Frozen
Can’t you feel the cold magic?
Bitter air, but bundled up
in puffer coats and chunky boots,
clasping hot drinks with icy hands,
pulling off gloves to feel the heat on our fingers,
or to pick at roasted chestnuts,
unwinding scarves from our necks as we enter cafes,
disassembling and reassembling on repeat, store to store,
the sharp trajectory of everyone’s travel,
no dilly-dallying, no sauntering, no stopping for selfies,
we have places to be, coffee to acquire, trains to catch,
and we share in this frigid, collective experience,
and we love it.
The crisp clatter of our winter city,
simultaneously so uninviting
and yet never feeling more like belonging to us;
it is our resilient, steely tool,
somehow at its most festive when frozen.
~ New York City
Materialized
I’m surrounded by fabrics;
a mattress cover for my daughter’s crib,
draped and drying, its elastic bunching
the soft pink creases into theatre curtains,
her sleep sack alongside, fully unzipped
like a butterflied filet of chicken,
fluffy white beds on each level of the cat tree,
a silky thermal blanket nested on one,
cotton diapers tightly packed
and ready for our upcoming trip,
baskets of clean, folded clothes to follow suit,
a half-donut nursing pillow
on the floor beside the throw pillows,
beside the bed from where they’re thrown every night,
these spa-grade sheets,
the decorative, tasseled blanket at my feet,
the quilted pillowcase propped behind my back,
and the buttery sleep shorts against my skin.
There are more fabrics to speak of
in this pile-up of a pre-trip transitional state,
but it’s not messy or overwhelming,
it adorns every corner of space and renders them cosy;
lived-in, personal, in tousled relaxation.
I could reach out in any direction
and wrap around me
our very life; materialized.
We’re all winners
Does everybody feel they won?
As if secretly knowing they got the best,
despite objective evidence or quirks to the contrary,
this combination of characteristics remains unbeatable;
far better than you could have ever imagined,
far more intricately-unique than you could have ever conceived.
These eyes,
those laughs,
that smile,
this love.
In every space I’ll carve your name
I do not mourn for yesterday’s version of you
(it is not lost, it’s in my soul);
every day grown is another engraving,
and every day to come I bare an open face
so you can etch upon me your uniqueness.
I do not mourn how you’ve already grown,
I fear the idea of missing out on your marking,
not being present for your latest impressions,
or the day I run out of empty plates.
What I write of you today
October 31, 2024
What I write of you today
may not be there come tomorrow…
November 1, 2024
and when the morning came, you couldn’t leave your bed,
no strength to even lift your head
so whatever I may have written
feels far too late to act upon.
You were our permanent little kitten,
but now those words (and you) are gone.
Companion to your eulogy
I dim the lights when evening nears
to quieten the busy air,
and settle in till all is clear
of dust; like death we’ve come to wear.
Recuperating in the dark -
if only this would do the trick
for you, to reignite your spark
(for some of what you eat to stick).
It must have been so bright and loud
(we tried everything in hope to heal),
but we were always wowed and proud
of your resilience and zeal.
And here you are, curled in my lap,
a blanket draped across my knees,
another poem in your cap;
companion to your eulogies.
It’s quiet now. Each breath we share
helps settle us of any fears,
of dust-to-dust; this cross we’ll bear,
and dim the lights when evening nears.
RIP to Nyx, our permanent kitten (November 1, 2024)
Is it time?
When there are no more better days,
it’s time that we part ways.
Tougher times can be endured,
but they’re fueled by joy, which slowly fades
when there are no more better days.
Each intervention, we felt assured,
pursued every avenue so they wouldn’t say
it’s time that we part ways.
It’s hard to observe a slow decline,
but there’s little left of this rose-tinted haze
when there are no more better days.
This isn’t the recovery that we designed.
When the pain is no longer a temporary phase,
it’s time that we part ways.
For every tender moment more,
there’s a price your body pays.
When there are no more better days,
it’s time that we part ways.
—
Our poor little Nyxie, really going through it.
Show up
Colliding with the grass, at last
I know that I’m in the game!
With every fast and cross-field pass,
we stake a dominant claim,
and of course we were forced to dig deep and source
an elevated style of play;
a man down, but still found net-busters abound.
Four-to-nothing. When we show up, we slay!
Atom
The moments fold upon themselves,
collapsing days into dime-sized squares,
tucked into pockets with all the loose change
that once resembled valuable hours;
even those that dragged and would not end,
can’t escape the gravity of the hungry night.
Black holes mark the exit of every day;
my whole life but the width of an atom.
