Remembering that brief moment
when I was a child
that I thought before the advent
of color photography
the entire world consisted
of black and white
which made sense to my mind
since that was how the time
was consistently rendered
and the figures you encountered
staring back at you lifeless and gray
could only ever have existed
in that state.
Our child may never have that impression
although her favorite book remains
an accordion of black and white images
the sheer accumulation of pictures
we have taken of her if they survive
whatever file format regression
awaits us in the near future
will convince her of the technicolor
regularity of her presence even
before consciousness coagulated
into the knowledge of things
existing apart from their representation
how much she already recognizes
an image in these pixels although
to her they may only be pixels
no doubt she knows their omnipresence
in all our lives reinforces their hues
all along this vast spectrum
dividing the one light into
constituent parts.
Tag: Poetry
-
Or a Color
-
Factor of Wow
At this point the position
of awe
has become her face’s default
even when encountering
something expected
in a mirror or hallway
the cats flashing their tails
during story time
a page followed by another
page ensuing in examination
of the spine
inspecting the collocation
as a matter of course
some books stay
open even when they close
their memory imprinted
like creases
increasing on either cheek
evidence of how
sometimes
the only response to suddenly
being alive is wow
-
Open Houses
All day the house
with open windows
at the mercy of
mowers passing by
bringing their noise
disturbing my child
at the point of sleep
also the scent unheard of
for many months if not
more—how smell is
the seat of memory
bringing these other
houses into focus for
a moment which after
all is all we have
why not spend the loveliest
day we have had so far
in thrall to nostalgia
that is not even lost
witness how a day alive
is one day more to remember
the smell of a house
cut grass and wood shards
splinters of the past
at the edge of identified
blurry at the circumference
but dangling ever so
persistently in my lungs
-
First Drafts
A little bit tired
of realizing time
accumulates whether
you want it or not
an improvement
to be sure on
the alternative
but dispiriting
to know the youth
you used to know
is still as young
as it ever was
only now it was
so long ago
you have trouble
keeping up with
the changes that happen
in the interim
at least it all gets
written on eternity
who knows where it ends
despite longevity
the paragraph not even
indented yet
-
Easter Haiku
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?
-
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.
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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
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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
Joshua Keiter 