Screen time today such as
it was involved letting
the Apple TV fall asleep
to initiate the screensaver
of recent activity in our
photo albums that mostly
concerned capturing our
child in various states of
having faces to which we
can only reply (by we I mean
mostly me) just look at that face
this is that face our child
may be taking after us
calling out to every object
in her vision this is that
object and this is another
and this is something else
the only one of its kind
in the whole world like it just look
Tag: DadPoem
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Look
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Cleaning Up
Twinge of shame
as I survey the kitchen
there’s less to clean up
happy for a night without
yogurt and crumbs
in hidden crevices
sad our kid still under
the weather eating
and playing less
while teeth move in
however temporary
we might need to help
brush them for another
ten years or so must be
plenty of slow nights
still on their way
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Talks About Music
Still growing cautious
of introducing our child
to cultural artifacts we know
are unrecoverable, even as
I scour the library book sale
for a second day searching for
what I remember. What will
we do when she becomes
so attached to them she wants
to meet them, hug them
in a full spontaneous embrace
as when the six year old pianist
Niki Hoeller was so overwhelmed
by meeting Mister Rogers
and playing for his television
neighbors and operating trolley,
Niki needed to hug Mister Rogers,
however awkwardly, upon leaving.
Or when in the very next visit
Mister Rogers himself so overcome
with the emotion of Yo-Yo Ma
playing the cello he felt the same
impulse to embrace the musician.
I remember what might have been
a created memory, a cassette tape
of my brother meeting Mister Rogers
and saying “I love you” to him
and Mister Rogers saying the same
in reply. I have no idea if such
a cassette even exists in our history
or if I may have witnessed
such an occurrence on TV
and transposed the moment
as familial. Our child now sings
Mister Rogers songs in a medley
of her own making, letting one word
prompt her to another song
with the same word. Little wonder
then when she gives us a big hug
we are grateful at our meeting.
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Theatre Hiatus
So many aspects of life
I spent years trying to recover
extended hiatus all part of the job
seeing productions take the stage
fleeting photos on social media
disjuncture of feeling left out
and having no idea how I would
manage to memorize lines let alone
audition in this bedraggled state
of course another life takes place
in absentia the child now performs
songs complete with their motions
before the probably on too long TV
I capture with my camera anticipating
the feeling of her first performance
I am increasingly convinced will occur
sooner rather than later as opposed
to my return to the stage I have no
desire to attempt at all any time soon
so many lines to attend to
so much unrepeatable rehearsal
as the song plays again and again
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Time Block
Spent part of nap time today
watching a video describing
how time past present future
are basically an illusion
that we could visualize time
as a static block in the universe
where all past present future
happens or happened all at
once and I could sense
that must be true how else
to explain the familiar feeling
of every day with this child
how their aspect resembles
myself and others as if I
already knew who they are
going to be by virtue of
knowing they arrived from
that part of myself I know
resides somewhere in this
universe as it is another way
of thinking about time is
a squiggly line atop the static
of the past as uncertainty
of a future that has not
happened unfolds in a multitude
of nows as it is when their hair
is tousled to the point of tangles
sometimes it settles simply
with a slight brushing aside
and sometimes not
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Paper Backs
Surprised by a box of books
from another house barely
surviving forty or fifty years
some spines hardly holding on
some with semi-psychedelic colors
illustrating imaginative renderings
of what could be waiting behind
wrapping paper for a speedy delivery
sweet pickles teaching the alphabet
with unusual animal names
some books had my name inscribed
more than once some also had
my brother’s name crossed out
these hand me downs of hands
flipping pages our child asks
to go back to a book she already
knows her pristine copy dogeared
yes but nothing compares to this
quintessence of dust and glue
even asking for pages far forward
toward the end of the book
she asks in clearest syllables go back
go back
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Pop-Pop Loves Owls
Words are flowing out like
never before in this home
child runs the hallway
announcing every architecture
says let’s play piano or blocks
make a house turn on the light
up the stairs remembers
which room was Pop-Pop’s
now it is the room for her sleep
as we lullaby and story the day
she reminds herself and me
the stuffed animals on the shelf
were Pop-Pop’s favorite
she will keep the things
we already forget we pass on
and say them aloud again
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Best and Worst Feeling
Why is it both
the best feeling
and the worst
to see the look
of anguish if not
outright terror
on the face of
our child refusing
to be lullabied
to bed by mother
instead reaching out
to my arms in protest
only mollified when
molded into the shape
of my shoulders as
moments quieten
recounting the day
and whatever song
does not cause
a stretching neck
to say a certain no
until the sense
that whispering
the words back to bed
will be repeated
and I can let our child
down into the crib
resisting sullen sleep
until I leave the room
as mother downstairs
monitors our child
still in grainy video
fast if her figure is
identifiable at all
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When the Day Is New
Hard to believe the child hasn’t grown
up some unimaginable leap
in the overnight hours
when we hear long before the alarm
we purposely set later to recover
from the week
a voice clear as the air enunciating
syllables reverberating through
strewn blankets
stuffed animals placed like an audience
the doors and walls no match
for those lungs
every word from start to finish of the song
almost personified by changing
out of sneakers
into street shoes out of zipper sweater
into sport jacket even in tune
the song itself
personifying everything we could feel
at this solitary moment that
then repeats
almost as if to say I’ll be back again
even as one day closes another
snappy new day begins
It’s such a good feeling to know you’re alive
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A Circle Altered
I pulled our child away from running to the altar
during the supposedly solemn services of Maundy
Thursday and Good Friday but perhaps inspired
by the newly acquired aforementioned plastic eggs
besides the theological implications of unbridled
unpremeditated action displayed for the congregation
to witness at slow moments of the service a hymn
sung legato a call and response burdened by rote
our child ran to mother (the pastor) briefly before
breaking loose under the rail around and around
the circular altar as if running laps unlike the distance
she never seemed to tire only pause occasionally
glancing in my direction to know I was still there
betrayed by one small outburst of I SEE YOU
a peek a boo we still play I hope she never grows
out of and based upon our visits with Mister Rogers
who never passes up an opportunity to cover his face
and uncover again to let us know he is still there
our child paid no mind to the seated multitudes
she might have known were drawn to her activity
there is probably no such thing as pure unself-
consciousness but our child embodied the quality
creating a new liturgy of limbs in motion for the sake
of motion for when they rolled the stone away
was that not the ultimate game of peek a boo?
what is a circle for if not to find ourselves running
around occasionally pausing to admire a blossom
following the path encompassed by the center
we never quite approach except to take a wafer
prepared there for imbibing or as our child would
have it carrying out from the sanctuary with firmest
grip until finding the right moment to savor it
Joshua Keiter 