30 July 2021

Episode 130: Scoping

This poem has been, appropriately, in the works for some time. I believe it's the first I've ever written about my father, though I have thoughts for several more. The text of the poem is at the bottom of this post, as this is another debut of a work.

If you've read this far, you seem to have some interest in this podcast. Thanks for that, I appreciate it! This is more than a one-way communication, though. Your feedback is important to me. Did you like a particular rhyme scheme? Did a topic strike your fancy and you'd like to hear more poems like that? Did you absolutely hate something I read and worry that I might inflict a similar poem on you in the future? How should I know? That's where you come in. There are so many ways to get back to me:

After listening to the podcast (or while listening), visit one of these sites and donate for the cause, because All Black Lives Matter and my fellow white (and cis) people we need to get in the game:

Donate to Black Lives Matter

Donate to the Souther Poverty Law Center

Donate to the Equal Justice Initiative

Transgender Law Center

The poems will continue to flow, but so must the Justice.

Scoping

I'm standing on the landing

Of our brand new house,

staring out into the yard.

My son asks me what I'm doing,

and I reply

That I'm thinking about something.

 

In my thinking I am tinkering

Building out a shape,

Resolving the problem.

Working out the requirements

As my father did

So many times when I was a son.

 

I never gathered why it mattered

why he just stood there.

Staring at an empty parcel of our yard,

or a wall of the house

Why not just start doing?

 

He was scoping in that moment

As he stood there still.

His mind assembling the pieces

and the measurements

He would tell me.

 

Eventually I knew I would see

Something new out in the yard;

Or some fresh construction:

Bringing craftsmanship

And utility to our home.

 

And as I am standing on the landing

Staring out the window

of our brand new house,

My son asking me

why I was just standing there…

 

I know that in so many small ways,

I have become my father.



Left Hand Poetry: My Podcast of Poems

23 July 2021

Episode 129: Ask Not For Whom The Vulture Lands, It Lands For Thee

Another fresh poem making its debut on the podcast this week! I've been reading a lot of more sparse poems lately, but "Ask Not For Whom The Vulture Lands..." is step back in the direction of using more words to give us some rhythm in addition to rhyme. You can find the text of the poem at the bottom of this post, but before moving on I wanted to offer my apologies to John Donne, Ernest Hemingway, and Edgar Allen Poe for borrowing from all of them in the writing of this piece. Like Harry Chapin said in his live recording of "30,000lbs of Bananas," you'll know it when it comes by.

If you've read this far, you seem to have some interest in this podcast. Thanks for that, I appreciate it! This is more than a one-way communication, though. Your feedback is important to me. Did you like a particular rhyme scheme? Did a topic strike your fancy and you'd like to hear more poems like that? Did you absolutely hate something I read and worry that I might inflict a similar poem on you in the future? How should I know? That's where you come in. There are so many ways to get back to me:

After listening to the podcast (or while listening), visit one of these sites and donate for the cause, because All Black Lives Matter and my fellow white (and cis) people we need to get in the game:

Donate to Black Lives Matter

Donate to the Souther Poverty Law Center

Donate to the Equal Justice Initiative

Transgender Law Center

The poems will continue to flow, but so must the Justice.

Ask Not For Whom The Vulture Lands, It Lands For Thee

One hazy morning while out walking

The wife, the dog, and I were talking

(Only spouse and I were talking;

The dog was just out there to pee).

 

We happened on a large black bird

I wondered if she had overheard?

Of what and which we both were talking

And if she'd swooped down to see.

 

At first I thought she was a turkey

We get them 'round here, so often lurking

In the woods where folks go walking

Maybe it … was a he?

 

And then I took a closer look and found

That this bird was far too round

I took his measure, firmly marking

That bird was not a wild turkey.

 

I paid my wife this next cognition

Aided by my further vision

A closer look without gawking:

This was a vulture, Comma, turkey.

 

A turkey vulture there just sitting

Eying roadkill, stock-still sitting.

Dare I say its best at lurking

Against the roadbed's adjacent quey.

 

And so we left him (her?) there in peace

The wife, the dog, and by default, me.

We left that turkey vulture to his hawking

Obeyed his silent, hungry plea.

 

Thus some truths eternal hold

Be they often meek or seldom bold

See me sane and never barking,

Ask not for whom the vulture lands:

It lands for thee.



Left Hand Poetry: My Podcast of Poems

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