When I woke up this morning immediately words repeating. sat up and looked over at my two girls sleeping in bed with me. my words are like food to fill the soul, the heart.
We went to dinner, which apparently is what everyone else does on an ordinary weekday night. We sat in a booth, my daughter and wife across from me. Dad look. Dad look," pointing passed me. a bald guy! you know, I say, some day I could be bald. But I don't want a bald father!
As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there's always hope. . .
I've never considered myself to be a conversationalist, in fact I've beat myself up for being boring, for having nothing to say at the moment when something obviously needed to be said. Yet here I am writing poems, the written form of conversation.
I sat there with her sitting on my lap. Much bigger than she use to be —held in my arms. And I'm watching her and I'm thinking. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking, will I forget this too. And now I'm trying to remember all those moments I swore I'd never forget. They're lost in some [...]
I thought about you, when you were so tiny, and how there was no way I could have imagined you'd be the spark you are today—though why would I've wanted to? you were perfect then, and anything you turned out to be would've been perfect too. I couldn't help but realize, while you pointed out [...]
Tonight we sat down, just the three of us, to read a book; the wants and needs, the friction of life fades away; because all we have we want, and it really doesn’t matter which book we read -if it’s the one with the fallen leaves, or the famous steed - because the warmth of [...]