Thirty Days of Poems: The Fiddler of Abilene (Day 5)

There are tales they tell in Texas that’d make your blood run cold

 Tales of vagabonds and outlaw men with a burning lust for gold

 But of all those men with all their sins the worst there’s ever been

 Was a man in white who showed up one night in the town of Abilene.

 

            For Fernando McGraw of Statler Hall, it was the best day of his life

            He’d waited six years and now through tears he made Marie his wife

            Two hundred guests merrily processed behind the bride and groom

            With hurrying feet through the rain-filled street to Winchester’s Saloon.

Thirty Days of Poems: Dolorosa (Day 4)

            I went to a wedding today

            the second I’ve attended since

            you got married.

            You would have loved the venue:

            a small stone chapel

            almost like a cottage

            in the woods

            with a high Gothic ceiling

            and a stained-glass portrait

            of the via dolorosa

            hanging just over the altar.

 

            And the ceremony

            may have been more high church

            than what we were used to

            growing up in Texas

            but the bride processed in

            to some Elvish-sounding music

            and after the exchange of vows

            we all had communion

            and the newlyweds came in together

            bearing the grail and bread.

 

            The whole first year after

            when I heard about a friend’s engagement

            my immediate reaction

            was to try and stop it.

            It was silly of me, I know:

            not every walk down the aisle

            has a cross at its end.

            And over time

            I got better, or

            learned how to fake it.

           

            But today

            when the priest said,

            “Speak now, or forever hold your peace”

            it was hard not to think of that moment

            in your wedding

            and the silence where

            no one spoke.

 

           And when the bride and groom

           pledged their fidelity to one another

           in sickness and in health

           to have and to hold

           from this day forward

           I thought of you and him

           the vows he made to you that day

          flanked by the groomsmen

          with whom he had already

          betrayed them.

 

          One day

          a few years from now

          I’ll have my own ceremony.

          And with laughter and communion

          my friends will escort me

          into a new realm of life.

          But even amid the celebration

         there will be a quiet ache

         dull but persistent

         because of the empty space

         where you should have been

         and the marriage you never had.

Thirty Days of Poems: She’s Ubiquitous (Day 3)

            She’s ubiquitous

            She wouldn’t call herself a genius

            but I know she is

            A novelist, an actress

            She’s on billboards and Broadway

            The writer, star, director

            of a one-woman play

 

            She’s pale as the sun

            as quiet as the moon

            and she doesn’t

            understand the world

 

           

            She’s ubiquitous

            she wonders what the moral of the story is

            she takes her coffee black

            she stays out past midnight

            sipping Chardonnay and reading

            N. T. Wright

 

            She’s ubiquitous

            but lately she’s been feeling nervous and listless

            She’s sick of putting up with boys

            and their pathetic grandeur

            and wishes she could meet a guy

            who understands her

 

           

            She’s pale as the sun

            as quiet as the moon

            and she doesn’t

            understand the world

 

            (and sometimes late at night

            we take that desert road

            out where the stars are street lights

            and when we hit the end of that trail

            where the dust shines like fog

            and the grass hums around us with a million voices

            I pull out my flamenco guitar

            and she dances).

 

Thirty Days of Poems: Darren and Me (Day 2)

Darren and me

 are sitting in his apartment

 drinking rum and soda.

 

 The glow of the screen

 illuminates

 our tired faces

 as we gaze upon our heroes.

 

            “Clooney’s the MAN,” I say

            and Darren nods a little sadly.

            “I could be like him.”

 

            “Naw, bro,” says Darren.

            “You gotta get yourself a car.”

 

            “Hugh Jackman, man,” I say.

 

            “Hugh Jackman,” he avers,

            and we are quiet.

 

            *           *           *

 

            Darren and me

            we stay up talking

            eating hazel nuts and almonds

            with the clarity that only comes

            from sipping vodka

            after hours.

           

            “Dude, I gotta find myself a girl,” I say,

            “I wasn’t made to live this bachelor kinda life.”

 

             Darren says, “Well, what about Rebekah?”

          

            “Bekah ain’t interested in a guy like me.”

 

            “B. S.!” He points a shaky shot glass at me.

            “You should see the way she looks at you.”

 

            “Ain’t no one ever looked at me that way.”

 

            “Have you ever even asked a girl out?”

           

            “Dude, not if I really liked them.”

 

            Darren sits back on the couch

            and pours us both another glass of Evan Williams.

            On the TV, Louie’s eating dinner in Manhattan.

            Chicken rolls, lamb pasanda, flatbread.

            I grab another handful of pretzels.

 

            “What about you?” I ask him.

            “When you gonna find somebody?”

 

            “Some day, maybe.”

            He never takes his eyes off the screen.

            “Romance is great and all, but man,

            I got so many dreams.”

Thirty Days of Poems: Sky Canoes (Day 1)

           ‘Not all canoes are for swimming,’

            she insists, with the casual air of one who knows.

           ‘Some canoes are for flying

          flying through rivers of starlight.

            Which is why

            when we go on vacation

            (me and mom and Kristina)

            we strap the canoe upside down

            to the top of the car:

            that way when we get out on the road

            where the sky rivers flow,

            they pick up the boat and the car

            and we soar through clouds together.”

 

            She pauses

            standing lightly on her toes

            as though reaching up towards the stars.

 

            ‘But how would that work?’ I demand

            and she blinks back her confusion.

           

            ‘It floats!’ she insists, and her arms burst like rockets.

            ‘There are rivers on the ceiling

            There are rivers in the twilight

            And the current grabs the boat

            And it and we sail off together.’

 

            ‘But it doesn’t work that way.’

           

            As I stamp out my cigarette

            she looks at me

            her mouth a perfect O

            her eyes a question.

 

            ‘Because’ I explain

            ‘If that were to happen

            you’d be floating upside down.

            You and your sister and your mom

            would fall out of the car.

            You would die.’

 

            ‘Oh.’

 

            She doesn’t say anything else

            but when I leave that night

            she wanders out into the driveway

            and with upturned face

            and quiet restless eyes

            peers through the hazy silence

            at that other world

            whose trees bend down to scrape our own

            and at the river people

            rowing the winds

            amid moonlight and starlight

            that she feels sure must be.