Dreams To Remember

a love poem for Ryan Johnson

You were not there

I suppose that’s

partly

why I was so unhappy

to wake up

Clint Eastwood and I

were in a backpack outlet store

looking at pink shirts

I was mentioning

how happy I was

to fit into smalls again

Eastwood’s eyes went squint

he tossed me a glock

I checked the clip

followed his lead

We were chasing someone

it may have been you

it was not clear

I got off three shots

but my aim was not true

the target disappeared

up a hill

into the hemlocks

At that moment

a brown Volkswagen

flew around the corner

and there was a car chase

Clint drove

I returned fire

Our pursuer

was George Costanza

and he was

flustered

his giant head

peaking out the sun roof

screaming

NINEVEH

And I woke up

and you were there

I wanted to go back.

How Wile E Coyote Celebrates Easter Sunday

The bird ran straight threw

the tunnel painted on the cliff.

The painter followed in close pursuit;

suspending disbelief, speeding up.

He hit the wall. Flattened.

Peeled slowly off the rock.

Flat on the ground.

Paper-thin. Lifeless.

But this was not the end of the coyote.

The scene changed, and vigor re-entered him.

Up from the ground he arose.

Made a quick order to Acme,

and schemed anew.

Lazarus

[this is a pantoum, my first try at a form poem other than a haiku]

He had slept like a corpse

but a voice said “come out”

a surprised groan echoed

as blood returned to stagnant limbs

But a voice said “come out”

he woke up aching

as blood returned to stagnant limbs

tingles turned to pains turned to life

He woke up aching

moved slow and clumsy

tingles turned to pains turned to life

stepped into the light

Moved slow and clumsy

crowds watched dumb

stepped into the light

shielding his eyes

Crowds watched dumb

seeing his arm raised

shielding his eyes

no one expected this morning

Seeing his arm raised

a surprised groan echoed

no one expected this morning

he had slept like a corpse

Good Morning Vancouver!

I caught the 8:04 to downtown

I shared the back

with a liquor-scented man

in dark sunglasses

who muttered to himself

cleared his throat

and scowled

At Maple Street

a pack of young women

filled the bus

with the smell of

shampoo and coffee

Over the Granville Bridge

the sun broke the overcast

shining in beams

on a half-dozen

identical condo buildings

and the evergreens in Stanley Park

even the half-drunk man

grinned

Between Drake and Davie

the city was waking

signs for diners

and porn-stores

shone

OPEN.

Jonah Hill Joe Jonas Lovechild

or The Difference Nine Months Can Make

I stopped subbing nine months ago because I forgot to do some less than time-consuming paperwork and then had other more pressing matters to worry about, like ladies, and school-work, and food, and which combinations of the three worked best. Important things. When my money ran out I did the paperwork and went back to subbing.

Nine months ago I had modest sideburns. The students who thought themselves clever coined the nickname lamb-chops. For a while I tried to educate these kids on the difference between sideburns and mutton-chops, but quickly gave up.

High-schoolers just north of a hundred pounds with glassy eyes and floppy hair would come in and stare at me, ask if I was old enough to be a teacher—which is only flattering if it doesn’t mean that they won’t ignore what you tell them for the next hour because they believe that authority resides in the years on the far-side of thirty-five—which is usually exactly what it means.

Students would have the same observation almost daily. They’d look at me, furrow their brow and tell me I looked like “the guy from Superbad.”

“The skinny guy?” I would ask.

“No, the other guy.”

“Oh, the fat guy.”

I tried to act offended, though I respect Jonah Hill, and, aside from the being over-weight, he’s not unattractive.

I’ve lost weight since then. (Running and eating more vegetables than bacon. Who knew?)

Today a well-groomed freshman girl, with flower stickers on her binder and a voice like a squeal came in, looked at me: “Oh. . . My. . . God, you look just like Joe Jonas.” I said thanks, intoning a question mark. Somehow, I was offended.

