a birth story

These are the stories that are told. 
Stories of pain and moaning,
grasping and bleeding, fear and
jubilant relief. These are good stories.
A currency to be traded in kind.

But they are not mine.

I could hear you coming for days.  
Winston, you gregarious fat man.
Your piquant smile a knife.
Stone-of-Joy standing 
jauntily upon the world's
last island. wielding pen and 
voice at the black dragon, its mouth 
full of fear and ashes.

I could see you for hours.
Leander, Swimming your Hellespont,
and as your face appeared 
it was blue as the waves, 
and your eyes darker still
for Medusa's blood filled snakes 
were wrapped round and round your neck.
Lion-Heart you clawed away the snakes and 
swam on to your Hero and her alabaster towers.

I could smell you in the air
and taste you on my lips
Waits, Watch-man.  
You back alley balladeer.
Croaking, bleating, beating the drum
of the every day miracles midst 
every day's unique misery.
Your eyes open and your mouth 
an organ of soul
You smelled of shit, blood, sweat,
and truth, 
and then you opened your 
mouth and sang it all again, and I 
believed every note.

I took you in my arms and called you
Herbert.  My own.  Blood and sweat
of my blood and sweat.  My blood flowing 
in you and yours in me forwards
and backwards through all time.
Forever Herbert. Forever my son.

an onion

fragments
from layers
of an onion
piled on the counter-top
you with your knife
and your tears.
i focus intently
on the curve of your
spine and how it reacts
as i sputter and whine
in curt response
to sour accusations
like the knife's edge.
the pungent air
has less to do now
with the onion,
our exchanges heavy
on our faces
as we turn to
more urgent affairs,
the smell of our fears
sharp and poignant.

dress up

rummaging through my shirts
at an even pace
my closet wide and tidy
ordered like the stages of the
stratosphere or
a Sunday morning sermon.

they are each there on display
blue and grey and
black and brownish
red or white or striped and clean
all to mask my affections
all to redress the pale flesh
and course hair beneath.

i have sweaters for
cold days like this one,
and playful ties and
stout belts and even
fresh pressed slacks.
they envelop my body like
the pea green afghan
grandmother knitted me
during the Advent
while she was waiting for
the scotch pine to arrive
to dress up her ever reaching arms,
and those Salvation Army ringers
with their constant clank of the asking,
and Grandfather to come home
from his work on the road
to make sugar cookies and even better.

i rummage through my closets
at an even pace
looking for the right styles to wear
choosing again with my eyes shut tight
like a sailor at the
blackjack table or
a Sunday morning prayer.

colored tissue paper

We are secular and lonesome,
Poem.
Our portions plastered
tightly,
adorned with
colored tissue paper
clutching to
this shape of our languid pinata
dangling now
in the fear of celebrations and
unbroken.
All the treasure
wrapped and trapped
inside.

baby faces

you are wild and new
baby faces
ever shifting as
the spring tides
changeable as
a Minnesota sky
what dare you
to think
in your wordless phrases
behind those wandering
eyes?
your face brings
hope as a new day
your faces bring
breath for a song.

you are vivid and soft
baby faces
unchanging as
a river's flow
unmoved as
a standing stone
what dare you
to utter
in your speechless way
outside of the realm of my
perceptions?
your face brings
joy to ease longings
your faces bring
agape for my soul.

(for Ingrid Katarina Joy)

Out From Bree: Part One

Since J.R.R. Tolkien intended for the lore and history of Middle Earth to continue beyond his own works, I have decided to step into the world he so thoroughly described and tell a tale of my own. 

Enjoy!

Out From Bree
The Tale of the Brothers Hamel & Bernus

Part One

It had been a long while, quite long, since the town of Bree had bustled with visitors. Not since the roaming dwarves had deserted the Hills of Evendium to the north (as it turned out they did not possess any such treasure as dwarves would deem worthy of their effort). And not since tales had spread like cobwebs over Middle Earth of the curious goings on in the Old Forest on the town’s western edge. And, of course, very few, fewer each year in fact, were coming and going from the Shire beyond the Old Forest.

The town of Bree had its purpose, and all long-term residents within its walls knew it well and were proud to serve it. Travelers would enter at one end of town weary, hungry, tired and in need of provisions, and would leave out the other end satisfied, rested, and a little fatter for the next leg of their journey. But too few now were found to be enjoying Bree’s hospitality. Yes, without the welcomed traffic of passers-through, life had slowed much in Bree. This dainty trickle of travelers had the town’s folk feeling much like an old dog waiting through long days on the porch for its master, watching for any sign of movement off down the road, and unsure of how it ought to busy itself in the meanwhile.

This week, however, was the last week of June, and even in slow times all of Bree knew that July was a month of promise. First there were, naturally, the varied summer travelers, summer being the gentlest time of year to make one’s way across the fair places of Middle Earth. Rangers, too, seemed to be especially on the move in the summer months, and while they weren’t any too social, they did require room and board while passing through.

Then there were the small groups of young men making their pilgrimage north out of the smaller outlying villages of Gondor. As was still the custom in some of the more “traditional” villages, it was a rite of passage for a tween to make his own journey north to the old fortress of Fornost to pay homage to the long-lost capital of Men, which lie one hundred Numenorean miles north of Bree.

And finally, there were those remaining friends and kindred kin of hobbits who would still make their way along to the Shire each year to celebrate Midsummer’s Day. It was this crowd which seemed to brighten Bree beyond any other. Perhaps their cheer was owed to the anticipation of a grand hobbit party, for to those who knew of hobbits (much of the world in those days was still ignorant of their existence) no greater celebration could be had than that which was hosted by the Shirefolk.

Aside from their gardens, hobbits have long prided themselves on their merry gatherings. The halflings’ masterfully brewed ale was never in short supply. Their food was so plentiful that it seemed their bowls were without bottoms. Then there were the presents, which were passed around more freely than ever would be found at a party of men, or certainly of dwarves. And the pipe weed! Well, the pipe weed was shared and shared alike by all who could pack a pipe (and by any who could not, for that matter!)

It was just such a party that, in the year 2897 of the Third Age, brought a wizard through the gates of Bree.

cardstock

Peacelovehopejoy arrived early for the holidays,
on the wings of a cold white envelope
sent regular mail for four dimes and six not quite copper pennies.
I turn to thank the good Lord for these fellowships,
the force of a life's work surmised on card stock.
And as I turn, I angle just right...
and I miss the air... and I hit a wall.
But I will thank Him nonetheless,
for faithcouragekindness and a second chance.