Tag: poetry

bird, apple, orange

June 24th, 2021

Bird, apple, orange.

I’m happy to be torn. Into so many pieces.

They see me. Different directions. The refraction. Light on my edges.

The kids’ drip, drip, dripping faucet. The bathroom sink. My little boy is 15. He has a razor and shaves. My little girl is 11. She wears eye shadow sometimes.

They are growing up. I am going back. Collecting cars—Matchbox and Hot Wheels. Playing a handheld Pac-Man game from the 80s. Eating Skittles. Sipping Sprite.

Feeling fine.

Tonight, there’s no time. Just a mild, warm wave of awareness wrapping up all around me. Letting me let go.

And focus.

On the bird my daughter drew for me. The apple and orange my son inspired me to eat. All the moments I have become.

~ KJ
backroads

June 10th, 2021

Get in and ride.

Take the fork. Bend the spoon.

Let the roads expand perception and create our path.

Ignore the compass. Follow the shapeshifting clouds.

Climb the gravelly hill. Roll and brake down the sandy slope. Gas it through the water hole.

Let’s open the moonroof and the windows. Let the lake, earth and forest whirl up all around us, and let’s breathe it—deeply—over and over again.

The miles and miles of hope.

~ KJ
8:53 am

December 24th, 2020

Fat and sugar,

salt and caffeine

lift me

when they hit

the bloodstream.

So, I make

Sunday breakfast

for family.

Eat sausage while it cooks.

Sip fresh ground blonde roast.

Listen to Holiday Classics

and my son,

as he tells my wife

about his late-night

spent

eating burgers, broccoli,

chili, rice,

and chips.

watching college football

with weightlifting friends.

The dogs rumble,

Wrestle at my feet,

then run

room to room,

humping hard.

It’s a contest,

I guess.

Establishing dominance.

I salt and pepper the eggs,

turn them,

start the toast,

and my daughter

thump,

thump,

thumps,

down the stairs.

Rhino,

the fat, gray cat

walks through,

paying no mind to us.

He meows, meows, meows

as his belly sways and

dusts the hardwood floor.

With a great leap,

he is on the table,

waiting

for nobody

to feed him.

~ K.J.
sunday morning storm

July 19th, 2020

Up to the city siren and out of bed quickly to survey the situation.

As if there’s anything I could do to save us.

The fierce wind drives waves of rain. Trees and wires sway. Lawn chairs tumble across the yard. Bird feeders swing wildly on their hooks. A garbage can rolls down the street.

In the basement, we wait it out.

I gaze at the wide wooden beams above that support us every day. Run my fingers along the rough edges to rebuild my confidence. This hundred-and-something-year-old home has weathered plenty. It will outlast me. Maybe even the newest builds in the neighborhood.

The siren stops.

We head upstairs.

My wife gets eggs out from the fridge.

The kids fill bowls with Lucky Charms.

I head out onto the front porch.

Hairs up on the back of my neck. Ears drinking up sounds. Eyes scanning the sky, hoping there’s more to come.

~ K.J.
no hands

July 13th, 2020

A twelve-year-old girl keeps

a sunfish in a bucket for days.

One she caught while camping.

She feeds it bits of leftover burger.

Dried worms from the sidewalk.

Poor, stupid moths that bang

against her bedroom window.

And ants.

The sunfish floats.

Surrounded by white walls.

Under a narrow shaft of light.

The big sky that waits,

is occasionally blocked

by big brown eyes

and a wide toothy smile.

Gills in. Gills out.

Fish die.

From heat,

lack of oxygen,

birds that watch from rooftops,

and neglect,

as the girl plucks flowers

from the neighbor’s garden.

Jumps for hours on the trampoline.

Hides in the maple’s leafy branches,

eating Skittles stolen from Dollar General

until she is brave and indestructible,

all hopped up on sugar,

circling the block

of a boy she likes,

riding her bike

no hands.

~ KJ
bodies in motion

May 15th, 2020

Food affects mood. So does sleep. Not doing what we want, or being what we’re meant to be. That kills us too.

But all of us are dying.

The sun’s gonna eat us alive in 6.5 billion years. Or maybe tonight, in dreams. I suppose that’s when Jesus will walk again. Or ride in on a Brontosaurus. He and Donald Trump. Maybe Jane Fonda. Twisted Uncle Ted. Drunken sister, Sarah. And J.J. from Good Times. I hope to meet Eddie Vedder then. He and Hemingway drinking wine. Vedder calling Papa a misogynist. Papa standing up, ready to fight, when Gandhi steps in.

“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”

We’ll all come together again. Just wait and see. After all, that’s what we do.

We wait.

For another day. Another moment. Another chance. Because they keep coming. We put off the changes, don’t take advantage of opportunities, and don’t live up to our potential because we’re under the impression that there’ll be another day.

And if not, that’s okay. We’ve done what we were supposed to do. It was fate. It’s been predetermined. Even if we fight, pushing headfirst into battle, that’s the way it was meant to be.

So say we the sheep. Not of the United States, China, The Bahamas, or whatever boundary we choose to define ourselves. But of the world.

Whatever happened to raging against machines, warm-bodied love in the morning, and skipping stones to see how many times an object can defy gravity?

Why don’t we run like we did when we were kids? Barefoot through the grass, sun blessing us with light and heat and freckles, fast and free into days without end.

