I Cannot Let this Week Pass

I cannot let this week pass
without taking the time to...

do whatever it is one does
to write a poem:

concoct or conjure,

mine and refine,

reflect but also refract.

Whichever it is
- or the sum of them all -

I need to do it.

Clamps and Poems

For my birthday,
my wood-working,
poetry-loving
dad
gave me
clamps
and a book of poetry.

I can't say which has been
more proficient
at holding things together.

Poetry is a Rock

I find myself,
on this Monday morning,
thinking about rocks and sand

because there's way too much going on.

And as I consider what to plan to do first
at each time
on each day

I realize that writing this poem
is a rock.

That's why I'm placing it firmly
on my calendar
every Monday morning -
to give a bit of sanity and peace
at the outset of what will inevitably be
a crazy week.

Will routinizing poetry writing make it
worse?

Maybe.

But, I suppose it'll still be better
than not writing any at all.

Hopefully.

Mowing with Mankind

As I mow this sprawling lawn
I feel a resonance with generations
of mankind before,
sent to tend and tame this garden.

As if I, too, am one with
the pioneers,
the pilgrims,
yea, all the progenitors
who took a blade in hand
to provide a shave and a haircut,
as it were,
to a sometimes 2-bit spot of earth
in an attempt to obtain a yield of useful fruit
through the wielding of assorted tools,

an attempt, sometimes, as vain as mine
usually is to stay a step ahead
of nature's processes
and my own nature's tendancy
to be persuaded more by the
length of my yawn
than the growth of my lawn.

Mow-etry

For some reason
whenever I mow the lawn,
I want to write poetry,

specifically about the act of mowing,
festooned with layers of infinite symbolism
as the act is.

I know,
I know -
mowing is such a manly act
and poetry
generally isn't,
though there is no paucity of male poets.

But still,
I want to write a book of poetry
called Mow-etry
in which I expatiate the subject.

So stay tuned.

I had a Dream Last Night

I had a dream last night

In a half-moved-in house I didn't recognize

Wherein I saw my mother and mother-in-law,
Who live a state apart,

Laughing heartily,

Arms around each other's shoulders,

And wearing matching blue

Cable-knit sweaters,

Walking in through the front door.

Beside a Christmas tree,

In two over-sized armchairs,

I sat with one of my best friends from

2 decades go,

Having just flown in from out West.

We were making small talk about the flight,

But knew deep within we'd soon be discussing

Significant topics from yesteryear,

Like Legos and Weird Al.

My dad had just walked by,

Dropping off a box filled with

Sets of matching Star Wars towels,

Bedecked with TIE Fighters and light sabers,

Presumably for myself and my nerdy siblings

(Including even the less nerdy ones).

I have no coat of many colors

And no lion's den is in my cards
To  help me interpret this dream,

But if I had to augur

What all this is about,

I'd have to say that

Either Disney will over-merchandise

Star Wars Episode 7
And soon start marketing
Cinderella-blue women's wear,

Or

The intervening distances of space and time

That separate us from our significant others

Will E=mc square themselves 

Into relative nothingness

Through the intercession 

Of a certain bearded man 

We think of in December.

No, not that one.

Waving Back

Driving down to my parents' house,
just my son and I,
I thought I'd take a detour
along the way -
he always naps better in the car,
and I always liked getting lost
as a teen at the wanderlust age of 16
just to see if I could find my way back again.

Bobsledding up and down the winding, hilly
narrow track of road
for about 7 miles,
I passed only 3 people
and they all waved back to me,
a statistic unaccomplished anywhere else in my experience -
percentage- or number-wise.

Not that I knew them;
they were all strangers to me.
And not that it was some giant wave -
just the crest of a hand being raised
or the ripple of two fingers
lifted from the steering wheel,
but the tide of them moved me.

As much as I appreciated it,
I found myself wondering,
"What does it really matter mean?
Why do I make this such a big deal?
Is the gentleman getting his mail a better
husband or grandfather than most?
Is the pickup driver a more helpful neighbor?
Is the Taurused lady more cheerful and kind?
Does a wave really signify anything significant at all?"

I still don't know - haven't done any
research and analysis with graphs or charts to show.
All I do know
is it sure feels good to have someone wave back.