Enuf.

The weatherman promises that the temperature
will 
only 
get to 92 this afternoon,
a disappointment
after yesterday’s 95,
so he focuses
on the heat index, which will again
reach triple digits.
This makes him happy,
reveling in the potential for suffering
of others,
as he stands
in climate controlled comfort
in front of the map showing
thunderstorms in the west,
thunderstorms that could bring relief,
thunderstorms that could cause flooding,
thunderstorms that will likely never reach us,
thunderstorms like the ones that have disappointed him before.
Still the weatherman chirps on, 
warning of flooding,
development of devastionesses,
heat, storms five days from now,
ignoring that patch of perfect weather
we will experience (if he’s right)
for the next four days,
of no interest to him,
instead pointing out a subtropical front
in the Gulf  that has a 20 percent chance
of becoming something more,
but will never reach us, 
the weatherman caressing it, coddling it
like a child ‘with promise.’
That’s enough fantasy, I think,
as I leave him
and go to do something
useful.

So—
Jesus raised Lazarus
from the dead
ordered him wrapped 
in white, 
symbolism indeterminate.
Jesus—
I’m sure like many 
of those in attendance—
wept,
reason indeterminate.
Was it exhaustion
(raising people from the dead
can take it out of a person)?
Was He weeping for Lazarus,
raised from the dead
only to die again,
the white wrapping
symbolizing his second death?
We do not know if Lazarus wept. 
We know nothing of Lazarus
from then on, only 
he was with his family,
would become
an object of curiosity
and perhaps fear,
and would die again.
Even then, we’re just guessing
Was Jesus weeping 
for all who die,
especially those who die alone
in pain    afraid
without comfort
and hope of resurrection?
Was Jesus weeping
for Himself,
Lazarus being a foreshadowing
of His own suffering and, death
and rising from the dead?
So
Jesus wept,
but then dried his tears
and moved on 
to the next village
the next miracle
to destiny.

Excuses

Dear Teacher,
I notice that
in the elaborate chart you use
to detail the sins, absences, and failings
of the papers we submit,
(on a form longer 
than the papers themselves),
I have once again come up short
in the ‘fulfills assignment’ category.
Since I have consistently received
good to excellent marks in
content
organization 
tone
word choice
persuasion 
spelling
logic
comprehensiveness
conciseness and
coherence,
I can only imagine
that once again the length of my essay
is my downfall,
written as it is
on my dearly departed Aunt Mary’s
Smith-Corona typewriter,
which she gave to me 
as I embarked on my college adventure.
She chose the machine 
as if it was an extension 
of her very self—
small, but with sharp elite type,
which reinforced the messages
she sent to the local editor
excoriating (her word) 
the local town council
for failing to maintain streets
noisy homeowners and businesses
slovenly parks
neglected libraries
and suspension of the Memorial Day parade.
I feel Aunt Mary’s sharp language,
sharper wit, focus and reasoned arguments
sparking my own creativity 
her wisdom tucked between the keys
rubbing off on me
as I type my assignments
which, in addition to
their conciseness
and responsiveness to assigned topics
are also an homage to
the long and glorious history
of American typography.
But the elite type, refined as it is,
puts two extra words on each line,
meaning my 500 words fit compactly
onto a page and a half,
where my pica-typing classmates
stretch their words to cover
the whole two pages,
to say nothing of my computer using classmates with their space hogging
Bookman and Avant Grde fonts and
suspiciously wide spaces between lines.
Hoping for grade improvement,
and understanding,
your student
John M.
(row 4, seat 3).

Mama prayed to the moon.

Mama prayed to the moon.
We saw her sitting and gazing
leaning against that window ledge
in the dining room,
the one with the best view of the evening sky,
the one where she wore away the paint
with her elbow,
the venetian blind opened just enough
so she could see pray
as the moon quietly cycled through the month.
She prayed harder when the moon waned,
hardest when the moon was dark,
her prayers willing it back into existence.
The waxing moon had its own strength
and required no help from her.
Instead she got instead of gave. 
Whenever we asked Mama 
about her prayers to the moon,
she denied she was praying,
like any good Methodist,
she prayed in church on Sunday morning
and called us silly to think such things.
Still, night after night, rain or shine, 
sometimes far into the night,
long after the dishes had dried
and we had gone to bed
she sat at that window,
watching, following, dreaming.
Sometimes she would hum,
a beautiful noise, without melody
from deep inside, which  made us afraid 
because of the worlds and emotions
they opened, a place where Mama
went beyond our reach.


Once 
she let slip
that she felt close to the moon, 
a source of strength, creativity, beauty,
forgiveness,
lifting her like it lifted the tides,
smiling on her with compassion.
Sounded like prayer to us.

miracles of math

committed by people
who were probably on the way
to looking up something else
but then, doodling 
in the margin of a notebook
discovered they could assign a value
to nothing, 
an arbiter 
between positive and negative
eternally ensuring that
the set of whole numbers 
would be odd,
no matter how large,


or people who
took a tangent
and drew it far
into nothing
from the point it touches
something,
like a teenage daughter
found by her father
in the back seat of the family sedan
with this week’s beau,
and in extending the tangent
drew math away from 
touching reality,
like the Piper of Hamelin
drew away first the rats	
and then the children.
No! I draw my own line
with George Boole
and the elegant simplicity
of no yes zero one
truth beauty 
false true
or    and 
maybe maybe not.
That is all we really know
or need to.

Old Eyes

The problem—
old eyes see 
all the colors
all the flowers
all the fledglings
all time
all history
mixing together
all the seasons
all the changes
all the years
all the memories,
like editing software immediately changes
a photo—
soften the focus, remove 
a lost love,
fuzz the edge, sharpen
the center,
see only black & white, or sepia.
All the experience, gathered at the edges.
events cropped, the frame adjusted
until the picture is the story
that we want to remember 
to tell. 
The eyes of youth
may be unclouded by life,
but are no more clear
or perceptive.
They can make the same adjustments
to memory
on the fly.