Tag Archives: tribute

My Heart is Done

The porcelain death pallor of my own skin frightens me
Despite my sudden feelings of wanton immortality

I had been brought to the fire so I danced amongst the embers
I ripped the stars out of the night sky cutting my fingers on the coronas
The blood running down my arms and gathering at my feet

My old beating heart still hangs heavy behind my brittle ribcage
Heavy and dense and of no use to me now – my heart is done

The prettiest girl in Villa Park wears a red velvet skirt

The prettiest girl in Villa Park wears a red velvet skirt
She lives with the ghost of Elvis or maybe Cliff Richards
At a booth in the back of the Five Star Swap Meet selling music
The ghost glowers at customers from his fake leather chair
The king in his burgundy burlap suit and threadbare wig
The prettiest girl in Villa Park loves to pose for pictures
Next to white boys with roaming hands and crooked smiles
Her smile lights up their desperate booth with its meager inventory
No one seems interested in the outdated music they are peddling
All the men are interested in is the prettiest girl in Villa Park

In Monroe, Wisconsin

For J.P.

You were the best of us
Even when we were at our best
In that big drafty room
Wearing clothes owned by other people
The love – big love – poured all over us
When you opened the door that morning
We let it wash our souls like Lake Michigan water
You were generous and brave and honest

Later you raged against injustice
You lifted the heaviest of loads
You were the best of us
Only you knew how good we could be
And you never let us forget

I Celebrate Your Life (a sketch)

It’s summer days like these that I miss you most, Sweet Sister
When the radio seems to be playing all the right songs
When the sun warms me but doesn’t burn me
That I most often think of you and the life we had at home

Sweet Sister – we never knew what we were missing
We had our own universe there in that place that was built on love
Looking back we learned it was somewhat fractured but no less brilliant

The day when you shocked that lily white world
In your pristine white gown and over-sprayed brown hair
You laid that crown on the virgin’s metaphorical head

The night we sat at the old picnic table and drank cheap wine
We talked about nothing all night long until we heard the birds
The sun came up over my right shoulder and hurt your eyes

There were people who thought better of me than of you
Their minds were small and their vision was blurred

You became more like the old man than I was – despite what they said
You became more like the old man than I was – despite how we were raised
You became more like the old man than I was – despite how easy it was for me

Then came that box of building supplies and we built bridges not walls
You always asked for empirical – all I had to offer was anecdotal

It’s summer days like these that I miss you most, Sweet Sister

I celebrate your life
I mourn your passing
Mostly I just miss you

The Old Post Office; Door County; October 2017

It was the faded wall paper that brought him back to me
It was the cheery cherry wall paper that brought me back to him
It was that first glance thought the pristine picture window of the old post office
That brought me back to the man I aspired to be
We ended up there on accident – as was our wont back then
I ended up here today by accident – as is my wont these days
I don’t know if I have lived up to what he expected of me
I do know I still have time to navigate the course and make him proud of me

In Kenosha

She has played piano here for a hundred years
Her bony fingers tripping lightly over the keys
Her clarion voice warbling songs of praise or sorrow

She is a slave to her own muscle memory these days
She says that it’s better than a slave to her practical memory

She has introduced the congregation to generations of babies
She has buried friends and loved ones and strangers
She will surely play here for another hundred years

At Scott Powell‘s Desk

The slow moving plane flying over our heads
Underscores the reason we are all assembled here
Sitting at Scott Powell’s desk
The Pentagon cop shuffles back and forth
The kids glide about gracefully – mostly quiet
Some of the kids aren’t very quiet
That’s the nature of kids.
The Pentagon cop is there to keep the peace
He needs more than that bottle of water to keep his cool
The gravel we walk on is all that is left of the building
The gravel that we walk on is all that is left of Scott Powell’s desk
The gravel that we walk on is all that is left

The gravel gets stuck in our shoes
The shoes of the serious adults
The shoes of the curious kids

The day is perfect here at Scott Powell’s desk
The sun is warm like real love
The breeze is crisp like October

The affect is hypnotic
The affect is transcending
The affect is bittersweet

The trees struggle to keep their color
They struggle for their lives
They struggle to survive for the 184 who lost their lives here

Scott Powell’s desk is weathered and worn like me
Worn like these kids far from the safety of home
Worn like the Pentagon cop and his jaunty shuffle
On this perfect autumn Day

10/10/2015
Pentagon memorial
Washington D.C.