dogtrax

A view of the world begins from above, scanning eyes search signs for fish

for #writeout

Only the roots of the ghost tree remain -

soft echoes remembering its spindly arms reaching out

for every one of us, though we always steered clear

for fear that it might awaken to envelop us,

taking us, shaking us, making us disappear

for #WriteOut

An out-of-the-way place, a sacred space for contemplative quiet, a poet's grace imbues this alcove with verse not yet written, the wonder of the imagined art scattered like confetti on a broken bench near Gooseberry bushes where robins chatter

for #writeout

River, the rhythm

and the writer, remembers

The currents of time;

she dances to rhyme

for #writeout

Wanderers like you wonder what I'm thinking, as I rest my weary head here

I am silent, deep in thought, and you ought to join me, friend

Repose sends us into inner places, quiet spaces of song

for #writeout

Dance with us, Luna, in the pull of the tides but whose song will we hear, when you re-appear?

Luna, known as tungi, kuu, hli, cap, yoreh, maan, mwezi, bulan, marama, and ay -

We name you, silver one, to try to claim you as you slip our fingers and slide back into the folds of sky

for #writeout

Bring us the light, Sol, from your long distant gaze

your turbulent voice rides solar winds, like waves

We bask in forgiveness, close our eyes to the sky

And wait, impatient, at dawn, for each moment you arise

for #writeout

What she thought when she screamed was a cockroach was a stinkbug -

the scurrying species that periodically invades our classroom and elicits a shout;

I wrap the bug up in tissue, open the door, and toss it back out

for #writeout

Here, at dawn, before the day has begun, the house is far from silent;

a sump pump flows; a neighbor starts the car; the dog walks on wooden floor; the fridge whistles and hums;

fingers on the keys, the sound of me, alone, typing this poem

for #writeout

The blue ink handwriting is faded on the cassette tape sticker label but I can still just make out titles of songs by The Cure, The Replacements, Oingo Boingo and other bands of the 80s whose music had never reached my ears until he took the time to mix the tape. When I talk of it today, my wife wonders about other motives, given the legacy of homemade mix-tapes as gifts of something deeper. I still believe it was only in the sharing of music that motivated him to help me to listen farther afield than I would have otherwise done. But who knows.