nine words

I stand beside the back door
on a Sunday afternoon
the light is low

I've just returned from a trip
in my grandparents Rambler
I'm not more than four

a day spent with cousins
whose names I never knew
a wood paneled room
I never visited again
my first Big Red

my dad asks me
"Jamie, where did you go today?"
And I respond
"Daddy, you know I don't know where I went"

If there were a bead for every time my father
told that story
that necklace of beads would stretch
beyond my sight

nine words made what could have been
a forgettable afternoon
more than it was ever meant to be

who are no longer

today I woke thinking of mothers who'd been planning Christmas parties
now there are no children to attend these parties

yesterday my mom mentioned gifts under Christmas trees for children
who are no longer alive

tomorrow something else will cross my mind
and those children will not be here

grounded

my day began with lightening and rain
a short walk backwards on the trail
the two of them darting among familiar trees
hidden briefly

on our street - a tree lit where one appreciates another chance with the holiday
I'd been nudged earlier this morning by the smell of pork
now the day holds so much - cars and grades
and lost childrens' lives
it's right that there's too much to grasp
feel I nibble at the edges - peer into a dim lit window not even able to make out the shadows
of a Sunday in December with a beer, an open notebook and familiar faces

More Rimbaud - War

might yea 

but where can anyone find right

my angle of argument

my dance of disobedience

requiring logic

to make sense of the act or situation

lodged in the situation of the day

the same breeze sets the blades of grass on their sides

and bobs the clover heads in a rhythm of vibration

so much from a breeze

more Rimbaud - Novel

warm  air

cool breeze lifts my hair  

waves notebook pages 

flutters wine scent

noise from cars passing resemble the slow flow of water

soft conversation laps at space

comes in waves no regulating beat

discordant conversations fill space 

best not to attend to the actual words

rather attend to the cadence of the voice

in response to Rimbaud - Seasons in Hell

there is much about society that annoys me, leaves me dissatisfied

though my rantings are minimal

expressed with few words and

then forgotten or

at least swept out of my current mind 

to make way for the trivial tasks of the day

Destinationless

"may be the last time, I don't know, don't know"

The words wafted through the warm heavy breeze.  Heavy enough to hold those words as you drove out to Ft. Stockton.  Sky and road scorched white - scentless air washed in the open windows.  The metal lining the car door not too hot to rest your arm.  No thoughts flooded your mind.  As open and empty as the landscape.  Just time to get away before the clutter came crashing in and pinned you to a house filled with your things and Jane's.  An excuse to check in on Mom, decorated as goodwill.  She'd be surprised when you showed up with no evidence of plans.  Excitement followed by questions.  There'd be a few days before responsibility and guilt set you off again.  Not going anywhere. 

Why are you the one who's never going after anything and you're just fine with that.  Why do people have to go after things?  Why can't they just be somewhere?  But aren't you the one who's pushing away or is it just out?  Destinationless.  These thoughts began to crowd your head as you pulled up to the familiar yellow house not much wider than a station wagon.  The concrete walkway, a straight line from the street to the door.  Up the steps the screen door hung closed.  Quiet heard from within.  "Mom, are you there?"

"Jesse, what are you doing here?  I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh, I just thought I'd drive out to see you," you answered as your hand reached the door.  Your mother's grey figure moved toward the opening door's light.