cameras

a cheap boxed gift
pre-packaged in shiny primary colors of childhood
containing a plastic black camera
and a book on "how-to"
so thrilled to match up scenes from real life
with staged book examples
size 12 shoes
racing around my backyard
trying to capture trick shots
and action
sunlight streaming through the lens
fingers twisting an empty camera
waiting to get prints back
lines of negatives

another camera
a hand-me-down
long black
kodak
and film that can't be bought in stores
it took my favorite snapshot
autumn and maple leaves
three colors
red, green, and orange
loosely hanging from my climbing tree
hands and feet winding up
scurrying up
scuffed elbows and glasses that slide down my nose
the camera anchored by the wrist strap
a moment saved
developed on 4x3

today
still crunching through leaves
eying up climbing tress
a new camera in my pocket

A call for action

I'm going to rally against the street people,
the ones who take a buzz saw
to towering (if leaning) trees.

A limb for a limb, I'd say.

Fighting
against parking tickets
against strict assignments
against those trying to take me out of the pulpit.

I'm going to wave beauty in your face.

Yellow octaves,
and trash that just might be art.

I'm going to drag you into deep alleys,
and show you the pristine magic of streetlights.
Curves and shades.

The power that's in a single, trembling leaf.
How life draining from something can make it seem alive.

Life in tension.

Can't you hear the music?
Flooding through your headphones, your speakers,
the floor,
your skin.

The music might not be a march, but it's marching.
It's a tango.
It's a waltz.
It's a foxtrot.

Each step sending shivers from toes to nose,
Pulling you in.

Raising high a sign,
Protesting the rights of all, the trees.

Praying for deliverance,
in the midst of dancing and tyranny
from those street people.

creek

old bleach containers
mobile homes
for tiny crayfish

we creep along the water's edge
peering under the reflections of sunlight
poised to snatch

creatures from mud

sonatas

four hands
and Beethoven

first we played on the piano in the basement
the musty vent directly overhead
a piano that should play on its own

it didn't seem so bad
laughter muffled the out-of-tune octaves

the sound traveled up the stairs
throughout the house
notes strung together

hands weaving in and out

Chores

I'm taking laundry out
Stuffing it in a garbage bag
Warmth all bundled together

Absentmindedly pulling apart lint
Already dragging my clothes and myself
Down the hall

Warm jeans
Folded into drawers
The blinds are half-closed

Pulling the closet open
A steady accumulation of dresses
To match the ever-increasing row of heels

The stacks of books in the corner
Need no sweaters
Clean pages, ready to be underlined

Wandering back up the hall
Abandoning my true loves
For a box of forgotten dryer sheets

Time, and the freedom from it.

I.
I can schedule you during this point in the day
From A to B.
That's it.

No more, no less.
I regret to inform you, that I must decline.

Isn't this how it feels?
Tiny little entrapments.

Even the blank spaces have lines running through them
Dividing and subdividing.

If it's empty, I must put something in it.

II.
More than things, and spaces
Abstract, meaningless(ful)

Moments instead of seconds.
Sighs too deep for words can't be categorized,
Deadlines don't actually mean death.

Maybe it's climbing trees,
or the sunlight sneakily poking through.
Taking a break, and really meaning it.

Yes, really meaning it.
Not thinking of what's next.

Which makes accomplishment satisfaction,
Instead of a check mark.
Because these are the moments I'm good at,

The words I can put together.
The experiences I can share.

It has something to do with friendship.
You can't fit that in a calendar square.

library

once
an afternoon in the library
(something feels at home in the library)
blinds drawn down
twisted open
to let in the travels of the sun
trees rustling anxiously outside
I sit in blocky furniture
so library
garish oranges and bright yellows
at least like the libraries
back home
trapped in a faded decade
books trapping the same past
deep within the binding
carefully selected
and stacked in the
corner of my cubicle
paging through academic magazines
that I read over the summer for fun
still now
I can't shake that feeling
this shouldn't be learning
and research
opening pages
this feels like
visiting an old friend or
returning home
to find mom has put the kettle on
for a mug of hot chocolate
the deep rooted feeling
of leaves falling
a blanket
and a good book