Category: marriage

Happy Birthday, S.B. via Facebook

March 19th, 2016

Poem’s audio below…honey, I even got a little throat clearing in for you at the end.;-)

I don’t post as much as some people do. That’s for good reason. There are too many dummies doing so already. People posting too much shit that is selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid. For instance, I am happy that so-and-so helped a homeless person today, or saved a duck, or paid it forward in some way or the other, but the point of doing good deeds is to simply do them and not draw recognition to oneself. And yet, everyone is look at me. You, S.B., are not like that. Even at our wedding you insisted that all eyes NOT be on you. You just wanted to get married, to be together, and for everyone to have a good time. And that’s why sometimes you’ll catch me just looking at you. I’m amazed.

And then there are the religious geniuses—most of them blinded instead of enlightened—damning people because they are different, spewing evil, nastiness and ignorance. God hates this type of person. This group is going to hell. I follow my husband blindly. I am obedient. His servant. Blah, blah, blah. If they had any inkling of what it’s like to live a good life, they’d be living like you, S.B. You are the definition of kindness. You bring hope. You are the embodiment of strength and independence. And you make me and our kids believe that there are much greater things going on behind the scenes than what we engage on the surface. If people were as selfless and sensible as you are, they’d take more time out of their day to focus on others. The world would be a better place if it followed you.

There are the sickies, always posting how miserable they feel. I saw you give birth to a child, naturally, without shedding a tear. When you are sick, we never know it. You may take an ibuprofen if the pain starts to slow you down. But you’re never asking for attention. Posting about your sniffles or ever mentioning an ache.

There are the titsies—women that apparently can’t refrain from showing their cleavage. Oh, look at the new toaster I got with their boobies all squished together and most likely sharing their best set of duck lips. You, S.B., draw a crowd with your beautiful wide smile, your confidence, and warmth.

And finally, though there are more I could mention, there are the political gurus. We don’t have to go much into that, I suppose. I think most of us should probably follow your politics. Treat people with respect. Help everyone. Act, every day, as if there is an end that’s fast approaching. And that when it’s all said and done every single deed and every word we’ve ever written or spoken—good and bad—will be judged. Maybe not by God, but by everyone we’ve known. And that the tiny ripples of our life make big, big waves.

In summation, Happy Birthday, S.B. I thought I should post this and put it on your page because in the whole scheme of things maybe one person’s love for another will help balance out, and even defeat the shit—all the selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid things—that so many others are putting into this world wide tangled web.

~ K.J.
a man at the keys

March 7th, 2016

March 7, 2016

Monday morning. Drinking coffee while sunlight breaks through the tall leaded windows of this old house and I’m happy to say I’m writing. This is where I am meant to be.

In a great marriage that surprises me more each day—I never knew it was possible to develop such a deep friendship. S.B. is my rock, my artist, my motivator, my guide. She has brought color and depth and fun to the world. Life is better when we are together.

Parenting a son and a daughter. Watching each of them develop unique personalities—a process that is educational, entertaining, and makes me believe in important things, like Yetis, forest fairies, ghosts, and God.

And writing two books. One of poetry/non-fiction that is rooted in feelings and thoughts that emerged from journaling and blogging. And a novel that is literary, but unlike anything I’ve written before. It is time to stop thinking so much about what to write and to simply share what I know. Not lessons or advice. But everything—even those dark, nasty moments—that we are afraid to show.

Until then, when I’ve finally put the pages to rest between covers, I shamelessly encourage you to purchase and read my other works. My writing has not yet been tainted by the corporate need for sales dollars and meeting a bottom line. It is still just a man at the keys, pounding away, day after day in hopes of reaching you. Your support is appreciated.

K.J. Stevens on Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002C4R0AK

~ K.J.
the art of marriage

February 14th, 2016

It is more real

than I ever expected—

our life of keeping kids happy,

healthy, and safe.

Working every day

so ends not only meet

but overlap just enough

to keep us

comfortable and warm.

It has been a great lesson

in patience

and faith,

this art of marriage.

And where we’re at now

is right where I want to be.

