Hand-Me-Downs

Selected Poems From A Collection

HAND-ME-DOWNS

I'm made of hand-me-downs

Bloody-knuckled lessons

Quick glances of pure love

Stripped-out lug bolts

Fallen hickory leaves

And grease-stained leather gloves

I'm made of mom and dad

Their births and deaths

Every moment in my lineage that was

Those hopes and dreams

Rest in faith-marrowed bones

As crude instincts in my twisted guts

I am Jack Daniels shots

I am kisses kind

I am rosebush roots

Bound up in binder twine

I am made of memories

Things hopelessly forgotten

Weightless August clouds

And sulfur silt at shitcreek bottom

Hand-me-downs

Some pieces lightly used

Some pieces wholly rotten

Some parts razor sharp

Some parts dull and blunted dumb

I don't know who put me all together

I don’t know why or how

But I do know what I’ve been made from

meetcute.

He looked up from the winged creature

Dissolving in his lager’s foam

To see another at the far end of the bar

Eyes puffy

From two hours of shedding tears

Her face lit tenderly by red and blue neon

Seventeen going-on-old-enough

Drinking Black Velvet neat

Three fingers at a time

He watched her finish three

The fourth gave him courage to say hello

Walked up to the broken beauty

Ordered her number five

He spoke casually, “Name’s Chuck.”

“Get fucked, Chuck.” She snapped back

He smiled

She did not

He took her drink

Shot it down in one gulp

Lit a cigarette

Smiled again

Offered her one

She took it

He lit it

Then she leered through the smoke

And that is how my father met my mother

Father’s Day, 1993

the first piss i took

that i recall

i stood there beside him

barefoot on the back porch

dusk falling, mid-June

my little pecker blowing in the wind

i remember him laughing

his crooked, gap-toothed, wide grin

i stood there unsure

what to do at the end

til he said softly, “son...”

“...you ain’t a baby..”

“...that ain’t no rattle..”

“..quit shakin’ it kid.”

kin.

i write poetry.

i hum sad songs

not by choice.

hell, i’d rather just keep walkin’.

i endure the pain.

i scratch my flaws.

i’m forced

to hear a voice ramble on

inside my skull

he just keeps talkin’.

i don’t know my left

from right

or wrong.

blurred lines intersect

horns honkin’.

but i know i’m not by myself.

i know out there

i have long, lost kin.

A Million Lives

I’ve imagined a million lives

I could’ve lived

All the things I should’ve been

and could’ve seen

and would’ve done

But I’ve finally learned to tear out and give

My heart to this...

To you…

My only one

Past Time

where i come from is gone

i cannot travel back this road of time

cannot undo death

cannot give back what was handed

cannot unfall the leaves

cannot unset the sun

i can only look back

and i cannot see much

just a hazy, curved horizon

and fading memories

from the million miles i’ve run

where i come from is gone

that place i never belonged

so no more looking back

it’s past time to move on

Just a child.

I am just a child

of the wise and the poor

of crooked builders and straight thinkers

the son of lost poets

with thinned blood from

the drunkest of drinkers

I am just a child

of dirt miners and dreamers

of godless preachers and schemers

of restless stayers

and broken-willed leavers

just a child

of lovers and grievers

deaf students; mute teachers

just a child

of silver-tongued liars

and bare-knuckled fighters

and the truest oath-keepers

just a child

the son of beautifully winged angels

and the grimmest, scythe wielding reapers

Hidden Words

I am a seed

who fell

from the garden of Whitman

I am the coo

of the dove

to whom Mary Oliver listened

I am the blood

on the boots

that Sandburg once witnessed

I am the sweat

on the brow

of Thoreau’s disobedient grimace

I am each poem

that has ever been written

I am each broken word

that’s still hidden within us

Will you help shed a light;

Illuminate the lost in the dimness?

Better, Older Days Ahead.

Folks talk fondly

of the good ol’ days.

A miserable tone in their voices.

Confessing defeat

to their present failure.

Admitting doubt

to their sadly written futures.

I think fondly of the good ol’ days, too.

But, I do not convince myself...

...that they are...

...or will be...

...the best days of my life.

I leave open the chance

that today could be better

and tomorrow better yet.