Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
I used to save much of my yelling and screaming for the page. Over the last year or two (Bradley's third and fourth years on Earth), I've been doing more of it aloud and more often seeking peace (understanding of screaming and yelling's root causes?) on the page. Or is that a misconception? Does anger with a child's irrational stubbornness or with one's own inability to cope with it translate into rage on the page? Or does it really turn the process of writing into a meditative walk by the holy pond with its silent, scheming koi?
I've always thought that distance from raging emotions was a necessity for writing anything other than spoken word-style poetry. But what if the writer/parent lives in a state of constant emotional rage, which roils either above, below, or well below the surface of that pond? What if this rage subsides only when the child's raging hormones lead him/her away from the shadow of the host fish? Or what if at that point it just explodes?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Bathing a Samoyed
My son is bouncing on his bed, because
it is new bought, because
he does not want to bathe, because
he wants to show me he is not the dog
that passed away St. Patty’s night five years ago.
His voices for penitence, anger, revolt
surrender to ghosts that never expunge
the wars and disasters from cable news.
I remember Samoyeds squirm constantly
but most dogs accept the bath as part
of the normal cycle of canine life.
I’ve coerced him into the tub.
The instructions also advise to drag.
Dog living. My boy slips under the suds,
his hair like the bygone sailor’s,
guileless siren to himself.
When eyes sting he’ll let me know
while I remember walking him, the lift
of the leg and daydreams through magnolias
to the insight that it was that moment
we’d spend our late years aping. I was
doomed to early death the night he dropped
to the pavement, licked his cancerous paw
and sighed, remembering then to ask myself
Am I watching him die?, my son
rolling on the carpet now. Playing with blocks
and trucks is so much harder than you think
once the rest is long behind you, once
compared to tasks with clear-cut steps.
When the fur feels free of soap, remove
your samoyed. He will probably jump out gladly.
My son is bouncing in front of clouds
of deadly steam from containment walls
and revolutionists leaking blood.
Samoyeds readily show disdain.
I am silent. It is 3 p. m. and I want to sleep
through his first dog and the rest of his youth.
He lays his head on my chest and asks,
kicking me in a stretch for the remote,Daddy, now can we watch my show?