Just you and me

living our small important

life in our big old house,

just a couple blocks

from the mighty Lake Huron,

on the 45^th parallel,

in Alpena, Michigan.

Looking out for our son,

our daughter,

for everyone.

Trying together

to do the best we can

to make this place

brighter,

better,

more colorful

than it was

when we got here.

And you know what, S.B.?

We’re doing it.

We’re doing it right

and truly

and honestly,

and I am awed

that somehow

you have chosen

to spend your precious time,

your life,

with me.

Happy Valentine’s Day

~ K.J.
trembling with gravity

January 22nd, 2016

January 21, 2016

7:18 pm

It is all here. Somewhere. In between my nine-year-old boy pounding drums in the basement and my daughter watching Scooby Doo on TV. It is out there in the cold night. Crunching under my wife’s feet as she walks home from work. It is in the sky affecting the earth’s gravitational pull. And it is in my right eye—the one that’s been twitching on and off for a week.

I am not even sure what it is, but I know that it is big and small and knowing and forgetful, and that it makes up everything and nothing all the same. Hemingway and Fitzgerald knew about it. Francis Ford Coppola knew about it. Elvis and Robin Williams and my grandparents and my dead aunts and uncles and all the ghosts that make up the past—they knew about it. And I like to think that we know about it too.

Me and you and us and them.

It is in the stories I have started but did not end. In every good intention that’s never received its due follow through.

It is in profanity and love and hatred and bullying and hugs.

It is everywhere.

In damning God and falling to our knees at night, drunk again, to pray.

It is in the soap bubbles, on the sidewalk, on your toothbrush, and wedged into the bark of a tree.

There is so much of it around it’s hard to gather all of it up and turn it into pictures that make sense. Or, at the very least, to make bits into pieces that will wake the few believers that have fallen asleep and become comfortably imprisoned by the suffocating, silencing routine of the day. And because the task is so daunting, the reality of it so haunting, it is much easier to ignore it and carry on instead of dig deep and make differences.

In the way boys beat drums without rhythm, the girls giggle at the flickering TV, and how wives take slow, measured strides as they move through the dark and the cold toward home under a sky trembling with gravity.

~ K.J.
pure joy (from CUTTING TEETH)

June 4th, 2015

(click below for the audio)

pure joy (from CUTTING TEETH)

It should be handwritten. Inked to paper. Set aside. Left for them to read—if they ever choose to read and learn to know how it used to be—but it has been a long time, another great distance, and when mood and moment synch there is often no other way than this.

Trying key after key.

Hunting and pecking until the letters meet, relate, make some sense, and push us.

On.

To unlock.

The next moment. So we are clean and clear. Interested in this time.

The now.

Our small existence. In this small town. Where we live a life so simple and rich, so free and connected to the earth, that there is nothing about it that can be believed.

My kids are healthy. Happy. And they make me see that I am important. Somebody. I am the strongest. The smartest. The fastest. And there is nobody that can hug or help or love like me. Except Mommy. And she, I’ll admit, is better than me.

At patience.

Consistency.

Softness.

Beauty.

The artful act of pure joy.

And because she has given them to me—our boy and our girl—it seems there is nothing I’ll ever be able to do to make her know how much she means to me.

I cannot birth babies.

Paint pictures.

Make sushi.

Mediate.

Keep the faith.

Bring as much good to the world as she does.

And still, she loves me.

To know this, to experience it, is amazing.

I have come a long way in a short while. I am lucky to be alive. The fists, the fights, the self-imposed, self-destructive nights after nights after nights have somehow landed me here. Home. Deep into the place I never knew I could be.

So worthy of words.

Handwritten. Inked to paper. And set aside. For when my endurance has run out and I am only stacks of pages left for you to read. Letter strung to letter. Key meeting key. So that you will know how it used to be.

~ K.J.
Thursday Night Freewrite – My Son’s Soccer Practice and Forgetting Regrets

May 8th, 2015

It’s hard sometimes. To get away from all the shoulda, coulda, wouldas. Even when you’re in the best place you’ve ever been. Living a blessed life with a pretty wife and two terrific kids—another Gen-Xer that’s gone soft and has given in to comfort, happiness—doing what it takes to make ends meet, keep the family safe and smiling, slowly correcting all those moments of sin that came before the married life.

