Tag: poem

a God

The driftwood, bleached by the sun, was entwined with seaweed.
It resembled the jawbone of a giant
cast ashore by a god more powerful than we can imagine.
To be a child again and allow such fanciful thoughts.
To believe in giants and gods.
And in a God.
‘I am a man,’ I tell myself.
‘I am an adult now,’ I tell myself.
It isn’t about giants hurling jawbones onto desolate shores.
It’s about storms, tides, saltwater, and sunlight.
I continue to stroll the barren shore.
It is autumn, and the biting wind drives most people away.
I stumble upon a teepee-like structure.
It was quickly built,
Obviously, the work of kids.
tourists, no doubt,
here for the summer – here for a day
on the coast of Maine.
I place my rain jacket on the sandy ground
inside the structure
and crawl in.
‘Here,’ I think,
‘This is where I will wait for those giants.
This is where I will wait for God.’

the bracelet

It’s no longer about the bracelet I bought for you, saying it was just friendship—the one I said wouldn’t be awkward. And it wasn’t, because I never gave it to you. It’s no longer about the small, delicate box left unwrapped at the bottom of my bag, a box I might leave there for months or even years. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, which feels strange.
I remember thinking, ‘Please let the weather be good so I can catch the one-hour flight.’ Of course, I could take the twelve-hour bus ride, but that would give me more time to think about the stranger I bought a bracelet for. I made the flight; the weather was fine. When my bag came down the luggage slide, I accidentally blessed myself, partly wishing the unwrapped box would disappear, something I wouldn’t want to keep.




Hymn

The crickets sing each night, starting at dusk. Not one or two, but thousands, each telling the entire story. Every year, again this year, they return to remind me of what I have forgotten, and what I keep forgetting. One might think the madness of these creatures would reveal their lesson. Perhaps the clamor of sound is a warning. “Ah, remember this, or they’ll be back!” But something is lost then, between dusk and when the birds return, and the frenzy of cricket song yields to the birds’ morning hymn. The birds don’t care if I forget again. They lull me into forgetting and the soft bliss of not remembering. That is sweetness.

bird feeder

A squirrel broke the
bird feeder.
How strange,
It was supposed to be
squirrel-proof.
They would leap,
trying again and again,
But the birds
just laughed.
Now,
The birds no longer come,
and they don’t
or share pictures.
A squirrel broke the bird feeder,
and we are no longer connected.

Existing

You are old now.
This is how
It happens, right?
all those years of working
just leading up to a couch
and a blaring television.
Your hair is long and white
and eyes that look but do not truly see
Your mind wanders away like the tide
It drifts off somewhere.
In that quiet moment,
that quiet stillness,
you ask how I was feeling.
In two decades, you haven’t.
For twenty years, you’ve looked at me
But you have never seen me.
Now, with your frailty
and knowing you are mortal as I watch you,
in a tiny room
with a loud television,
You ask how I am feeling.
But I think you see a younger
version of yourself
tucked somewhere in me.
“How are you?”
It is in that moment of lucidity,
in the stillness, in
the fragile place where Alzheimer’s
has loosened its hold,
where I only reflect you.
“How are you?”
But it isn’t a question for me.
You are asking,
‘Did I live? or
just exist.’
But the tide goes out,
a stillness returns,
And you go back to just existing.

Like a Board

Now, it is cold here.
My back is tight, like a board.
a million times
and still my first.
“Okay, Jeremiah..”
But I ignore the rest –
I know the routine,
This is my first time
after a million.
I want to say, “thank you.”
as they look,
as my body is searched
for disease,
But I am tired.
So I lay still,
My back is tight and still,
like a board;
after a million times,
Yet always my first.