on my father's 77th birthday

I see your face in the mirror.

I wonder where you lay your head

these days. I hear your voice when I’m angry

and that saddens us all.

I like to think my eyes are kinder

but they may only be the same icy blue.

My hair, too, is silver.

I hope there is some small wisdom

in my speech, even when I doubt.

I suppose I will always be your son.

In the midst of your absence I am often

lost. Still, I wish to hear you say

I’m proud of you as you lay your hand

upon my head, heavy and calloused.

There are gifts and there are burdens.

My hands grow tired from carrying them.

I would even wish to be Isaac

to your Abraham—

let me carry the wood.

Let me be bound as I am already bound,

let me wait for the rustling

of leaves as they fall from branches;

let there be a ram.

spy wednesday

it’s the last week of Lent

and already i’ve given up so much:

a full night’s sleep

the desire for retribution

walks along the beach

accepting dimunitions

“operational requirements”

the same old regrets

another woman’s touch

the certainty of youth

the correct use of apostrophe

i do not suffer fools gladly

i keep the pulse of hope

in a dead man’s grip

NaPoWriMo 2020

Once again, as part of National Poetry Month, I am participating in NaPoWriMo -- National Poetry Writing Month.

Hopefully, you will join me each day as I post a new poem (usually later in the day). With the Coronavirus COVID-19 running rampant alongside Easter and its message of deliverance, it should make for some interesting poetic bedfellows.

As always, this is something that takes place in both Canada (find out more at http://poets.ca/npm/) and the United States (find out more at https://poets.org/national-poetry-month).

You can find other participants at http://www.napowrimo.net/.

    

 

Please leave comments!

the end

the end always catches me by surprise

i thought i had one more day

we always think we have one more day

perhaps living as if we had one more day

is the problem 

                        “one more day”?

*

i’ve been told the end is supposed to be full of joy—

too often the end is marked with pain

i take no pleasure in the ending of any thing:

stories; songs. love; hope. the flight of birds

the flowering of flowers, the cycle of seasons

*

i declare to you: the only good ending is a kiss.

the beginning of a promise: a shared breath

a way to intimate: our unfinishedness is a a gift.

silence

here are my arms

                             my mouth open

full of words

                     full of air

my mouth open

                          with silence

like a wound

                     my mouth open

my empty hands

                            here are my arms