Dark nights and even darker days.

But by God, you had fight then.

You could run and drink and eat and fish and fuck then. And you could write. Boy, you could write.

There was time for everyone and time for yourself and time it seemed would never run out.

**

I tried not to watch my son too much tonight. I was at his soccer practice roasting in the heat, smacking away bugs, remembering what it was like to be nine years old and have open fields to run. Barefoot and wild like some child of the woods. Every time I saw him moving around so freely and flawlessly I had to look away. I believed that if I only watched in spurts it would last longer and that I would have more of him to keep. Dozens of nuggets of memories to revisit and relive again and again.

**

I sat on the swings next to my wife. Watched my daughter make friends with a stranger’s kids. Pointed out a rainbow. Wished the sky would break. Bring us the rain we need.

**

The coach kept blowing his whistle. Trying to maintain control. Exercise authority. Teach kids to stay in position, go after the ball, know their place in the field.

**

Wishing I would have made other decisions is silly. I see now that they were made for me. All I could do was learn how to accept them. And that’s what I’ve done. The world does break all of us. Hemingway was right. And I can sense him tonight. Sitting across the table from me. His big hands pecking away at his Halda portable. A whiskey and soda at the ready. He and I writing it all out—all of it except for a few drops—some starter fluid for a tomorrow that is not guaranteed, but that we know waits. Patiently. Like a good wife and good kids, as you do whatever it takes to mend the broken places and be stronger because of them.

~ K.J.
satisfied with what we’ve done

March 17th, 2015

(from the book, CUTTING TEETH)

Tomorrow she’ll be one. Already, she has given us a lifetime. What they say about kids and marriage and parenting and love—all of it—is true. It is the hardest work you will ever do. It is not for those seeking instant gratification. It is not for those unwilling to give more than they have. It is not for those that need constant applause. Family life—good family life—is not for the weak or for the selfish. Family life, I think, is for those of us seeking more. Call it God. Call it “making it.” Call it hitting the sweet spot. Call it Truth. Whatever it is, you cannot know it until you are in the thick of it. Smack dab in the middle of shitty diapers, tantrums, saying hurtful things to your wife. And struggling to make ends meet. Those times—the ones when you want to cut ties, say fuck it, and leave—those are the ones that test the gut. Punch you with perspective. Kick you square in the nuts and make you, somehow, want more.

And goddammit, I want more.

I want two hundred more of my daughter’s birthdays. I want a million more fishing trips with my son. I want to hug my wife until my arms work no more. But I know better. And I know what waits.

It is not a happy ending. It is not where I’ll want to be.

But fading to black is something we practice at the end of each day. And so tonight, I’ll think long and hard about the end. Finishing up. Giving way to whatever else comes. Everything or nothing. A bright light or constant dream. And I’ll know that if I die in a car wreck tomorrow, everything is as beautiful and true as it should be.

But there’ll be no wrecking.

Like Amanda Davis in a plane.

Plath and the oven.

Hemingway cleaning his shotgun.

I’m not good enough for that. And I don’t want to be.

If I had my choice, I’d always be not good enough and write sentences too plain to make good stories if it meant I’d never die. That tomorrow would always come.

Because my daughter turns one tomorrow. My son is itching to go fishing. And watching my wife makes me realize I’ve married up. That I’m in a better place than I deserve. And that even though we are only pilgrims keeping at the keepin’ on, what we are doing is important and big and lasting. And when it is time to turn the final page, we will be satisfied with what we’ve done.
UFOs, black holes, and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop

February 27th, 2015

What do we know about UFOs, black holes, and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop?

**

My son wears the same underwear for days. He can’t shut off a light. Has to be reminded to brush his teeth. And he whines more than I ever imagined a nine year old would. But tonight, as we sat together and he rested his head on my shoulder and we watched freaky YouTube videos about unidentified flying and submersible objects, I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He was intrigued. Had plenty of questions, but I didn’t have the answers. Half of the stuff we were seeing was bogus. Phony. The other half I was convinced may be partly real. After all, I’ve seen strange, bizarre, unexplainable things in the sky.

