man of oak

if your sky comes falling down

heavy canvas of

night and

fading stars

i will stand beside you

tall and strong

and catch your falling sky

at its center

letting the sides flutter harmlessly to earth

with us safe inside our circus tent, together.

in writing

‘where are you now?’ he wrote.

she read and responded

‘lonely.’

‘that is not a place’ he wrote.

‘but it is where i am’ she wrote.

‘can i meet you there?’ he wrote.

she read and responded

‘no, silly.’

‘because it is not a real place?’

he asked in writing.

 ‘no, sweet boy; because i would not be there if you were there, too.’

haikuesday

fifteen days from now,

i’m giving my sweet daughter

a plush elephant.

* * * 

slim fit jeans for men;

ambitious if not slightly

snug in some places.

* * * 

how my thoughts grow full

when they echo dance and bounce

off the walls of you.  

 

and the (fourth) wall came tumbling down

it’s been a while since we’ve broken the fourth wall – mainly because i’m hesitant to take on any chore, including rebuilding fictional walls – but i wanted to show my work.

my last post/poem, ‘is it possible to write a whisper?’  is a stanza within a larger piece i wrote after re-reading all of the poems and short-short stories i’ve written in the last calendar year.  the full piece is below.  i pulled the four lines as their own because i think, as an author, they tell the entire story without the over-self-indulgence of the full piece.  if a student of mine or peer wrote the large one, i’d have said, ‘take those four lines and cut the rest.’

so, i’m cheating, posted the four lines, and now will post the full, much clumsier piece, and hope for twice as much attention.

* * * 

there are few things that stir in me such joy

perhaps intermingled with a touch of wistful-and-sweet sadness

than to reread my own writing from weeks or months or years ago

and to still be that man,

to nod quietly 

or even laugh aloud at my own forgotten jokes,

and think,

yes,

i was telling the truth,

thank the good Lord,

i was telling the truth.’

            writing things down, you see,

            is risky business, because

            i cannot mumble, ‘i never said that’

            before clumsily trying to change the topic of conversation.

i am still the man

who made such great claims of love and artistic license and a few puns in the form of silly haiku.

with an audible sigh of relief,

thank the good Lord, i was telling the truth,