French is not the easiest class to miss.
I missed almost two weeks straight
after Mom died
and a lot of other days before that
and now I am really behind.
Mom wanted me to take French
because she thought it would help
in ballet class.
Dad lost a couple of bids.
He says people are losing
the economy is bad.
The TV keeps warning
unemployment is up,
gas prices are up,
and people are fed up,
according to Dad.
I don’t know why he
has to watch,
it only makes him
yell at the TV.
Dad says we need to conserve
more than we have been.
Now the house feels cooler
and when I complain
to go outside and come back in,
then I’ll feel warmer.
Harriet and I spend our time bundled in
an extra layer of clothes
dragging around our afghans mom made
like giant moths in cocoons.
We are out of butter again.
to try using peanut butter.
Well isn’t the word
Harriett won’t eat her toast
and it just sits on the plate
like the floors
in this house
and suddenly one phrase comes to me.
Il fait froid.
Il fait froid dans la maison!
/The art of losing isn’t hard to master/
Click to read the rest of the poem –
A robin sings in the thicket on the edge.
The wind whisks through the twisted oaks.
Somewhere off in the distance
someone steps on the gas
and the exhaust ripples the morning air
and the Atlantic yawns beneath the front.
A new day.
The measured sawn board, sanded seat
parallel to the rise where the sappy roots dive
two ropes, worked through the holes,
knotted and plum.
My father pulls the swing, leans back over the edge of the world,
grasps the ropes with hands as scored as the inside of our wheelbarrow
the toes of his boots dig into the stubbled grass
behind the dirt patch launch.
Legs tucked, elbows bent,
a rocket ride promised to aim straight for the smiling sun,
the giddy countdown
the push, as we move forward together
the rush of the under duck, my legs unfold
reach to the robin’s egg sky above the pine bough
back to the bursting forsythias
back to him.
It catches my eye as I walk across the room
tawny spots, gray tinged slink across the snowmelt
right, left, right, left – like pendulums to her clock
clawless tracks of a wildcat, a string of calling cards
for the squirrel, the vole, the quick snowshoe hare
and here I stand at the slider, aware, my desk a cache
my camera zooms, focuses, clicks, hunts her down
she licks and preens, lithe and lynx-like in the copse
a crowned queen on her throne of stone, she’s alone
paws retract now, tuck in against the cold, eyes half-close
under gray sky, undercover in her coated mantle of instinct
At first they look at me as a teacher
from behind a podium.
I look at them as my teachers
as I sit cross-legged on the table
in front of open journals
and raised hands.
We are all learning and
we are all trying to express
just what that means.
A good Dad.
Who is he?
Sometimes it’s hard to put it into words,
sometimes all you need is a good idea
and some action
a warm smile
lots of love
some patience thrown in
a lesson or two
a kid at heart to follow
one little book with a tree swing in it
some elbow grease
pliers and a good hammer
a little helper
heavy duty bright yellow rope
Papa and Robert put up a tree swing after reading about one in a story.
connecting steel chain
a special swing
a ladder and a sturdy branch.
That’s a good Dad
that’s a dream come true.
Shared on Poetry Pantry #153 at Poets United.