Sitting With The Weight Of The World On My Lap

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 kind of
silence that somehow knows
there’s something missing.
That’s some scary shit. Because
I can see a future where I don’t
even recognize the love
that got me to that point.
There is, however, a little pin-
prick of light, a bit of
hope in the mess
I’m sitting in; I can feel
the joy. I can feel the remnants
of the joy those memories
held, in my bones, those memories,
they’re in my heart, and now
I think if I were to continue
this contemplation the feeling
would grow and my rib cage would crack.

Now I’m snapping out of it.
Now it’s clear; it’s no wonder
I can’t remember.
I’m not even here.

A Thousand Years of Laundry in a Single Afternoon

Afternoon sunlight through the blinds, a pile of clean clothes on the bed, we do laundry together on Sunday afternoon. It’s nothing we’ve made a habit of yet, but maybe a few years from now it’ll be our weekly chore we do together. You’re great at finding sock matches. I’m shocked by your willingness, and no matter how many times I write it in my head, I know there’s no poem that could do this moment justice.

It’s like solar winds burning away layers of self-incrimination, to make a return to the heart.

River Days

River Days

the sun basks in the sea-sky, cottonwood flashes in the breeze like water in a stream. we the people wonder, will the river birds show up today?

people sit and listen to the jazz band play jazz with an undertone of funk. while a group of 6th graders holds up the ice cream line.

We the people.

black mothers in sunday summer dresses and their friends in v-necks. latinos conversate;

the caballero with two daughters —one painting a horse, the other a bright pink pig. both meticulously painted.

dad is laying back, but also giving instruction when needed. i follow his lead. he offers his chair to my wife. we smile and make eye contact.

We the people.

the old look after the young, while the young watch out for the old.

two policemen chat, arms folded, sunglasses on,
and jump to smiles and high-fives as soon as a kid walks by.

We the people.

dads push strollers. moms walk with toddler in hand.

fire hose spray, a rush of children trying get soaked
and the kids and firemen laugh together.

We the people.

the endless river smoothing stones, polishing the light of day. a drifting canoe works it’s way through the languid shallow water.

Dragonflies never seem to stop catching the eye.

We the people
We the people
We the people


The duck race at Renton River Days

This poem is for those that believe that they can learn something about themselves in the way they read poetry.

I wrote this after our family trip to the annual Renton River Days, a festival celebrating the summer season and the water in general. A part of Seafair, a week long celebration around the greater Seattle area. So much talk about race relations and this group v that group and you go out to a community outing and there is none of that. More and more interaction you have you may start to notice it’s just not there, not the way it seems within the media and political powers. It’s up to us, to you and me -We, to not let the talk run away with us. Thanks for reading!