Waiting for a Helicopter

or Why It Sucks to be in a Good Story

We got lost

because we were seventeen

and made poor decisions

We shivered

for one night

in a damp meadow

with scrapes and cuts

that smarted

with oil from unfriendly plants

There was no sleep that night

we huddled together

under a cold clear sky

on a fallen piece of cedar

wondered what would happen

when morning came

When we got back

we had cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate

in a warm fire-station

with our friends and family

later that day

Red Robin gave us free sundaes

because they’d recognized us from the news

We all like telling the story now

it’s probably my best

but in that meadow

we were hours from hypothermic

miserable and waiting

We didn’t know a helicopter would come at dawn

I suppose if we had

it wouldn’t be a good story.

Happy Solstice!

Spring announced itself

with a downpour

followed by hail

followed by showers

Optimism dies faster than winter.

How Do Teachers Do This Everyday?

or A Substitute Relearns Basic Algebra

Not many of you should become teachers

James 3:1

these kids pile in

with bad dye jobs

terrible music

blasting from

oversized headphones

thumbs racing

over fancy phones

they expect me to be okay with the title

bud

they expect me to pronounce names

in languages I've never heard

correctly

they expect me to remember how to

find the slope of a line

solve for x

graph equations

they're dumbfounded

when I fail to meet expectations

still, when I do remember how to

find the slope of a line

and carefully explain

to the one student in class

actually working on the assignment

and she says:

Oh,

I get it

in an honest tone

I think I understand

The Importance of Observing Your Birthday

My late twenties

arrived like a good houseguest

punctual and with presents

less trouble than one expects

the imagined imposition

replaced with honest joy.

Practice Resurrection

[I'm still working on this, but I'm excited about it, so I'm posting it now. Title is taken from a Wendell Berry poem.]

1. Learning to Walk

On clumsy toddler legs

off balance and weak kneed

first steps are made

followed by falling

followed by screaming

Eventually

even the drunks

can get down the block

without falling (most the time)

though, they may need

the aid of friends or buildings.

2. Perfecting a Recipe

The first time I made breakfast potatoes

I set the heat too high

didn’t use enough oil

cut the potatoes too big

so the outside was crisp

while the inside was uncooked

After dozens of late breakfasts

made for hung over housemates

I have it down to a science—

red potatoes chopped to 1 cubic centimeter

steak-seasoning with a splash of olive oil

mixed in a large bowl

then micro-waved for five minutes

then fried in a well seasoned cast-iron skillet

over medium heat for 25 to 30 minutes

3. Counseling Session

I explain that I’ve never laughed as hard

at Ron Burgundy explaining

the German origin of San Diego's name

as I did this last week

He smiles

leans back

holds the thought

Tells me that he believes

you can tell how much

a person has been through

by how deep they laugh

I imagine when the kingdom comes

it won’t be long before the whole place

breaks into a contagious belly laugh

leaving the elect gasping for air

their eyes watering and sides aching.

Three Days Till Spring

trees are getting ready for lovemaking

the air is heavy with the aroma

the birds are starting to gossip

earlier each morning

there are buds coming up

in every shrub, bush, and hedge

if you listen close

you can almost hear

the sound of lawnmowers

Time For a Nap

I pulled over

to look at a map

that had sat in my trunk

for two winters.

The mildew stains

didn’t make it easy to read.

What made it worse

was the fact that it was for Nevada.

I was in Oregon,

or at least I was pretty sure I was.

It was about that time

I realized I was lost

with less than a quarter-tank of gas

no cell phone coverage.

A nap seemed like a good idea.

Church Custodian

Prompt from Graham: Three phases for this prompt, take them how you will: "cave man/porn star/riding on a unicorn/undercover cop wearing a uniform" "I'm not one for hyperbole" "That's one hungry kid."

This is a silly one.

And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.

Joel 2:28

He recalled the vision:

the scene was a cacophony of color

a painting accident involving

a caveman riding on a unicorn

and a porn star who was actually

an undercover cop wearing a uniform

and the color yellow.

