I Can't Help It

When I think of how many of God's
creatures have been living out
their purposes in one moment and end
up as road kill the next abrupt
moment with a thud that seems
much softer and shorter than it should be
I can't help but think about how soft
a dog's tongue is: the way it careens
out the window or the way it flaps
(but not like an American flag) in the wind
as its master moves down a country road.
I can't help but wonder
at seeing a praying mantis breathe, my face so close
to him I could almost feel the tiny exhalation
of his exoskeleton throbbing with life
his breaths impossibly small. I can't help
the nervous exhilaration of the squirrel
getting gifted to me as she frantically claws
and zips her way around me clinging my skin
and feeling the luxury of her soft fur.
I can't help but hope for the Messiah's return
and hope that just maybe pig or lamb
or horse or humming bird will open his mouth
and speak.


The first draft of this originally untitled poem was written on 10/22/17 and has only minor changes here (with a few more enjambment changes and minor punctuation changes made on 1/10/18). I don't think this is quite complete although I do like the direction.

The Death-Bed of the Poor, by Ichabod Spencer

This poem was written by the pastor Ichabod Spencer, some time during his ministry back in the 1800's. I found it while reading his incredible book, A Pastor's Sketches: Conversations with Anxious Souls Concerning the Way of Salvation, published by Solid Ground Christian Books. 

Tread softly--bow the head--
   In reverent silence bow;
No passing bell doth toll--
Yest an immortal soul
       Is passing now.

 Stranger! however great
  With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed--
One on that paltry bed--
      Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,
   Lo! Death doth keep his state.
Enter--no crowd attend;
Enter--no guards defend
    This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
   No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands--
Lifting with meagre hands
           A dying head.

No mingling voices voices sound--
   An infant wail along;
A sob suppressed--again
That short, deep gasp, and then
     The parting groan.

Oh, change!--oh, wondrous change!--
   Burst are the prison bars;
This moment there, so low,
So agonized; and now
     Beyond the stars.

Oh, change!--stupendous change!
   There lies the soulless clod.
The sun eternal breaks--
The new immortal wakes--
     Wakes with his God.

Wrestling with Art

In the door frame of my mind
I lined up all my favorite poets
and shot them all, one by one.
I immediately wanted them to live again.

I charged forward. I stumbled
over their slumping, quixotic bodies.
I shoved pens, quills, typewriters, keyboards
into their deranged hands, gesticulating

to them, my body a frantic poltergeist.
Arise! Live! Speak! Some of them,
however, and this really irked me,
had escaped through the door frame.

I don't know where they went.
Other parts of my body?
Some say our mind goes
beyond that door.

The kind of silence just after a funeral
followed, slithering it went, in and out
of my nose. I went running. I lifted weights.
I cleaned the house; several times. My book

shelves stared at me like ferocious,
ill-equipped watchmen. Later that night
I spoke to each one their words
both a solvent and elixir.


This is the 3rd draft of this poem with only a couple of revisions here.




Wrestling with Art (draft #2)

In the door frame of my mind
I lined up all my favorite poets
and shot them all, one by one.

I immediately wanted them to live again.
I charged forward.
I stumbled over their slumping, quixotic bodies.
I shoved pens, quills, typewriters, and keyboards
into their deranged hands, gesticulating to them,
my body a frantic poltergeist,
to arise, to arise, to live.

Some of them had escaped
through the door frame.
I don't know where they went.

The kind of silence just after a funeral
went in and out of my nose.
I went running.
I lifted weights..
I cleaned the house; several times.
My book shelves stared at me
like ferocious, ill-equipped watchmen.

Later that night I spoke to each one
their words both an elixir and solvent.


Originally written on 6/14/15. Some revisions have been made including adding in the third stanza.

Man Hole

When I see them huddled
around a man hole 
or a fresh dug ditch
with bits of asphalt fractured
and falling their orange vests blazing
beneath the sun. I can't help
but want to be
in their midst.

My hard hat fastened
to my head, leaning on a shovel
or a steel box that conceals
wires and pipes and who knows
what else that only they
have the keys to.

I can't help but want
to grow a beard and speak
their language, so unknown to me
or just be with them as we peer
deeply down into that darkness
that penetrates the earth.


Originally written on October 14, 2016. I've mad only minor changes to this draft. I consider this unfinished but I think there are some really great possibilities here.