“But what is it? How can it move like that? Where did it come from? Where did it go? How is that possible?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He snuggled closer.

I could see his gears turning. Amazement brewing, and as I looked over at my wife and our eyes met, I could sense what she was thinking.

Why in the hell are you watching that with him before bed?

But what better time to watch such crazy shit than on another boring, below-freezing night after stuffing our faces with pulled pork sandwiches, strawberries, and avocado?

I was sure there couldn’t possibly be anything better as I queued up another video—this time one about a zippy silver disc outrunning two fighter jets then splashing, almost playfully, in and out of the ocean with ease—when my five year old daughter, still soaking wet from the tub, streaked through the living room singing a song about Tootsie Pops and riding a pink dune buggy into the center of the universe with her ferret, Mr. Beasley, and her boyfriend, Trevor, only to get swallowed by a big black hole that was actually full of love and made them fart rainbows until they were safe and back home again.

**

I love to listen as our kids make stories with letters and colors, song and dance. They make me question things and think things I’ve never thought of thinking. They make me revel in the beauty of life, the potential we have, and the innocence that’s ever-present, always trying to get us back to the place we belong.

**

Another cold day eases into another cold night. I walk them to their rooms to say prayers, have thumb wars, and tuck them in for dreams. And as I give one more hug and one more kiss, and one more I-love-you-sweet-dreams-I’ll-see-you-in-the-morning, I walk away buzzing with energy and wonder.

~ K.J.
having lunch at my daughter’s school

February 6th, 2015

Sometimes it takes lunch with a hundred kindergarteners.

Smiles. Laughter. The chatter.

To bring you back around to where you’re supposed to be.

Just a boy on a ball of dirt

and lava and rock and water and hope and fear and love,

rotating on an axis that clearly does not exist

but can be seen on maps and in books and

can certainly be felt on a wintry February night

somewhere near the 45^th parallel in the place,

not far from the lake,

that you have decided to anchor your roots and stay.

Kids shoot straight.

They make you remember

innocence is not lost—it is only forgotten—and

it can be regained when we choose to love unconditionally.

It was the 12:20 lunch.

The visit to my daughter’s school

where she giggled with friends

and I looked across the table at my wife as she listened

to a sweet, roly-poly boy talk about

his dad and his dog and his love for string cheese,

and it was that good solid minute

when I looked around the gymnasium

at all the children of different shapes and sizes and colors and dreams and

I believed they were mine.

~ K.J.
bringing the stars closer

January 26th, 2015

Out to the driveway to the camper in my pajamas to drink a little wine and string together letters—one key at a time—in an attempt to unify wants and needs, desires, expectations, roles and fears and distractions, so I can strip away the layers, minimize this big existence by focusing on the stars and planets that twinkle with possibility so close, but so far away for you, for me, for everybody.

Kids are throwing grenades in the Middle East.

Islanders are drinking rum in the Caribbean.

An old woman in a care home simmers shamefully in her very first pair of adult diapers.

Across the state, my baby nephew smiles, kicks his legs, watches the multi-colored mobile that turns above his crib, and is happy to move and coo and drool as day moves him to closer to another nighttime feeding from mom.

Twenty feet away, my wife sits in the living room. There is a warm fire solid with orange coals that will last as long as she feeds it. The kids are asleep. Teetering on the edge of dreams. And I’ve stuck myself out here in the cold because I want to believe we can rise above our fear of evil and poverty and gods and guns and money and sex and death and the big silent unknown that’s working its way toward us one tick at a time.

Your day is coming as is mine, so maybe it’s best not to get too serious like this. It is, after all, a Sunday night. There’s only a few hours before the workweek begins and if I think too much about every instance that connects us I’ll forget the importance of this small life in this small town with my pretty wife and kids and there’s a very good chance I’ll get nowhere with this—drinking a little wine, one key at a time—in hopes of bringing the stars a little closer for you, for me, for everybody.

~ K.J.