His own interpretation was

that it meant he should open a pen store.

His logic made a surprising amount of sense.

I, his pastor, asked him what he thought

the significance of the yellow was.

He paused for a second and said

he always imagined cavemen with jaundice.

I’m not one for hyperbole

but I was starting to look forward

to these counseling sessions

with the church’s custodian

like they were Seahawk games.

He had a nice voice

made the visions seem less crazy

like he was narrating a film.

Outside his visions

he was a pretty normal guy,

sometimes we’d just talk about our kids.

He told me a story about his oldest,

who’s the thinnest 5th grader I’ve ever seen,

coming home from school

eating a box of a frosted flakes

and four hot-pockets.

Our session ended that day

without the customary prayer.

All I could manage was

“wow, that’s one hungry kid.”

Today, I told him he should think about

trying to paint his vision, see what insights he gains

and read Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones.

I wasn’t sure, but I felt like the two were connected.

Evangelism

No one after lighting a lamp puts it in a cellar or under a basket, but on a stand so that those who enter may see the light. . . Therefore, be careful lest the light in you be darkness. If then your whole body is full of light, having no part dark, it will be wholly bright.

Luke 11

We sit in a bar

and I feel about as thin

as the coaster

beneath a second beer

I wish was my ninth

but I’ve been down that road

enough times to know

when to

stop

it’s dark

and it will get darker

as the people get uglier

as it gets later

January is not an easy month

to live in a cloudy part of British Columbia

under Coast-Mountain-shadows

and ten hours of “sunlight”

and you’ve just started talking

about the States

and the fundamentalists

and Glenn Beck

and the trouble with Christians

and I think I agree with most of what you’re saying

I don’t know you well enough

to know why your hands

look like they’ve never touched

anything that wasn’t concrete

or why you smell like an alley

but I like the way your voice sounds

so I join your monologues

and we a have a conversation

about how dark it is

and the service we aren’t getting

and where you’re from

(a city I haven’t heard of

outside of Toronto)

and where I’m from

(a town you haven’t heard of

outside of Seattle)

and you tell me about the 70’s

and heroin

and what it does

and I watched Trainspotting once

we agree that new Star Wars

wasn’t as bad as people said

and you ask what I do

and I say I'm studying

to be a pastor

and you pause

and I feel like

if I were to reach into my bag of tricks

to find John 3:16

this conversation would

stop

so I buy you a beer

and myself another

and we talk about the weather

and how many days there are left of winter

and we close the bar down

and I shake your hand

and I smile as bright

as I honestly can

and walk home.

Walk Down Burrard

[This poem needs work, but I felt it was time sensitive, so I wanted to get it out. Give my your thoughts, editing and otherwise]

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Matthew 6:34

I walk down Burrard Street

to kill time before Church

listen to Social Distortion

start to feel nostalgic

I keep my eyes on the ground

see my reflection in a puddle

on the fancy sidewalk

outside a half-empty high-rise,

and wonder where I’ll be in a year

Outside an Anglican Cathedral

there’s a poster for a Gregorian chant

describing the service as an opportunity

to be transported to another age entirely

I roll my eyes

keep walking

past boutiques

selling things

I can’t afford and don’t want

I try and figure out summer plans

where I’ll live

wonder who’ll be around

if they’ll have time

thoughts and worries bounce off each other

as my socks dampen

I walk right past my church

because I had a lot of time

I keep walking down the street

my eyes chained to the sidewalk

trying to decipher

whether I’m looking at my reflection

or just a shiny shadow

In a shallow puddle

on the gray concrete

I notice several pink pedals

I look up to see a cherry blossom tree in half bloom,

must be the first tree in the city.

Daniel Sedin Sucker Punch

In undergrad

I burned my forearm

on my oven rack

while baking cookies.

I told people it was a scar

from a fight I had with a black bear

who happened to be on fire.

