Stupid Raven

I know that my Redeemer lives

Be that as it may,

There's still this

Irritating

Black bird

Rapping on my chamber door

Incessantly reminding me

Of my loss

Grief is like an earthquake

At least mine has been

I knew it was likely to come

I thoughti'd prepared

Yet when it arrived I was still 

Shocked & overwhelmed

What's worse

Are the aftershocks

Never knowing when they'll come

Or how frequently

Or how hard each will be

Or how long they'll each last

I know you're better off

And in our Savior's arms

But you're not in my arms anymore

And I'm not in yours

I'm supposed to beon your shoulders 

In the sun

Or slung over your shoulder

Asleep, too tired& too young

Depending on your stamina and strength land patience

But this fucking raven keeps visiting me

In my chamber

"No more, never more!"

Shut up

Stupid bird

Stupid melancholy

Stupid pain

Let me go

Rain, rain, go away

Comeback again some other day

Maybe someday when it's easier to ignore you,

Work through you

See past you

Today, you're all I know

Tweet

I can't help thinking

What a kick

My grandmother

Would get

Out of

The pair of cardinals

In our young mock pair tree

Outside our kitchen window

Now

Is this a poem,

Just an observation,

Or a tweet?

Written on a plane on the inside jacket of a paperback on the way home

no words

no images

nothing
 works well enough
there's not even
 much comfort
 in the familiar
cold comfort
 when there is

heaviness

ache

 sleep is
  no escape
when what little sleep
   actually comes

better to just
 keep moving
  slowly,
  achingly
trudging on

what else is there to do?
what else is there?
what else?
what?

On the coldest night of the year

Your window rattled

the storm window being blown between the frame and the real window

but mine did not

The pages shuffled as I turned them in my book

but yours did not

The wind chime outside our neighbors back door made a little noise

but the owl in our tree, that most nights hoots and hoots

did not

Every once in a while there's a deep hollow thump from some duct in the basement, or maybe it's the fuel barrel becoming more empty. 

But the dogs from over a block and up the street haven't made a sound. 

Once in a while I notice your breathing calmly and evenly. 

And there's that wind chime again.

Over the Hill

You always told me to be careful on the downhill
it was easier to loose your footing and slip, you said

take your time
take it easy
enjoy the view
don't be in such a hurry
its not a race

On the way up it was harder and slower
but I thought I was so strong and so tough

It made me proud
each step of the climb
I was accomplishing something

and I felt confident and safe, with you on ahead

but I was impatient
I couldn't wait to get to the top
I wanted to get to see what you could see

but when we peaked
you kept on walking
no time to stop and bask at the zenith

I lost sight of you for a minute
you below the crest on the downward slope,
me on the upward, still climbing, catching up and catching my breath

Now,
instead of seeing the dirt and rocks
and my own knees and boots,
I can see the panorama just like you promised
but I can also see you on ahead
descending descending
up where I can't be yet
but where I know I have to go

I can't enjoy the big picture
because I want to keep my eyes on you
and not lose you again
and because I see all the chasms and cliffs and crags
around you, behind you, beyond you
and right in front of you
things neither of us could see on the way up.

On the way up, I wanted to stop and rest because it was such a strain
now I want to stop and wait
because this feeling is so weak and worn and vulnerable
exhausted after so much strain on the way up,
but now we need our strength even more
we need our balance and agility more
so that we won't stumble and plummet to the bottom before we can reach it gently
but there's no stopping gravity and momentum
and time

I can see you far ahead
too far ahead
I want you up here by my side
I liked it better when you were here to catch me and to steady me
and to encourage me to keep going
to assure me that I could do this

I'd rather still be walking with you
but I can't just gallop and catch up to you
even though I want to be there to catch you and steady you

I wish you'd just stop and wait while I gradually catch up with you
but I'm scared to travel where you are

Downhill is definitely faster than uphill
but I'm not sure its as fun
the trail seems to keep slipping out from under me.

I know that the pastures and waters you're headed for offer rest and reward
but between this mountainside and there seems so hard
and while the vista seems clear, twilight is falling
and I'm losing sight of you

Just promise you'll be there waiting at home
once I finally catch up

A poem about tact and allegories

Plant implicitly

to grow intrinsic

explicitly sown

is extrinsically grown

Nourish coach and encourage

and there may or may not be a harvest, but if there is, once there is, the roots will be deep and the fruit will be tender.

Coerce, control and command

you may get something quick

but it will be bitter

and you won't get much for long

Which is worth more?

The golden egg, or the goose?

After all, you're not God

You know we're just plough boys.

September 30 in Yellow

I should've spent the day on my front porch
sunny and warm
full Indian Summer

In line for the viewing at the funeral home in town
a couple waiting to pay their respects discuss where the most colorful drives would be
oh no, the hills would be better
that canyon is full of oak, ash turn yellow, oak just turn brown

I know, but if that ash bore comes through here, we're done
and here we planted all ash to avoid that elm disease

The maples aren't red yet and the elms are still green, but we've never seen such a yellow September
even the stupid hackberry seems to have color, instead of just being it's typical khaki

The fields have been stripped bare,
like unmade beds
their quilts of corn and oats and soybeans stored in some attic or perhaps piled on the floor in the laundry room
only a few tattered old afghans remain on the plain, beige mattresses
those are the few acres of deep green alfalfa, fringed with fluffy tufts of some exploded weeds- like the stuffing pulled out of the mattress-
I think that some of it must be pussy-willow

Now what?

