The Arts section of Orient Lodge

Father's Day Memories. Daily Examen. Sandy Hook.

As I reach for a bowl
to make my morning oatmeal,
I see a plate from my childhood
nestled amidst the other dishes
and ask myself,
“What will you remember?”

Father’s day.
I remember to call my father
who has forgotten to turn on his phone.
I wonder if my daughters
will remember to call me
as I recall
the phone they are likely to call
is dead.

I stand,
in the moment,
seeking to commit
the smell of raisins
in the oatmeal
to long term memory
to stay with me
through my final years.

It is a solitary moment,
not one others will remember
when they eulogize me.

In the morning
I go to church
for the weekly remembrance
of the resurrection.

In the evening,
I choose not to watch an interview
with a man who denies
what many remember.

Note: I have gone back and forth about whether to include my "Daily Examen" posts with the rest of my poetry. I have decided, generally, not to. Too many of my other poems are more likely to get lost that way. However, this poem, which started off as my Daily Examen for June 18, 2017, stands well on its own, and I have chosen to include it with my other poems, with my Daily Examen, and also in Politics.

Poetry of Everyday Life

Just saw
the Young Helfenbein’s
at the transfer station.
Not talking
about an emerging band
at a new concert venue;
simply observing
the youngest
seemed pretty content
in the driver’s seat
leaving the heavy work
to her brother.

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What's Eating at You?

Young men
breaking their Ramadan fast
saw their building
consumed by flames
and sought to save
the world
by saving their neighbors.

An older man,
consumed by rage
began shooting
at congressmen;
at ex co-workers.

At mid-day mass
the faithful gathered
to be consumed
by God’s Love
as they tasted
the Body of Christ,
the Bread of Heaven.

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We sit in a circle
of struggling writers
listening to another
her craft.
She mentions a wise man
who once asked her,
“What would you write
if you weren’t afraid?”

We all pause
to think of the great works we’d write
and fail to consider
the president.

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“And on the seventh day…”
but actually,
it was more like the thirty-fifth
we creators rested.

the Prime Creator
rested on the seventh day,
but those days
were more like eons.

In a week,
the Prime Creator
even us.

But we were not satisfied;
we rebell’d,
sought the powers
of Our Creator,
and were cursed.

In a weakened state
we can’t keep up
with everything
that needs to be kept up.

We read the news
each day
of wars and rumors of wars,
of floods and famines,
and of the Oppressor
always signing
one more executive order
to make things great
for his legions
at the expense of others
created in the Creators image.

We read the struggles
of our friends and neighbors
each day online;
of anxiety and depression,
of illness and of death.

We organize our events,
for our jobs,
for our communities,
for our families;
too often,
too many.

on the thirty-fifth day,
it happens.
We have nothing scheduled.
We lie in bed
listening to the rain,
the birds chirping,
the pets seeking attention.

Out of habit,
we mean to arise
and do something
Yet resisting the temptation
we repose
and breathe in
the peaceful Sabbath air.

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