After the risen
takes a rest the rest is not
so easy to find
Practicing our wow
faces takes more time than not
in direct sunlight
There is a first time
for everything but story
lives are measured by
How we wake one day
and know how body has changed
still unrecognized
Walking a new path
beside friends waiting for snacks
do a double take
Here I am—did you miss me?
Category: Poems
-
Easter Haiku
-
Haiku Vigil
Astonishment is
a trait of the night ending
before the darkness
What makes a flame rise
other than words spoken then
repeated again
We know emptiness
is not yet the end of this
being what we are
The night was meant to
turn morning into dancing
a circuit complete
Of course body is
a part of the earth—witness
blossoms yet to be
-
Lullaby in Minor Key
In the back row
of the solemn service
head on my shoulders
I wonder how
to encourage my child
to not participate in Empire
that would put to death
for instance an innocent figure
associated with education.
I turn her head away
from intermittent flashing
lights through stained glass
grateful each verse
of these once a year hymns
are quiet enough to keep
her awake but still in my arms.
The words emphasize
too much individual sin.
On the drive home
I shift the rear view mirror
so that the lights
from aggressive tailgate drivers
do not interrupt her reverie
before the inevitable
overtired cries on the way
to a temporary bed.
If only evil itself
could be a gesture or
a glance away from presence.
This story gets retold
at least once a year.
-
Screen Fatigue
For a moment
staring at herself
on the screen
smiling indiscriminately
interrupted by her mother
on the other screen
at the quiet service
brings on the breakdown
twilight after the storm
she had had enough
reached maximum fun
and cried until bed
I reflected how
the lateness of the hour
changed perception
at eleven months
perhaps senses undeveloped
could comprehend
the replication of sight/sound
at a distance as only loss
in that not dissimilar to us
staring at ones and zeros
bits we keep unbidden
as approximation of life
only we have filtered
to improve appearance
these reticent tears
now with extra in person
false smiles we knew before
to keep under masks
all we have left after
so much loss unheard
seeking lullabies to comfort
us rocking sobbing gently
as shadows of the evening
streak across the sky
-
Yellow Submarine
Sometime after we had set down
the first book we gave to her with
silhouettes of boats and butterflies
in black and white that
she is still entranced by
we sat facing each other
and noticing the silence I sang
a camp song we have been singing
about hippopotamuses
at which she somewhat squealed
after a pause rather than refrain
I was inspired to sing a song
that might have been sung to me
at this age that I am sure I have
played for her at some point though
she glared at me as if either trying
to learn the song or wondering
what had gotten into me
I almost thought I forgot the lines
then remembered they are ingrained
in me and why not no matter
how much time has passed or hasn’t
the song is always with you and new
and our friends are all aboard
many more of them live next door
and the band begins to play
-
All Sing
Repeat the word repeated
in the ba- ba- ba- book
not only because every
character
sings the same refrain
but as a way
to say want, turn the cover
in her hands
front ways back ways up-
side down
hold at last planting wet
“kisses”
on the image, sealing
the sound
together with witness
this still new
body hearing infinity
in a syllable
Ah ah ah—Allelu
also with you
-
The Ground Beneath
Not surprising the way
she points to what a word
refers to
semantic structuralism
revealed the way slightly
warmer weather
uncovers toes she knows
gives expression as in
a conductor’s baton
flexing the muscle
ambulatory story time
the trees listen to
vowel exclamation
the entire windowless
world an echo
somehow manifest
this wordless smile
the hand taking
a photo caught
reflected in iris
you knew this
of course
-
Then Her Eyes
What to make of this
rapt attention to
the light streaming
between window shades?
A bit of unfiltered plasma
billions of years
in the making making
it to these sofa cushions
in the hush afternoon
of fingers and pages.
Reflection not shadow
catches glinting eyes
as if to intimate
a babbled recognition
reaching for the brilliance
from whence we came?
But that is too facile
as if it could be known
what speaks through light
with silent words.
How else do we know
what eyes are seeking
without this fumbled
grasping for air
we think is there
until the slant shifts
and we close our eyes
unsettled, resist.
-
Track Changes
Still not used to getting
used to you shaping
your mouth into the shape
of awe—a new trait
while staring at our pictures
we framed to put on the wall
before you had eyes
starting to stare at us with.
We might remember
to mention this the next time
someone asks what you are
getting up to—either
that or how often we notice
how your head has grown
even after a short nap or
how often we take pictures
to stare at when you sleep.
Some of these changes
we track as they pass—
some we lose sight of
as nothing changes at all.
For all we know you were
always here waiting for us
to be ready for you
finding things that were
always there hiding underneath
now suddenly out in the open
staring in wonder at
for instance—trees.
-
Overwhelmed
By the urge to pee
in the middle of a night
missing an hour
remembering anxiety
as a thing to be
remembered
how much time
has passed in my lifetime
encompassing other lives
regrettably no longer here
lost in their youth
(age is always too young)
how much time has gone
by way of losing itself
accumulation of numbers
left to be counted
by those who after us
some of whom are here
sleeping in the other room
have no thought of time
other than a face
knowing no age
just these decades piled up
we might return to
sometime in the future
which pasts us by
eventually
sleep returns emptied of us
Joshua Keiter 