Posts tagged ‘Dad’

May 28, 2017

Moon man

Im sure
that
when my dad died
he didnt die
he moved to the moon.
He builds planes
there not rockets.
Flies them too.
Sort of stranded tho.
Even when we see a sliver
hes up there.
Waiting.
Working hard.
Getting stronger,
ready to tell a good story.
He does that.
Just up there alone,
cold, thought of.
I wonder when hell come back down.
He told me
of men on the moon
and heaven
in some valley
somewhere
but long ago.
See him up there?

May 13, 2017

he died doing what he loved

the day before my dad died
my grandma told me to call him,
she handed me the phone and i dialed.
he answered and asked me to visit him in Lanesboro.
per usual, of course i couldnt,
i was busy marrying my cousin
and her new husband,
i was to fish brook trout and hunt morel
at an expansive farm in Highland, MN.
he told me about how midget strippers
were from that area
and he told me he could fly me in a plane
back to the Cities on Sunday. and he could truly.
but i get sick on planes, ex: my whole life.
i would tell him that so he didnt feel bad.
i laughed, so did grandma–a-mid-dementia.
now the cat barfs on the windowsill in St Paul
and i cant move to clean it.
you read, he told me this story.
that was the last i knew of his soul.
now i want an old motorcycle and three kids,
i want a lot of land in the countryside
and to own my own business, sort of like him.
i want to tell rude stories and make people laugh.
all around me is this fabric to weave,
even that old dreaded piece of a phone call
i hide because it worries and bothers
and turns me 4 years younger, less jaded and
more naive. i see him leaving every day is a possibility.
i just wonder when he will come back.
and some believe in ghosts and gods and scripture,
i havent seen much in the way of poltergeists or apparitions;
the afterlife exists now in tongues and no more.
i only feel the ones i never knew
and could care less to just pass
and call my imagination gone astir
or drunken views taken in the timid darkness.
i heard he died doing what he loved a lot,
and when that happens they say it is good.

March 19, 2017

dad knew

i cut the shades to sunrise pale
because there was nothing there and my father.
there were words in book.
there were time spent in the recesses of my brain,
turned to gas and confusion,
lost attentions and forgotten bank statements.
where i used to fly planes even though
i would fill the bag and he would laugh.
then a plane crash. i could feel the fields
and the corn and the trees
and the dirt in the valley as we looked for that wheel
which exploded off on impact.
it was back at the hangar.
…and he used to make bombs like Uncle Sam
and blow deer heads off of walls,
they made sounds like shotguns miles away,
black trash bags and simple chemistry.
smells like someone is burning pine or trash.
cut the shades to nitrogen.
just a thought. the reflection of the house next door
and its waxen motion sensor light,
should have been changed months ago to be effective.
and nothing. cut the shades, they can see in
and i can see out
and i am sure there is nothing there.
that’s what happens with your attitude
and aspiration as you come closer to it.
to that one thing that no one talks about
and pretends isn’t there. dad knew.

January 14, 2017

first time parent

the creation of blood & flesh;
how it feels to be a new god.

October 16, 2016

trumpscare

this Hercules coffee
& sleepless dreams,
got me shaking the cold off,
happy to be seen.

March 25, 2015

half made up

Half of my person,
my body,

my ghost, my own;

though you are outside in the
cold,

wind through bare trees blown—

near thoughts in the mind—full,
on edge a clear glass of water in

my saliva, in my throat,

as each word

from my mouth is spoke—

half of me yet all,
and gone, not long,

—as they go,

dissolve, a division in sight…

Happened, half-dead, I am froze;

all is night,

…and only half of something,

hair, eyes, flesh, hands, and plight.

The makeup of my life,

When I was younger sunlight seemed more bright.

Split now.

***

Wind chimes resound outside in the cold,
as you whisper this to my better half.

August 4, 2014

Fond Memories

Stand in a pale room funeral home.
Dim yellow dances striped walls.
Close fake ferns and fresh-cut flowers.
Not into gleamed opaque casket.
My father sits, near his stepfather lay.
A soda can rests on stained wooden edge.
Here bright reflections of unnatural dye.
We have to pick him up, so heavy- and out.
Grab hand on cold pallbearer’s hold.
Navy Cadillac hearse backs to still box.
Pull with strained arms, struggle to balance.
Measure more densely than expected, hot day.
Hung-over and dried out, stiff- filled chemicals.
We get in the van and head to the American Legion.

Disbelief.

Family and a buffet line inside
We sit close and speak soft
A pastor comes up to talk
He says he is with god
I go and get seconds
Completely lost

My grandmother does not understand.

July 11, 2014

Storied Weather (South Ridge)

Familiar clouds
tell of South Ridge
and distant relatives;
revelations such as this
come hard to miss,
a loss of words.

These were once
interactions,
turned keys,
and crossed-out lists.

Rain drops tapping my head soaking my shoulders.

We drove there in the morning
to leave by afternoon.

Now, I stand here under
dark spinning skies
watching
waiting
and hoping for you.