I hesitate to say I’m cured
I hesitate to say I’m cured…
but what little hold of vice remains
in moments that are normally endured
only by pandering to my virtue’s disdains.
Am I too busy? Too tired, or content
to engage with all I used to desire?
Is this what they call ‘duty’? Or will I come to resent
letting the heat finally die from my fire?
In caring, in loving, in the learning of you,
there’s simply no room for transgression.
All the bottles are stoppered, and my heart feels renewed,
leaning in to this healthy obsession.
Nine Lives
It was nice to wear a flannel shirt,
and appreciate the rain,
in homage to a man who loved the outdoors;
from far and wide we came.
The summer before my daughter was born,
I’d leapt from my chair to the stairs
to help the bike rider, the kayaker, the hunter,
who’d faltered halfway and despaired,
“Here’s a tip,” he said, “never get old.”
Recalling each of his cat-like nine lives.
Now gathering with grandchildren he’ll not get to hold,
we share stories so his memory survives.
Forecast
I used to cling to every hour,
squeeze every drop from every day,
resisting sleep with all my power,
as if it held the sun at bay;
as if to stave off my decay.
Believing sleep a waste of time,
I searched the nights for lights within.
Where now I take to bed and prime
my lines for days I crave begin;
I lean on back, and draw them in.
Time will pass
Get it done, or put it off,
try it out, or shy away,
pursue a dream, or watch TV,
regardlessly,
time will pass.
Recognize, or disregard,
brush it off, or shake with fear,
you can pay it no attention,
or give it every time of day,
it does not matter
what you do or do not do,
it does not matter
if you care or do not care,
so you may as well do something
cos this life ain’t built to last,
and the only thing we know of it is
time will pass.
Time will pass.
to the brim
Everything hurts a little more.
Movies and TV shows depicting harm to children
have become unbearable;
that suffering superimposes on the image of my own child, now,
and I long to run upstairs and rouse her from sleep,
my eyes wide open and ready like deep, empty wells,
ready to have every second of every experience with her poured into them;
and perhaps that’s why I keep crying,
because I am constantly full-to-the-brim and overflowing
with ‘you’.
The long thread
The long thread
must continue in the background.
Your underlying endeavors
silently achieving,
even as your family duties take center-stage
(as well they should),
but all the while, your projects progress;
the long thread pulls,
it draws success.
Not present
I feel like a ghost.
When you’re sick,
everyone says they don’t blame you,
but it cannot relieve the heavy burden -
the viral load -
that inescapably weighs upon you -
within you.
I can be present,
but I can’t get too close,
I can’t hold my baby or kiss my wife,
I daren’t even open my mouth to speak
for risk of sharing more than words.
So I am mute, out-of-reach, untouchable,
unable to support my family,
unwilling to cheer up or smile, as requested,
for I am a ghost.
I am good only for haunting.
What does creativity mean to you?
Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks, and diner napkins.
The greatest effect that creativity has on my life is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing, or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks and leaving scars on my face (and grey hairs on my head).
Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve, than for what it helps provide.
Shattered
In reaction to reading ‘The Glass and the Bowl’ by Louise Edrich in a poetry book Ashley had gifted me.
—
You made me cry on my birthday,
and really, it was the best gift.
That kind of cry where you hold your breath
because you just know the moment you open your mouth
more unfiltered emotion will escape from your eyes
and rock your words.
It hit me a little. Then it hit me a lot.
And I kept re-reading the poem
to see if it would lessen, or if I could better come to terms with it,
but I could not overlook its subtle power;
the way it reduced me to uncontrollable tears,
I know it’s because underneath all the desperate levels of sadness
there is an infinite well of love that will never, ever dry up.
And so these tears will never, ever dry up.
I went to sit with you during her midnight feed,
to see if that might settle me.
Then her tiny hands wrapped around my finger,
and I lost it all over again.
I remember on Sundays
I remember on Sundays -
one of the few days he could have to himself -
without fail we'd drive down to Rowland's Castle
for surely another pulled muscle or skewed finish,
in the bitter-cold or utter downpours;
I'd always arrive with the discipline of polished boots,
and always leave with them caked in mud,
clapped together at the boot of the beamer,
before roaring home through country lanes,
Guns N' Roses blaring,
whereupon arriving home I'd clean my boots again,
and listen to the kerching of a Radio 5 Live gameshow
as he spent the next few hours preparing a feast,
then we'd all sit at the table, elbows off, backs straight,
and I'd ding my knife on the crispy roast potatoes
(to test the integrity of their crispiness),
and refuel my growing body
with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.
I'm learning now that these weren't sacrifices;
these many things he'd do for us.
They were the things that made him happy.