Letter of Apology/Forgiveness

It started as an apology

from a father to a son

for the times I wasn’t there when I should have been

and for the times I was there

when you needed to figure it out on your own.

I hope my diligence to have you do better

was never taken to mean you weren’t good enough.

For the times I didn’t say. ‘I love you’

when you really needed to hear it.

For the times when my silence

may have been mistaken as a lack of caring

when really I was scared

because I didn’t know how to help you.

For all the times that I was proud of you

but I never really learned how to show it.

That’s when I realized

this was more than an apology

from a father to a son.

It was also a note of forgiveness

from a son to a father. 

Small World (Rondel)

her world has gotten awfully small

a bed, TV, a clock, a chair

and there’s a little table there

that holds a phone so I can call

 

she’ll watch the Red Sox playing ball

but can’t recall her favorite player

her world has gotten awfully small

a bed, TV, a clock, a chair

 

she can’t afford another fall

and moves around with extra care

with special socks that she must wear

to bathroom only down the hall

her world has gotten awfully small 

Dead End Road (Huitain)

 

it’s my choice, it’s my decision

to live along a dead end road

just the way that I envision

the pace of life is somewhat slowed

and no one cares if lawns get mowed

where kids ride bikes on roads of gravel

and maybe learn a better code

to help when life starts to unravel

A Simple Seashell

A single candle lit the room

where many of our nights prevailed.

Enough light to reveal

the soft curves and the warm glow

of her naked body.

Enough light to expose the details

of the small seashell

she wore around her neck

on a thin silk ribbon.

It was a shell I had found for her

on our first walk by the ocean.

It was a simple seashell

very smooth, highly polished.

It had a golden translucent hue

with a naturally worn hole

where she attached the black silk ribbon.

She wore the shell everywhere

and every day

right up until the day she left.

She left it hanging from the rear view mirror of my truck

where it hung for a time

reminding me of her beauty

and of the pain of her departure.

It hung there until my next visit to the ocean

where I held it in my hand for a minute

before relinquishing it back into the sea. 

As Memory Fades

 

I can still envision

the tiny green flecks

in her alluring brown eyes.

I remember how the summer sun

always brought out the highlights

in her strawberry blonde hair

and made a few small freckles

visible across her nose.

I still recall the beauty marks

she had on her back

and the small scar on her left wrist

from crashing a dirt bike

when she was eight years old.

I can still see

the pronounced detail of her collar bones

flowing gently into the curves of her shoulders

I can remember almost everything about her

except for her voice.

I can no longer remember

what her voice sounds like

and that makes me sad.

A Change of View (Huitain)

 

we view the world through weary eyes

and see the things we want to see

so it should come as no surprise

we seek out people who agree

but maybe that is not the key

by seeing different points of view

instead of people just like me

I’ll look for people more like you

With Shaking Hands (Villanelle)

 

She holds her child with shaking hands

as motherhood becomes her role

life has a way of changing plans

 

while no one fully understands

she struggles not to lose control

She holds her child with shaking hands

 

with hurried vows and wedding bands

but marriage never was her goal

life has a way of changing plans

 

so as the family expands

and she resolves to pay the toll

She holds her child with shaking hands

 

but with the increase in demands

she struggles not to lose her soul

She holds her child with shaking hands

life has a way of changing plans

January 6, 1960

 

I remember the night my younger sister came home from the hospital. She was number four of us five siblings. We lived in a drafty, old brick farmhouse in the middle of town.

 

I was sitting in an overstuffed chair that had been dragged into the kitchen from the living room. I was five years old and my next younger sister, sibling number two was sitting in the chair with me. I am sibling number one. Sibling number three was wrapped up in a comforter asleep in a smaller chair next to us.

 

Our mother was sitting in a straight back kitchen chair directly in front of the gas stove whose oven door was wide open. She had the baby bundled up in blankets lying on her lap. She was wearing her winter coat over her pajamas.

 

There were a couple of candles that provided the only light and casting long, dancing shadows on the high ceilings of the huge room. Sibling number two was scared of the flickering shadows so I had to pretend that I wasn’t. We shared a bowl of popcorn.

 

The power was out.

 

 It was January 6^th in Northern Vermont so we could have been without power as a result of a snowstorm. Our father was still drinking in those days so it could have been a result of not paying the electric bill.

 

We asked our mother why we all were bundled up huddled around the kitchen stove. We asked her where our father was. She said, “We wouldn’t understand”.

