Dad Wore Hats
June 15, 2008
Not when he should have.
On a cold bright day
he would call out
where is your hat?
while the wind played
in his hair.
Nor the way he should have.
It was always
crunched atop his head
by a nephew or daughter
running around our backyard
at a picnic.
Nor what he should have.
Into the dewy night
the adults would sing
heads touching in harmony
dad smoking a Chesterfield
wearing a bonnet.
hammer, screwdriver, matches
June 16, 2007
Dad was often a car
or washing machine
with arms –
to which I handed
a tool,
or a pack of smokes.
Upon Discovering a Tyrant (in revision)
June 5, 2007
atop wooden consoles
we pulled in whatever
was out there
footage of tanks
in hopeless mud
cannons flashing
through the night
our rugged life,
at the television
we would stare
zeros twisting
down in flames
der fuhrer pounding
with indignant might
in truculent german
to adoring masses
who would cheer
as he screamed
we versus them
follow the dream
the deutsches reich
I would wonder
what is he saying?
why is he so angry?
why are people
cheering
goose stepping
haling heiling
singing crying
like fools
smiling?
(just as a non
anglophone might think
when first hearing Limbaugh)
pretzel arm
February 21, 2007
I am one of those people who love to sweat. Whether running full stride on a warm evening or playing pick-up basketball in the steamy sun, it all seems very cleansing to me.
When I was young, I remember playing with friends, cousins, and siblings long after dark. We would play hide and seek, flashlight tag, and spy. Dirt rings formed around our necks and became badges of festive accomplishment – Doctor of Fun. We went indoors only when enticed by ice cream or threatened with the loss of privilege.
Upon entering the house, a ghostly light in the living room would reveal a gaggle of younger children already lying on the floor facing the television. Their bowls of ice cream sat protected in front of each of them. Quickly we’d run into the kitchen for our share and then peck our way onto the rug which had now become a beach.
As my body cooled, salt formed on the skin. I could lick my forearm like a big pretzel. It seemed a shame to take a bath and wash it all off.
dad wore hats
August 30, 2006
not when he should have
on a cold bright day
he would yell to us
where is your hat?
while the wind played
in his hair.
nor the way he should have
it was always
crunched atop his head
by a nephew or daughter
running around our backyard
at a picnic.
nor what he should have
into the dewy night
the adults would sing
heads touching in harmony
dad smoking a Chesterfield
wearing a bonnet.
qazse 