Passion

                     in brief moments

it erupts

  bursting tears and laughter forth

  from a celebration of the senses

  phoenix born from another’s fire

other moments, a spark ignites

  slowly, nibbling, savoring

  all it takes in until

  it roars desire

melding with the soul

              it hungers for more

              craving to be, create, become

              the art that sustains

passion drives to do

               to go beyond mortal limits

               to the essence of true living

               expressing exuberant form

               in a clash of blood and spirit

               dancing and singing

               to live eternally

                                    in brief moments

That Guy

He may be that guy

that’s there at every game

cheering loud, or might be cursing the ref.

He may be that guy

that with few words to say,

is gruff, or might be a lullaby.

He may be that guy

that is at work, long on time,

chasing providence, or might be a dream.

Yet, he is that guy

that is there when needed like a hero,

no cape, but just as bold,

ready to leap, outside brave,

strong face, sturdy and dependable,

"don’t mess with my kids.”

He is that guy,

a paradox of close and distant,

gentle but rugged,

unbreakable yet bending.

He is that guy

that takes on a complex role

for a simple man

of being a father, a dad.

Yeah,

he is that guy.

Brick Girl

On good days, I see her

sitting on a low wall of bricks.

Sun shining in patches through

the leaves, touching highlights

of her cheek, her light hair,

her hazel eyes.

Serene, looking out

toward the road, statuesque,

in the bustle of others around her.

Her bag leans against the wall.

She sits with her

knees up, arms hugging her legs,

casually, relaxed and patient,

waiting for her ride.

In this pose upon brick

she floats, reflective like

a quiet song with Irish lilt,

harmony with airy whispers,

eyes dreamily smile toward

a vision not yet formed

but promising of beauty,

a mirror of her.

On gloomy days,

the wall grunged in rain,

she waits elsewhere,

and I wait for a good day

to see the brick girl

lazily, gently sitting

with a shadow of a smile

and warm grace in her eyes,

patient yet eager,

looking forward and waiting. 

Silver Shield on Blue

One week into the job

The rookie pulls a boy from a car wreck.

He clings tightly onto the blue uniform

But he doesn’t cry.

He is safe in the arms of the officer.

The new blue smiles ignoring pain and says a prayer,

            Michael and Jude, I am the protector,

            The one who faces impossible tasks.

            “I’m going to be a cop too,” said the boy.

            Yeah, this is what I do.

Some years and many miles on the road

Icing a twisted knee from a failed pursuit.

The officer pulls off the uniform that reeks

From the rousted whino.

A call comes from a former classmate with news.

One from their number has fallen in the line of duty.

            Michael and Jude, How can I protect

            And face the tasks ahead without purpose?

            Checking on your toddling child a siren echoes in the distance.

            Yeah, stroking the little head, I can continue to do.

Partners have come and gone, cars have changed.

Knee surgery and temporary desk duty have added a few pounds,

Slowing the step and tightening the blue collar.

Ol’ Cap is hospitalized from stress on the heart.

Whiskey bites the throat

Its all been the same, nothing ever changes

            Michael and Jude, I need some protection

            and help with the job I do.

            On the table , drawn in crayon, is a boxy car and officer in blue.

            Yeah, that’s the trick, I can go on a few.

Its an odd bit a fate that has brought the circle round

Yesterday, a trouble teen said ‘thanks’ and gave a hug.

Today, at the academy, an unusual invite did bring.

A new officer gets inducted and acknowledged today.

The boy from the car.

He shakes your hand with strength the way you did back when.

You pass on a gift of Don Quixote with the inscription that read,

            “Michael and Jude, To Serve and Protect

            Is an impossible job to do.

            Yet, Quixote did manage to joust a windmill.”

            Yeah, you salute, silver shield on blue.

In the Game

Stop the ball.

Hands high, shoulders low

Eyes focused like a huntress.

She defends the court.

Shuffle and run; run and shuffle

Denial is her purpose.

Ball!

Hungry, a split second to swipe

She pounces on a lose ball.

Banging against her opponent

Bone slamming wood

Skin scorching the wax.

Dish it off.

Pass to the guard

Her knee is bruised,

Burning from the slide.

Sweat trickles at her temple.

Strands of hair dance as she moves.

Pop a pass.

Swing it right and cut.

Reverse the ball back around.

Weave through and set the pick.

Zap, the ball slams her hands

Drive the lane, quick and sure.

Delicate of the glass.

Step high and power up.

Soar above the hands.

She rolls her wrist with grace.

A gentle kiss in the square.

Her eyes shine then flicker.

Stop the ball…

Helmet to the Stone

Late October, on a cool Friday night,
the battle done for the season.
A young man in gridiron gear
stopped at a rock at the base of a flag
placed in memory of a dedicated coach
and put his helmet to the stone.

The polymer plastic gritted against
the great rock, and its chiseled words.
He held it there, his head down in
a private moment of silence.
Not far away, fans marched by seeing
him with his helmet to the stone.

The player, sweat soaked and muddy,
bloodied knuckles, hair plastered to his head,
stoically poised, a picture of youth,
of hard work and of love for the game,
reflected heart, pride and sadness
with his helmet to the stone.

Letters cut with steel deep into the rock
say a name and date of a man
who passed on a legacy of character
to all the players who took the field with him.
Late October, a player, a boy at heart, 
proudly, reverently, put his helmet to the stone.

(a verse for Duane)
Years later, early July, some hot days.
The battle fought, another hero gone.
He played for the love. He played hard
As an Oriole, Chippewa, Crusader, and Patriot.
His heart held community and family close.
“Five more minutes,” helmet to the stone.

Blue Eyes Looking Forward

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Blue eyes, looking forward, bright and bold

Proud and playful, the smile does show

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Free spirit, launching with wings aglow

Beauty and brains break the mold

Standing tall, chin firm, ready to go

Blue eyes, looking forward, bright and bold

A woman of strength is stepping forth

With dreams to achieve, the world to change.

Her heart beats firm with immeasurable worth

A woman of strength is stepping forth

To make an indelible mark upon the earth.

Stars and possibilities are within her range

A woman of strength is stepping forth

With dreams to achieve, the world to change.

This style of poetry with the repetition and rotation of lines is known as a pantoon.

A poem was requested by Alicia (center) and Liz (right) as their graduation gift. This is their poem, but it does include Rachel (left), who graduated a year earlier