This Kink in my Neck

I’ve got this kink in my neck,

try as I might I just can’t shake it.

I’ve got this knot in my back,

for whatever reason it won’t loosen up.

I tried to figure out why, then I remembered last night…

or was it this morning?

As I laid with our daughter,

to escort her off to sweet dreams,

she decided she wanted mom,

she didn’t want me.

She says that most nights, but this time…

I just scrunched myself up on the edge of her bed.

You know, when you use your shoulder as a pillow for your head.

If I was far enough away she decided she didn’t mind.

I woke up freezing cold, drool in my beard, and a kink in my neck.

I had drifted off (she wouldn’t share any covers).

…

Before Oz fell asleep he asked me to lay with him after his sister was asleep.

The funny thing was, I was laying with him when he told me this.

I told him, anything for you little man, your wish..

He was out in no time, I moved over to Viv’s bed.

That was where I picked up this soreness in my head.

…

After my wife woke me up (10 p.m.),

I wiped the drool, cracked my neck.

Oz was out, he won’t notice me stepping out without returning his way…

…

Fast forward to 1 a.m.

I hear this little voice, dad you didn’t lay with me….

Sorry champ, let’s go..

This time it was a different edge of a different bed,

a combination of elbow and shoulder supporting my head.

…

Morning came in a most unfamiliar way.

Where am I, what time is it?

Oh, I’m with Oz.

It’s 6 a.m.

I hope my wife didn’t mind the alarm for 5.

I try to move and the going is slow.

I’m not sure if it’s the way I slept,

or my age that starting to show.

My body is a wreck,

a stabbing pain in my back,

a dislocated neck…

I’m a mess.

…

My heart is full, my family is beautiful, every moment an adventure.

I am the luckiest man alive, I must confess..

Only Her

 

As I walked in from putting out the garbage this morning, I couldn’t help but stop and behold.  The eastern sky was on fire with a combination of pink and purple embers, stretching brilliantly into the morning.  It was the kind of sunrise you would see on the beach if you were so lucky, it was a beautiful sight.

Later as I was standing in the kitchen our daughter let out a heavy sigh as she slumped her back and shoulders. 

It was the kind of body language a child gives when they aren’t getting something they want, when they are disappointed.

My wife and I asked our daughter what was wrong.

She said she was sad that the pink and purple in the sky was gone.

I quickly inspected her back, try as I might I couldn’t find her wings, but..

I swear she is an angel.

Who is that innocent, that beautiful?

Besides her mother, only her.

 

Shake The Dust

This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.
This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.
This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.
This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters. Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,
for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,
for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,
for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god. Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,
for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,
for the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,
for the girl who loves somebody else. Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that it won’t come.
For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.
For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.
Do not let a moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,
for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers’ singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who’ll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,
this is for the sexists,
this is for the killers.
This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.
Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.
Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.
All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.
So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.
Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.
Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.