Earlier this week

you asked me if I’d been sleeping well

pointing to my eyes.

I laughed, because

it was a silly question.

Those weren’t bags under my eyes

they were black-eyes

from a fight I was in the night before

with the Sedin brothers,

those Canucks are cocky bastards.

Growing Pains

unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies. . .

John 12:24

The pain starts in the rib-cage

then flows up and down the spine

as bones enlarge

skin stretches

bodies ache.

Every boy learns this lesson:

everything that grows

suffers.

Vinyl Sadness

They say the piano used to catch on fire when he played

but that’s what you’d expect from a man who burned like Styrofoam.

The airplanes used to fly low over cheap houses

surrounded by scotch broom and coyotes

when we still listened to those old keys

on scratched records that never caught aflame—

but when the volume was turned up

you could feel the vinyl sadness

like Ben-Gay on your nether regions.

Rudy's Pizza

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own;

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

None other has ever known.

-Charles A. Miles

He changes his pace to match mine

his gait is easy, no hurry

not at all restless

we walk slow

down Chestnut Street

with Bellingham Bay

laid out before us.

At Rudy’s

we order my favorite pizza

split a pitcher of beer.

He listens to me explain

what empty feels like

makes sure my glass is full

maintains eye-contact

doesn’t change the subject.

Feline Love Language

or It's the Thought That Counts

A mangled and stiff carcass of a small rodent

greeted me at my front door this morning,

a gift from the neighbors cat.

I’m not entirely sure

what the cat expected me to do with it.

Have it stuffed and mounted above my mantel?

Prepare it in a garlic-cream sauce

and serve it over a bed of angel-hair pasta?

Keep it in my pocket to remind me of the cat?

I’m not sure the cat cared

what I did with the gift,

but I’m pretty sure

the old tabby wanted me to have it.

Tunnel Sleep

When he sleeps

he sees it

shining

in a blue sky

over clear water

For two years the lake hasn’t thawed

the sky has been nothing but charcoal

When he sleeps he shivers

against a concrete wall

in an old interstate-tunnel

next to burnt-out mini-vans

For two years he’s woken up

wishing he hadn’t.

Maybe I was Little Envious

He had shoulder length brown hair

flowing behind him in beautiful streams

as he ran with his yellow lab

down the same trail I run daily

He was six foot one

muscles from head to toe

shiny gold wedding band

on his left hand

His smile showed

the thousands of well-spent dollars

his parents paid a skilled orthodontist

I saw him coming

glared and

hoped he wouldn’t see the divot

I rolled my ankle on last Wednesday.

Isaac and April

[Right now, I think this is my favorite love poem I've ever written.]

It hasn’t ventured above freezing for over a week. The streets are skating rinks. My car did pirouettes on my way to Bellingham. I’m staying in my married friends’ one bedroom apartment, a poorly-disguised garage. The only thing keeping the place above freezing is a small space heater. So we bundle-up, and huddle close around the kitchen-table and a pot of coffee.

April launches a power laugh, leans forward. Tells me how Isaac cries at just about every movie they watch. Giggles interrupt as she tells how he teared up when they were watching The Lion King.

He grins goofily at the retelling of this story. “What?! It’s really sad.”

Now and Not Yet

or The Difference a Decent Night’s Sleep Can Make

The clouds were shining like August this morning

two shots of NyQuil sung a lullaby last night

today, a choir of birds defied the weather

and sang my morning alarm

There are still cold days ahead

but the writing is on the wall

though my posture may be sulking

I have a half-smile somewhere in me

that sees the solstice clearly.

Raccoons' Night Life

[looks like I got a morning/month theme going]

March started

with a cold and wet morning

On a pre-dawn walk

I discovered the night activities

of a pack of raccoons

revealed in a fast-melting trace of snow

Up and down sidewalks

through gardens and alleys

around and on-top of trash bins

the critters had been busy

Long before the sun came up

they scurried off

to their cozy hiding place

I wondered if they had room

for one more.