Manly Birthdays
On his birthday, every year,
his brother-in-law, Milwaukee brewed,
takes him bowling at the Big Ten Lanes.
Every year, by the third frame,
he wants wine in a glass,
Coltrane’s Blue Train, and pot.
This year he plans to
write something he started this summer,
when his lawn died, and he had to fire a friend to save his grass.
A car will roll by mid-morning, he will lose his train of thought,
his allergies will make it hard to think,
his daughter will need him to kill a bug,
but when it’s time to bowl, he will
let the phone scream and scream,
then write some more, this manly man.
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Fractured – 22 X 28, acrylic and soft pastel on canvas
Every painting takes away and gives. The taking from is always my fault, and should never be blamed on the art I’m trying to make.
I curse when my finger drags through chalky black pastel, forcing me to enter the always risky land of “removing.”
Each time I find paint smeared on the handle of a brush, or on the outside of my hand, which happens every single time I paint and should therefore be expected, I act as if an evil spirit has inhabited my studio for the sole purpose of keeping me from succeeding.
In the end, magically, all this taking doesn’t matter. I look at what I have done, and smile. Look, I think, even an over-emotional high-strung eccentric can make art. And then I thank art, for not caring about my deficiencies, for ignoring my imperfections, for inviting me back to the one place I have found that welcomes anyone willing to try.
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Like This
When my daughter says Daddy a certain way,
as if tiptoeing my name into the ocean
to find out how warm I am,
I know what’s coming.
A game of What if My Name Was?
or Can You Do This?
No, Not Like That, I said
Like This.
Whatever she does next,
her headstand from a crooked tripod,
that folded guru yoga pose
no one should be able to do,
I twist, gyrate, and contort
with her,
burning to shape This into
memory.
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This is a wonderful piece, about the power of fully living, written by Roger Ebert, film critic, on May 2, 2009.
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Myself As Their Father
Red dye in our bird bath,
day one.
Pine cones planted points up around our patio,
day two.
My daughter's tears,
my teenage son's
commitment to revenge,
unacceptable,
but shared.
We'll get them back, I say,
feeling first shame,
then pride
in myself as their father.
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Friday evening: Wrote poetry
Very early Saturday morning: Wrote fiction
Saturday morning: Wrote nonfiction
Saturday afternoon: Visited two art galleries
Sunday: Painted and sketched
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