For some reason,
I have no idea what-
summer always makes me want to write

I resolve to
be disciplined
and inspired

I tell myself that since I can't seem to sleep anyway,
I might as well hole up in the kitchen
drinking coffee and whiskey and writing the great American novel

while my family sleeps
I might even take up cigarettes
isn't that what great writers do, while they burn the midnight oil?

but whenever I sit down at the computer
or with a pad and pen
my mind goes as blank as the page or the screen

Okay, okay, I tell myself
it doesn't have to be worthy of the Nobel prize for literature
how about a profound poem?

Nothing comes
the juices don't flow
inept, ineffectual, insecure, and most of all uninspired

Okay, okay, how about an essay or an article?
or a journal entry, how about a journal entry?
I've always said that I ought to keep a diary.

Hmmmmm...
Nope
Nada, muchas mas nada

Nix,
nine,
nought

Okay, okay don't be discouraged
why not just some kind of blog post?
If I'm lucky, I manage to tweet a tweet or update my facebook status

Today my wife's grandmother brought over a magical gift
a 1940's Royal Quiet Portable DeLuxe typewriter
A beautiful relic of a home office appliance

The keys were covered with white waxy film
dust or mold, I did not know
but I took to it like a restorationalist at a museum

lovingly I swabbed each key with a rag
dipped in vinegar and dish soap
and brought back the original hunter-green luster

There was still oil in the apparatus
and ink in the ribbon
we inserted a new sheet of crisp, white, blank computer-printer paper

My daughters curiously observed our activities
"What IS that thing?"
They honestly had no idea

"Before laptops, that was how writers wrote."
"What?" Really? How?"
"Sit down in front of it and type something."

So my daughter, filled with enthusiasm
situated herself in front of the keys, winding the paper up the the beginning
and ultimately sighed, deflated and defeated

Now what?
I don't know what to write.
Tell me about it, I know exactly how you feel

Poem for Memorial Day; How?

How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address on Memorial Day and not cry?
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address and still support nullification and secession?
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address and be so angry and hateful toward the Federal govt. which is supposedly "of the people, by the people, and for the people?"
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address and want to deny rights and benefits to public workers like firemen, police officers, teachers, and bureaucrats who are" the people" in the government by/of/for the people?
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address and come away thinking that the "cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion" is merely patriotism or nationalism and not the principles of participatory democracy and equality?
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address and come away thinking that the "cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion" is merely patriotism or nationalism and not the freedom of religion, expression, association, and the right to petition for redress of grievences?
How can anyone read the Gettysburg Address on Memorial Day and not cry?

On top of a hill

On the one hand, the steeple of the old white country church rises above bean and corn fields like a lighthouse on a rock above the beating waves.

Meanwhile, occupants of the churchyard bear silent witness to the families gathered under the eaves on Sundays like chicks gathered under a hens wings.

On a Green Sea

Wind whispers through pines
Humble, unobtrusive, yet full and constant and massive, like the ocean surf.

Rolling prairie hills and heavy air and low clouds further play out the maritime feel.

But the song of the red winged back bird, while mournful has a hope and affection that no gull or albatross ever offer.

The Power of Words

Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior wrote that "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere" in 1963.

Just last week Nigerian President Goodluck Ebele Azikiwe Jonathan said that "A terrorist attack on any of us is an attack on all of us."

I shared both quotes with my Civics class, but one eighth grader wrote on the board under Dr. King's words that  "no one gets this." I asked if they'd like me to discuss it with them and the same student said, "no, we don't care either."

That made me thing of Jimmy Buffett's famous line, "Is it ignorance, or apathy? I don't know and I don't care."

I care, God knows I care, but God only knows how I'm supposed to teach eighth graders how to care.

So I took King's words,

Injustice ANYWHERE is a threat to Justice EVERYWHERE

and I paired them with James Madison's words-

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

[Disunity] ANYWHERE is a threat to [Unity] EVERYWHERE

[Turmoil] ANYWHERE is a threat to [Tranquility] EVERYWHERE

[Insecurity] ANYWHERE is a threat to [Security] EVERYWHERE

Or would that have sounded better with [Offense] ANYWHERE is a threat to [Defense] EVERYWHERE?

[Suffering] ANYWHERE is a threat to [the General Welfare] EVERYWHERE!

Now THERE'S one that probably makes "rugged individualists" absolutely cringe, but AREN'T I my brother's keeper?

And of course,

[Tyranny] ANYWHERE is a threat to [Liberty] EVERYWHERE

So isn't it true?

Don't you CARE?

Don't you realize? Don't you know?

That "Injustice ANYWHERE is a threat to Justice EVERYWHERE!"

Is justice really blind?

Have you ever heard, "No Justice, No Peace!"?

Did you know, what Cornell West says?

