Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Nicole and Dan

I know most people assume I only think and write nasty, acerbic shit, so forgive me if I take a short break from the negative. I've been reflecting on my children, and how they've managed to grow into absolutely wonderful, brilliant adults in spite of my leadings. I encouraged their drowning in lakes and jumping from cliffs. I told them the dastardly tales of my youth and of my foibled history. I've led them in poverty all over this country and taught them that Pepsi for breakfast was perfectly fine. I've never imposed a curfew on them. I've never grounded them.
I've never had to.
For some reason they've just always had a weird knack for doing what's right and it still drives me crazy. It's so not me.
So I guess I must credit their Mother, though she swears it isn't her. Anyway, I was thinking on them a bit lately. This is what resulted.
I have a daughter. I love her dearly. She's grown now. A mystery always. Always sleek and under the radar. Words are used only when necessary.

the harbour
it looks still
and peaceful
from this hillside

I squat
ancient observer

was a time
the time
when I worked
the dock

she stayed close
back then

her wake was playful
her conning tower
to the stars

I rubbed her
I smoothed her
I polished her
-she let me

but the day
has grown on,
the shadows stretch

her wake is strong
full of purpose

she polishes
in her movement
a barnacle
wouldn't dare approach

so I walk the hillsides
that surround
her emergence

ancient observer

she goes out now
much farther
much deeper
by the learning
of her engine,
the motive
of her rudder
and the pull
of the tide

others watch
and give passage
to her sleekness
as she slowly disappears
below the surface

one day,
she won’t return
neither good nor bad
it just is
the way of life

so I walk
the hillside
ancient observer

and dream of where she’s going
and hope
her bunkers filled
and her seams dry

and I hope
as she slides
beneath the surface
that her periscope
will rise once
and turn
to look
for the
ancient observer
who looks from squat
upon a windblown


I have a son. I love him. He's brilliant, and funny when frustrated. Loves to argue. Dabbles in everything. Extremely creative. He always tries to do the right thing-nothing like me. I wonder where it will all take him.

a strange one,
this long, lanky

a hard thinker
from his roots
of tender lily

I don’t miss
the times we had
so much
as the times
we never had
and should have.

a boat builder
of tobacco sticks
he might have seen it float
-had I seen it float

he believes in science
and logic
and modern man

my belief in such
lies fragmented
in the craters
of a war
beyond this earth.

he wants,
I think,
to be battleship
but one that swerves
to avoid sea turtles
or stops to rescue
broken birds

I don’t know how to tell him
he can’t be both.

I just know he can’t.

he’s stronger than me
he will be battleship
in the name of progress
and logic.

I wish him well
but I wish him
stars over gps
and enough trouble
to keep him spirit

I will take the broken bird
and tired turtle
and swim for an island
that knows no

and dream
of tobacco stick boats
and a little boy
who once sailed
a plastic lid
across a lake
with a sister
for crew.

and miss the times
we never had.
(I sorrow greatly for any love I ever held back. I know them to be forgiving)