy New Year.