He says that “Justice is what love looks like in public.”

Merrium and Webster say that "public" means 

"exposed to general view : 

open, well-known, prominentc : 

perceptible, material..."

and 

"of, relating to, or affecting ALL the people."

Did you know?

Do you care?

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere" 

Amos 5:24

November Gold

Ever notice that it's not just decorations on the classroom bulletin board
and pictures on calendars
but October really IS orange
and November really IS golden?

Lawns are faded
Leaves have fallen, most are raked.

There's something to the angle of the sun
and a nip in the air.

Maybe it's because
between All Saints' Day and Thanksgiving,
we're reminded of out blessings and family-
especially those already in Heaven.

Whatever it is,
November really is
golden.

Gold November

The grass on the hills is golden
the bean fields are amber
and the corn stubble are is like Rumpelstiltskin's spinning-straw

The golden hours of dawn and dusk stretch out
leaving barely an hour of clear-blue noon
glazing the entire day with honey.

The red and orange leaves are gone
or faded to sepia
leaving the trees taupe or warm-grey
just a few yellow ones cling on
to avoid a fate in the foul fires
or the compost pile.

Candles have started to warm our homes' decor
and French fried onions decorate the green been casserole
and the roasted turkey's skin glints like polished brass.

Orange Cloud

I  look up at the greatest Ash in town
It holds the entire continent in its branches

Leaves the colors of rocks and fire in the desert West

Through those leaves I can hear waves crashing in the Gulf

Somehow, even though it's just Halloween,
it smells like the snow falling back East

Stupid Leaves, Stupid Breeze!

I can rake rake rake
and mow mow mow

but that darned October wind still blows
so every leaf from every tree
from every neighbor, hither and yawn

ends up back in my yard
and back on my lawn!

The prairie is a comfy bed

The rolling hills and prairie is a comfy bed that I don't want to climb out of
The sky is a crisp, clean, light blue linen
 with puffy white cloud pillows
Fields of beans are pulled up snug like a green and yellow quilt
 and the corn that's almost ready to harvest reminds me of a crocheted throw on top of that
 each are accented with tassels of red, white, and silver barns and bins
 and occasional deep green embroidery of trees
The September sun fills the room with tranquil joy
 while the gentle breeze billows the curtains and and quietly rattles the window screens
 bringing in the familiar scents of that brief moment between Summer and Fall
I think I might go pick you some sunflowers from the edge of the road,
 but this place is so perfect
 so inviting
 so comforting
 I think I might just stay here and soak it in a little longer.

Earliest Spring

Grant Wood, Spring Plowing, 1932. MFA, Boston

The rolling prairie of earliest Spring
looks like an old quilt covering the hills and farms and wild spaces
with it's different squares and shape in different shades and colors

The corn stubble is still amber
and most of the bean stubble is still a dull grey

But the hay fields are just starting to turn green
like black and white photographs
that someone has touched-up with some watercolors

Here and there squares of the quilt have been tilled or plowed
revealing deep, dark browns

Jagged swathes are an even darker brown, almost black
where farmers are working on terraces and removing dead trees

Black lines trace the ditches where weeds and grass were burned
and faint green whiskers are peeking through the black
where controlled fires shaved culverts clean
deeper greens edge the creeks and brooks

From a distance the woods look like a fuzzy dark taupe
sometimes hinting at dusty rose or plum or just plain grey and brown
who'd imagine the white they wore just weeks ago, the glorious golds months ago, or the summer greens to come?

I can see what Grant Wood saw in his paintings
all my children can see are all the "BABY COWS!" prancing around their patient, stoic mothers

My lawn is finally regaining color and our trees are budding
and my children laugh at how fluffy and fat the robins have become
I figure their feathers are ruffled
like a turned up collar against a brisk April breeze
but my kids know it's because they're all pregnant
and about to have babies

I open my window wide and let the curtains flutter
and inhale the soft, hopeful breath of the new and listen to the chattering chorus of those expectant mothers

Happy National Poetry Month

"Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality." ~T.S.Eliot

In honor of April, National Poetry Month,

I thought I'd share some of my own- such as it is 

(thus the title, Max Nix is German for "not much,"
we Midwesterners are known for our self-effacing modesty).

Ted's poetry on this blog

Ted's poetry on Goodreads

Ted on Lulu Poetry

Ted on OriginalPoetry.com 

But there is so much better poetry out there, so don't just read mine-

Poets.org

Poets&Writers

Poetry180

PoetryDaily

POEM: Noisy Chatter

What is it with all that clatter in that tree?
Why is that gaggle of grackles chattering so?

Are they mating? Is all that noise some kind of speed-dating?

Is it just a family reunion?
Are they catching up, after only seeing each other in passing along the flyway during migration?
Are they swapping jokes and gossiping?

Is it a tree-wide argument? Shouting and screaming like on the Jerry Springer show?

Maybe it's some form of laughter-yoga, chirping exercises.

Or is it just choir practice? Planning and preparing this afternoon for tomorrow's Dawn Chorus?

Surely, surely, it's not an avian congress- full of political vitriol and fury.

If only I spoke bird, I might know for sure.