Bodies in motion staying in motion at constant velocity with no concern for acts made by external forces.

~ KJ
shove it down

May 11th, 2020

There are mornings I wake

more rested than ever.

Oddly enough,

those are the days

that typically lead me

right down the shitter.

I’m not sure why.

Maybe it’s because I am not used to waking

fully repaired.

That’s what sleep is supposed to do, right?

Rest us. Repair us. Prepare us.

So we can be the best

Hubby,

Daddy,

Writer,

Worker,

Teacher,

Tax payer,

Citizen,

Sheep

we can be.

But don’t say that or write it.

Don’t make it known.

Honesty is a disappointment.

It makes a man

fall short of expectations,

and illuminates misalignment with prescribed paradigms.

Just shove it down.

I’m so used to running on empty—go, go, go—

that waking with energy and clarity

creates confusion.

My mind makes more revolutions.

The bearings spin so much.

I need lubrication.

To keep from burning up.

My fingers need to move over the keys

for more than a few minutes a day.

I need an outlet—

like steam whistling out of a teapot.

Nobody wants to burst.

Short circuit.

Stare too long at the rafters.

~ KJ
Alpena April Morning

April 20th, 2020

Grinding coffee

on the porch

as the dog

does her business.

I don’t want

to stir my wife or kids.

They need sleep.

The wood underfoot is so cold

my feet burn.

But it feels good

to be

outside

on another Alpena April

morning.

And now, inside,

I sip warm liquid

and get to work,

the keys clicking,

the dog snoring,

the birds waking the world

with song.

~ K.J.
making bacon during COVID-19

March 30th, 2020

Chickadees, Blue Jays,

and Robins are at it.

Singing and fighting.

Because it is Spring.

Earthworms slide

across wet sidewalks.

Black and gray squirrels leap

from powerlines to branches

and dance across streets.

Most of them make it,

but some don’t.

We pass these little bodies

each day

without a second thought.

My kids play

basketball,

jump on the trampoline,

blow soap bubbles,

and hula hoop.

S.B. has

hand-painted glasses,

made one of our bathrooms Fish Pond Blue,

created a painting,

put together a 2000-piece puzzle,

and continues to do everything she’s always done.

All while homeschooling our daughter and son.

They’re learning math and science.

Studying slavery,

Ghandi,

Mo Willems, Sally Ride,

the life cycle of bees,

and Economics.

All that

in only a few hours a day.

S.B. is amazing.

My kids are astounding.

And here I am,

working from home.

Getting fatter and stupider.

Sick for 10 days

and counting.

Don’t worry.

I’m lucky.

I am not one of the many that will be taken by COVID-19.

Or one of the 840,000

that will die

from cardiovascular disease.

The one million in the world

that will die

from mosquito bites.

Or one of the people

that gives up

every 40 seconds

and kills themselves.

Nope.

Not me.

Life’s too good for that.

This shelter in place provides

perspective.

Moments to observe and realize.

S.B. is not a morning person.

My son is smarter than his report card.

My daughter is an old soul.

And, in the morning,

if I think of the birds that I hear

as I make breakfast

while everyone sleeps

there is a life-changing discovery.

Flipping strips of bacon

by picking them up

in the middle

eliminates

fatty,

curled

ends.

~ KJ
to S.B. on her birthday

March 19th, 2020

We were five weeks into it. My trips on weekends to visit.

S.B. was living on Stieber Street. Doing her best. Trying to teach art to kids that didn’t get regular meals, words of encouragement, or hugs.

She was raising a two-year-old. By herself. In a neighborhood that was just a step above questionable. The lady across the street thought S.B. was rich.

Because she was a teacher.

Because she was able to put her son into daycare from 7:30 to 3:00, while she worked.

The lady came over on a regular basis to ask for money.

For food.

For formula.

For tampons.

It was hard for S.B. to say NO because she has seen many things. Because she is sweet-hearted.

But her experience has given her a good, solid, fool-proof, bullshit detector.

I know, because she uses it on me.

But that is neither here nor there.

This is about the time we were sitting at the kitchen table that eventually became our dining room table, our living room table, the family table. The one with the small, round, wooden top, and black wrought iron legs.

We were drinking wine, listening to Rage Against the Machine, Tool, Pearl Jam, and Dave Matthews Band.

And we were playing Rummikub.

She was vibrant as ever.

Black tank top.

Grey yoga pants.

Smelling like vanilla and rain.

She amazed me.

Raising a kid, working her ass off, doing all of it on her own, and then welcoming me, a stranger for the most part, to live with her and her baby two days at a time.

A chubby guy with good intentions. On her doorstep every Friday night, after a 239-mile drive.

Time and distance have moved us here.

Life on the 45^th parallel, just a few blocks from Lake Huron, in the place we will always call home.

It’ll be a dozen years come August, and to me, there’s no end in sight.

I believe that all we’ll ever do is start all over again.

Because of that one night.

Drinking Yellow Tail.

Listening to Crash by Dave Matthews Band.

Together.

Playing Rummikub.

I’d just ended my turn. Looked up.

Smiled.

And for whatever reason, she leaned over the table and kissed me.

I don’t think she knows it, but that’s what pulled me in.

A simple, single moment that connected me

to everything.

~ KJ