The Mithouri Pyramidth
“I mith my thithter.”
“I know. We’ll see her soon.”
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Where?”
“Missouri - at your Uncle Ben’s house.”
…
“Ith that where the pyramidth are?”
…
I know how I wanted to reply
to my 5-year-old
but I rethithted.
This poem is in honor of a beloved geometry teacher and drivers ed instructor: Mr. Cochran. I learned too late to appreciate him as much as I should have all along. I have tried not to repeat that mistake again. Of all the lessons he taught me about proofs and parallel parking, transversals and interstates, certainly the most significant lesson I learned from him is to try to treat people as if it were their last day on earth.
The third intersection in a row
I’ve been able to
for the rarest time
drive straight through
makes me think
“stale green,”
the foreboding unknown
Mr. Cochran warned me of,
not in geometry class,
but in the burgundy Dodge Intrepid.
As I entered the driver’s seat
John K had just vacated -
his basketball-center legs
rendering me
a toddler -
I saw the sidelong smirk
of a man attaining
intentional satisfaction -
a deliberately planned
and perfectly executed
shenanigan,
like the prank he proudly recounted
of turning all his friend’s screens’ brightnesses
to zero
or setting all his alarms
to 2:34
am.
Stale green came up
past the cornfields
and the soybeans,
by the street signs
to the interstate,
the blurred forest,
and I-74 exit 132.
It settled down
at the McDonalds
long enough for me to practice
dodging yellow pylons
and ordering through a window.
Then, the switch back:
John’s knees tucked up by the horn
in the burgundy
clown-car sedan.
The sidelong smirk spoke.
Stale green
again.
He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.
I cry
reading Imogene Herdman
to my daughter;
I cry
channeling Mr. Krueger
in my response
when she asks,
“Why are you crying?”
and consoles,
“Just let it out, dude.”
I cry
playing piano while primary kids,
like my nose-picking 5-year-old,
sing “Away in a Manger.”
I cry
singing “Silent Night”
next to my teenage son
still dialing in his bassoprano voice.
I cry
hearing an 11-year-old Isaiah
read “Wonderful, Counselor…”
to his daydreaming Sunday school class.
Is it because
these instances juxtapose
the comic with the divine
that they
sucker punch me?
The ridiculous collisions
fracturing the familiar
to reveal
inarticulable epiphanies?
Dirt-clod exteriors
giving way
to something else
clearer
inside?
Renku - Stationary Fireworks
Renku is a form of collaborative Japanese poetry, and it eventually gave birth to the haiku form. This poem is a series of haikus posted by members of my family on our GroupMe conversation, inspired by a picture my dad posted of our backyard in fall using the words “stationary fireworks” to describe it. The phrase itself sounds poetic, and once we noticed it had 7 syllables (the length of the middle line of a haiku), the rest was inevitable.
October colors bring
Stationary fireworks
My heart and eyes sing.
Midwest autumn is
stationary fireworks.
Celebrating what?
Slowly exploding
Stationary fireworks
Ignite the water.
Colors bang loudly!
Stationary fireworks
Only I can hear.
Forest sprites light off
Stationary fireworks.
One final hurrah.
4th of November.
Stationary fireworks.
Liberty then death.
Fall freely feels fun!
Stationary fireworks
Make my spirit run.
Crisp, frozen colors -
Stationary fireworks.
Who arranged it all?
What is this for, these
Stationary fireworks?
Where’s the barbecue?
Alone, I'm entranced.
Stationary fireworks
Set my heart ablaze.
I must away now.
Stationary fireworks -
Stay to play again?
A cavalcade of
Stationary fireworks -
A bulwark of joy.
What does one eat with
Stationary fireworks?
Turkey barbecue.
Quiet explosions.
Stationary Fireworks.
A symphony observed.
Whenever you shoot
Stationary fireworks,
Keep a pond nearby.
Vacuuming light from
stationary fireworks
with my lawnmower.
Beauty in the sky.
Stationary fireworks -
Blurred reality
God put in motion
Stationary fireworks
For a day like this.
I watch the forest -
Stationary fireworks.
And so Fall begins!
Backyard magic glows.
Stationary fireworks -
What a Godly gift
Imagining home,
Stationary fireworks
Send warm winds my way.
Fireflies' glow ends.
Stationary fireworks -
A new light begins.
Delight is fleeting.
Stationary fireworks
Last a bit longer.
Country living perks:
Stationary fireworks -
One of Nature's quirks.
“Do you want to say your prayer
before I start the sleepcast?”
I asked my daughter.
“Sure,” she said.
“Hey Alexa…”
Quickly recovering,
she tried again.
“Dear Heavenly Father…”
and on she went
but not before my mind
had taken a tangent
which led to a
post-apocalyptic tribal wasteland:
She is the widowed matron
of a small clan -
children, grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, orphans -
flitting between fleeting senses of safety.
At night, she gathers the young
while the strong stand guard
and tells stories of
lessons from Sunday school
mixed with memories of home.
Both
a creative and loving God
and an electronic communicative algorithm
are equally far fetched
to my grubby great-grandchildren.
“Will they believe
in either
or both?”
I wonder,
trying to recall
when I was 9
if I had folded my arms at church
and recited the pledge of allegiance
or if I had stood in front of the flag at school
and started, “Dear Heavenly Father.”
I’ll have to tell her that story
the day after tomorrow.
Who is driving at 2:34 in the morning?
One suspects participants
in some unsavory activities.
As for myself
“unsavory” suits the circumstance:
An inconsolable three-year-old
non-stop screaming while tent camping
moved me to drive home at this unholy hour.
Not wanting to permanently wake my temporary neighbors
by tipping the first domino of the toddler alarm,
I whisked the screamer
through the downpour
barefoot on gravel
into the arms of the carseat,
a device of previously insuperable soporific powers.
Alas, the straps and pads
and even the lulling rockabye of country road driving in the rain
all failed,
so I am left behind the wheel
wondering between screams
if my fellow travelers are steady insomniacs
(or one-night-standers like me)
or if they are demoniacs
(like my son).
Who is being possessed at this hour
to eschew beds for belts,
feather pillows for foam headrests?
Those bewitched by
Wanderlust?
White Castle cravings?
A sleep-hating child?
Whoever we are,
maybe not today,
and maybe not tomorrow
but at some point
yesterday
we were the ones
driving our parents
at 2:34 in the morning
crying:
I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes.
But for now,
this rain’s gonna wash a way
for us to snuggle a few hours
in my bed
before he wakes up and asks,
“Where’s tent?”
with an incredulous look on his face.
I can’t believe it.
Only this state flag
includes, let alone features,
death - by sword and spear.
Only this state seal
threatens, in no unclear terms,
death - and conquered crowns.
We rally around
not e pluribus unum1,
ad astra per aspera2,
qui transtulit sustinet3,
excelsior4, dirigo5,
montani semper liberi6,
si quaeris peninsulam amoenam - circumspice7,
or esto perpetua8,
but Death - to Tyrants9.
#VAisforlovers
1: out of many, one (North Dakota)
2: to the stars through difficulties (Kansas)
3: he who transplanted still sustains (Connecticut)
4: ever upward (New York)
5: I direct (Maine)
6: mountaineers are always free (West Virginia)
7: if you seek a pleasant peninsula look around (Michigan)
8: let it be perpetual (Idaho)
9: sic semper tyrannis (Virginia)