Histories and Memories

I called Brenda again. The phone rang for what seemed like the length
of a school day. A crucifix was afixed in the space above me and it caught
my gaze. I had been looking into the kitchen where I saw the remnants
of meal preparation: bits of chopped onion that looked like derailed train cars
or bits of snow, the fleshy chunks of just cut tomatoes with spurted juice
like blood all over the wooden cutting board or perhaps smears of a rich sunset.
I see the knife with it's fine edge or is it dull, that can split worlds and shape
the trajectory of the history of Art. I hang up the phone and noticed
that I had completely tangled the chord.


Originally written on April 17, 2016. Only minor changes made to this second draft. I consider it unfinished. This poem is largely inspired by the poet James Tate. during 2015/2016 I experimented with many poems like this, telling a slightly surreal, slightly vague tale. Perhaps you could call this poem an attempt at imitating James Tate. 

My Fear of Horses

I started in such ignorance--
these big brooding beasts
in the barn their bodies boomed
over me, their stall a kind of fortress
around me, the hay soft under
my feet of four years;
I thought nothing of them.

Then my birthday party. Bare back
I rode and some glimmer of light
or whisper of wind or glitch
of purpose caused the horse to rear-up
suddenly I fell beneath. Hard hoofs
so close to my soft head.
I never rode again.

I started to notice their blocks of teeth
when my mother and I fed them apples.
How hard and unstoppable
like a hydraulic machine in my father's factory
that nearly swallowed my hand.

If I feed one an apple now, cautiously
I extend my fingers so my hand becomes convex,
with the apple balancing on the crest of my hand,
my torso retreats and bends away from its terrible mouth
my arm extended like a shaking branch.
Those awful teeth.

I started to notice the ferocious nostrils
envisioning them flaring in battle,
hot flaming breath throwing out violence.

When I see my sister commanding the beast
around a groomed track listening
to her muscle contractions I think
of how unlikely it is, near miraculous,
for her to do that. And I think of how God
talked to Job of Leviathon and Behemoth and horse
in the same long breath.


 Above is the third draft with some minor and major revisions.


 My Fear of Horses

It started with ignorance
these big brooding beasts
like Manhattan over me
the layer of hay soft under
my feet of four years;
I thought nothing of them.

Then the party. Bare back
I rode and some glimmer of light
or whisper of wind or glitch
of purpose caused the horse to rear
and I fell beneath. Hard hoofs
so close to my small head.
I never rode again.

I started to notice their blocks of teeth
when my mother and I fed them apples.
How hard and unstoppable
like a hydraulic machine in my father's factory
that nearly swallowed my hand.

If I feed one an apple now
I extend my fingers so my hand becomes convex,
with the apple balancing on the precipice and
I retreat and bend away from its terrible mouth
and those awful teeth.

I started to notice the ferocious nostrils
envisioning them flaring in an unwinnable battle
blowing out the violence and sucking it in.

When I see my sister commanding the beast
around a groomed track listening
to her muscle contractions I think
of how unlikely it is, near miraculous,
for her to do that. And I think of how God
talked to Job of Leviathon and Behemoth and horse
in the same long breath.


Originally written on August 27, 2015. This draft is nearly identical to the first draft with minor changes. I consider it unfinished.

Seeing

One eye opened and a small scrape
of sound came jagged into her ear
like gravel falling through a pvc pipe.

When she was at the traffic light
red glaring into her pupils, her father’s eyes
telling her to stop when all she wanted was go
and she was suddenly being sucked backwards
like the engine was making up its own mind
now after years of abuse and missed car washes
and being topped off too many times and slammed
the engine was now getting its revenge
and she blinked. The car next to hers was pulling forward
and the green of the traffic light was kindly telling her
to pull forward and continue on her journey.

“Observable evidence leads to belief,”
she told me again. And I suddenly felt bad
for all those things we can’t observe.
Poor wind. Poor love.
Poor connection with a friend you can’t explain.
You exist and no one is there to accept you.
Poor thing we don’t see yet.

“We scientists change our minds, if you show us the evidence.”
But what about the things that have happened
that haven’t been accepted.
What about electric bills that get paid when there is no money.
What about Leah’s mom who was on the precipice of death,
about to jump and she was somehow healed and doctor’s were speechless.
What about someone resurrecting from a brutal cross?

I once saw two overlapping squares
and my mom told me it was a cube,
and I did not see it.