Two Boys
Two boys in red shirts
Each holding a branch
From a windstorm
Torn from the tree
With deep roots
Taking turns
Whack a stone wall
Primitive rhythm
In the tune
Of earth, wind and sky
In my small house
Windows dull the sound
No longer privy
To the talk of boys
And games they play
Oh my world has changed
Far from the tree
The roots and rhythm
I once knew
Oh how my song has changed
Paradiddles and rolls
Too complex for my hands
10,000 hours
To practice and learn
What I once had known
Family Plot
My cousin pointed
No snow on their graves
Others covered in brittle crust
From last night’s sleet,
Soft powder underneath
As my grandson squatted
By your headstone
I thought the sun graced you
More than others laid to rest
My diminutive history buff
Came to see great grandpa
War vet who lost a leg
His wife, forever by his side
Purple Hearts and monuments
Carry weight in a 9-year-old mind
While my cousin toured and spoke
Of each loved one below the crust
The uncle I never met,
Dead at sixteen, burst appendix
Another uncle, my favorite
And his cantankerous wife
Their gathered moss headstone
Fostered a flurry of sweet sadness
Even though for years
I said they were not there
More life in stories
Told by my cousin
The educator from Sacred Heart
We left for lunch
Warm diner with pancake specials
Three generations speaking,
Filling empty stomachs
As well as the fourth
DNA linked
Below the crust of skin
All the while
Our Sacred Heart orator
Told stories in soft undertones
Light and lively
As the new gathering snow
That swirled and dashed
With each passing car
No need to rush
The roads are still warm
Plenty of time
To get our fill
Before going home
At the Gate
The family waited
As passengers streamed from security
Three children of descending size
Two small girls in pink floral dresses,
A thin, tall boy with sleepy eyes
Each holding a bouquet
A few feet away by the information booth
The rest of the family, women young and old
Holding more flowers in pretty dresses
Not a hair out of place
The men in polished cowboy boots
Bolo ties, shirts starched without a wrinkle
My grandson and I waited for his mama
She was snowed in for two days
In Alabama of all places
Had to drive three hours to catch
One of four flights out of New Orleans
Worst snowstorm since 1888
My grandson was his scruffy self
A mass hair on his head
Like a pile of dirty laundry
Bouncing about in Spiderman crocs
With a small rubber airplane
The elder boy in line
Offered him an airline flight pin
He was older, not needing it
He rejoined his siblings
The family was waiting when we got there
I overheard snippets of Spanish
Some words I had picked up living here
I wondered who they were waiting for
Who they loved and respected so much
My daughter messaged me
She was off her plane
We wedged between the youth and elders
My grandson excited
When she appeared
My grandson leapt to hug her
Both cried
The longest they had been apart
I teared as well
Group hugs cause that
Her hair was disheveled
In comfortable clothes
I thought
I should have bought flowers
We headed for the elevator
Leaving the patient family
Dressed as if they were attending church
In the cathedral of comings and goings
In the holy spirit of la familia
In a country of nonbelievers
for Victor
Strangers to Paradise
Dead winter day
Sun never had a chance
Sky thick as newly mixed cement
Covered like theater curtains
Nothing to do
Tired of drinking and bowling alleys
The three went to a movie
At the ticket booth the pimple erupting boy
Cautioned the furnace was down: no heat
They paid for tickets anyway
The only ones in the theater
Saw Stranger Than Paradise
Jim Jarmusch black and white
Popcorn machine down
So they split Junior mints
Huddled mid theater
Winter coats zipped to necks
Stayed until the closing credits
Drove back to the lake cottage,
Stoked the wood stove
Nothing to do but drink beer
Wait for some warmth
A winter the three
Would rather soon forget
Cold and baron
Except for bowling, beer,
Films without heat
Two made love
Convenient friction
One wrote stories
Necessary fiction
Many years later
The plot lines would be lost
Too much black and white does that
The lovers succumbed to alcohol
The story writer
Sits and tries to remember
The moment innocence sought cover
While reality hunched in tall grass
Waiting for the wind to blow
To track the scent of trust
The survivor exists
Somewhere behind the eyeballs
A waif crouched
To catch a source of light
Before sunset
Before the credit roll
Before the curtains close