And we didn’t.

New Zealand

 

I’ve never been to New Zealand

although we talked about going

back when we were lovers.

We talked about the beautiful

photographs we would take

she focusing on the Maori culture

and me concentrating on the extraordinary landscapes.

She always loved photographing the people wherever we went.

I always waited for them to get out of the way so I could take my photos.

That was many years ago but today I stumbled upon her web site

and was astounded by the amazing portraits of the Maori people.

Her landscapes were pretty magnificent too.

I’ve never been to New Zealand

Because I Care

 

If I didn’t care

I wouldn’t write poetry

but if I really cared

I’d make it easier to find

Awake

 

I wake up with

the joggers

the runners

the bikers

the dog walkers

members of a club

out before the sun

has fully risen

 

mostly people of a certain age

who realize that their time is limited

trying to reclaim

their youth

their health

their time

seeing the seasons changing

 

while the young people are still sleeping

and dreaming

unaware that time has

started its battle with them as well

but they will be awakened soon enough

Rescue Dog

 

It wasn’t my idea to get a dog

but I understand why she wanted to get one.

She wanted someone to be excited

at the end of the day

when she got home.

She wanted a companion

to go on long walks.

She was looking for unconditional love.

She was seeking those things

she once found in me.

I’m glad we got a dog.

Wellness Check

 

I look at her social media page

every once in a while

to see if she’s okay

or maybe to see if I’m okay.

It has been a while since we have seen each other.

The last time our eyes met she was walking down the street

while I happened to be driving by

With a nervous smile she awkwardly tried to wave unintentionally

throwing her keys into the road.

Returning the awkward smile

I watched her getting smaller in the rear view mirror

as I accidentally drove up onto the sidewalk.

Yeah, we are both doing just fine.

Thoughts About Shoes

 

It takes years to find perfect shoes.

When you are young

someone else picks your shoes out for you.

As you get older you try many different types and brands.

Shoes come and go often due to changes in styles or trends.

Fashion prevails over practicality.

 

When you are older you settle for comfortable shoes

Shoes that support your feet.

Shoes that make you feel good.

However, no matter how comfortable

and no matter how well you care for them

they eventually wear out.

Left in the closet, taken for granted.

 

Inevitably, you feel the need to seek out new shoes,

to pursue another pair,

a better fit,

more comfortable.

 

Another thing I have noticed about shoes is that when poets

write about shoes they are never talking about shoes.

Except that one about the Old Lady who lived in a shoe.

I’m not really sure about that one.

The Edge

 

Sometimes I walk 

right up to the edge

just to stand there

and look down.

Oh, don't worry

I'm not going to jump

at least not today.

It's just nice to know

I have options.

Impressions

 tiny footprints

in the sand

small imprints

in time

they won't last long

due to wind and waves

but

at this moment

they are perfect

reminders

of her place

in the world

Conversations With a Second Grader - 2020

 

She told me that she loved second grade and that she had made a few new friends. The twins from first grade were in her class and so was her friend Tommy. Tommy with brown hair not Tommy with blonde hair.

 One of the things she liked better about first grade was that the closet had a lock on the door. The closet in the second grade classroom doesn’t have a lock on the door so she doesn’t feel as safe when they do the “active shooter” drills.

 She liked second grade even though it was only two days a week.

 She had grown enough over the summer so she could reach the drinking fountain without standing on the stool but the drinking fountain had been shut off because of the pandemic.

 She still liked recess even though the swings and slides had been removed because of the virus. She liked it because it gave her a few minutes that she didn’t have to wear her mask.

Second Grade 1962

 

We sat in small groups and drew pictures of turkeys or Pilgrims or Thanksgiving scenes. One of the girls in my group took a small piece of broken crayon and stuck it up her nose. Everyone at the table began to laugh. The teacher came over to see what was going on. The crayon was lodged way up and out of sight and the girl had to go to the school nurse’s office to have it removed.

 Several months later we were working on a science project, sprouting various types of seeds in damp paper towels. The same girl pushed a bean seed up her nose. This time the school nurse couldn’t get it dislodged and she had to the emergency room to have it removed.

While she was gone the teacher talked to the class about the incident. She told us that we shouldn’t talk about it when the girl returned to the classroom.

 “She is only doing these things to get attention.” She stated.

 Well if that was true it worked. Melody Banks was the girl’s name and in the many decades since then she is the only classmate I can remember from second grade. I don’t even remember the teacher’s name.