Day 12 PAD 2023

 This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2023 challenge and will be revised.

“Awashed in the Past”

The cascade of history
bruises my eardrums
    fills my lungs
    constricts my heart
        until I have to give in to the drenching
        rush of what might have been

Snippets of the past create a roar
against the stones of time
I catch a few drops
    traveling back
    into the stream of memories
        that pelt my skin
        sharp, then dissipating on my sense
        of who I should have been

I hear milestones of my past

Shotgun blast
Broken drywall
Drunken speech
Dead dial tone

But my heart drops me into a moment of possibilities
    I am your son
    sitting at your feet
    football in my hands
    Waiting to hear “I love you”
        in the spiral of a pass
        I catch on the run
            in the backyard
    I see your hands raised
        the air filled with “Touchdownnnnn!”

A wave crashes into my chest
    bringing me back to now
    my hands empty
    wondering what it sounds like
        to have your father’s voice
            cheer for you in real life

And Like That

And Like That

And like that

  a student from the past

    no longer has a future

A young man in my memory

    grown to be a farmer and family man

I remember 

    a boyish grin above

    a home jersey with the number 5

    an underclassman

    waiting for time to give him his chance

I would chat with him on the sidelines

    about the last play

And like that

I can see that smile as his bride walks down the aisle

I can imagine the smile he had for the birth of his children

Or the long gaze to the horizon

    on a late autumn evening

The wheels of his tractor still

pride of a good life flowing through his veins

    warming his callous hands

That innocent smile

    creeping onto his face

    as he shifts the tractor into drive

Heading home to eat dinner with his wife 

    and three kids

And like that

Tonight there will be no smiles

The horizon will receive too many questions

    centered on why he was taken

    why daddy isn’t coming home

   

And like that

Family will come together

Only to feel a shocking sense of being alone

Every word they wanted to say

    sets like the sun at the end of the day

Every possible

    I love you

    and good night kiss

Will feel like a heavy coat of regret

Pockets empty

    like the tomorrows he no longer has

And like that

His family will stuff their hands deep into that sorrow

Hoping to find something

anything

     to remind them of his voice

And like that

We are all left with memories

Mine of a boyish grin

on the sideline of a football game

years ago

*In memory of Bryce Niss 11-17-2020

Poetic Form 53: The Bop

Sins of a Son

Watching days collect like pennies in a jar,

I wonder if you remember my smile

or that day skipping rocks across the river.

I can still feel the pride of a touchdown catch,

ball sailing from your hand in the backyard.

There were not many days like that one.

Your sins ricochet through my life.

No son is perfect, neither are their fathers.

Every child discovers a path to follow,

but we forget that the backpack was filled

before we left the house. A weight already

on our shoulders. I’ve tried cleaning out the

bottom of mine, but I keep finding empty beer

cans that meant so much to you. In the corners

I do find a few torn pieces of happiness.

Your sins ricochet through my life.

Maybe it is a character flaw in my heart,

or an unwillingness to find a new pack,

but I find it hard not to scrounge the pockets,

hoping for a note or memento from you.

I only find silence that sounds like your voice

on the line so many years ago, when I took a new path.

Your sins ricochet through my life.

Poetic Form #53: The Bop

The Bop is a poetic form developed by poet Afaa Michael Weaver at a Cave Canem

summer retreat. The Bop has three stanzas. Each stanza is followed by a refrain. The

first stanza is six lines and presents a problem. The second stanza is eight lines and

expands the problem. The third stanza is six lines and either presents a solution or

documents the failed attempt at resolving the problem.

Poetic Form 45: Hir a Thoddaid

Hometown

The streets are the same, but names and some

buildings have changed. I am now an alum

of the school. Football in the snow, numb

hands, burning lungs, I ran, becoming

a man I believed would change all the rules.

Yet, this small town, my history from.

Poetic Form #45 Hir a Thoddaid

The hir a thoddaid structure is as follows: (Xs are syllables).

1-xxxxxxxxa

2-xxxxxxxxa

3-xxxxxxxxa

4-xxxxxxxxa

5-xxxxxxxbxx

6-xxbxxxxxa

Line 5 has 10 syllables. The other 5 lines have 9 syllables. The "b" rhyme is open 
to be near the end of line 5, then somewhere in the first half of line 6. There is a 
little freedom with that rhyme.

Start of National Novel Writing Month

Good morning.  Today is the first day of National Novel Writing Month.  This is my fourth year attempting to complete a novel in a month.  Like many aspects of change, I start out strong then fade.  But I have a new game plan this year.  First, I am going to write out the scenes I have in my head.  I'll worry about putting it together later.  Second, I am going to share my progress through Twitter and this blog by sharing snippets of my writing.  Now, I know this game plan will make it hard on the reader, but to complete the novel is the main goal.  So I apologize early for the disconnected snippets of the novel for the upcoming month.  Here is the first snippet:

The rain was a now a curtain.  Coach Riner couldn’t see the visitor’s sideline.  The refs said they would call the game if there was lighting, but we would play through the rain.  Coach Riner's play sheet was in pieces on the ground, it had disintegrated from the rain.

            "Time Out!" Coach Riner signaled and approached the side judge. "Time Out!"  The whistle blew. 

            The Tigers were down by four with three minutes left in the third quarter.  It was hard to run the ball.  It was impossible to throw. The middle of the field was mud.  The team huddled in close to Coach Riner.

            "We need to get out of the middle of field.  Indy Left, Zip, 28 Swing." 

            "Coach, can we do this out of shotgun? I can't get my feet going in the mud." Darren said.

            "Kyle? Can you get it back to him?" Coach Riner asked his center.

            "Yes, coach." Kyle never said more than what was needed.

            Coach Riner patted him on the top of his helmet. "I thought so.  OK, Huston Left, Zip, 28 swing."