Tag Archives: poetry

Fathers and Sons, Righteous riffs

A whole new day ….

So, um, all of this happened.

Even if I had the time or inclination to squeeze it all into a smaller suitcase for you, I’m not sure I would. 

It’s just too damn good. 

Not the writing itself … just the events as they unfolded. 

This is me reminding myself that the most important choice is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place. 

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Couple weeks ago when the big blizzard hit, I was supposed to be in Lexington with my oldest for a boys weekend I’d gifted him / us for Christmas.

Our annual-ish pilgrimage to Kentucky to see the Wildcats men’s basketball team play. 

Given the forecast I couldn’t see us making it back home on Sunday, which would’ve made a mess of Monday … which would’ve spilled all over the rest of the week. 

So the night before the Friday we were supposed to leave, I made the tough call to cancel. 

It was the responsible choice … even though it broke my heart.  

Got screwed on our Air BnB, as our host had sub-zero interest in even a partial refund. 

Lost out on our tickets, too, which weren’t at all cheap when I’d got ‘em at Christmas, and rendered all but worthless by the weather.

The heart-breaking part, though, was missing out on spending time with my son. 

He’s just good light to be around.  

Bummed and with nothing to do but wait for the snow that would require so much shoveling, I made a conscious choice.

I spent time imagining the weekend we might have had. 

What we might have done. 

Seen. 

Tasted. 

Noticed.

Wrote my imaginings down in my journal. 

In minute detail. 

Wasn’t the same, but it was warmer than wallowing. 

And it allowed me to lavish some of my ever-fraying attention on what I appreciate about the gift of spending time in my son’s good light.

For the rest of the weekend, when I wasn’t shoveling or snow-blowing, I was imagining. 

Treated it as if I was making myself a big ole’ pot of soup with no recipe.  

Had no intentions of doing anything with it. 

Just wanted to metaphorically stand in front of a boiling pot and inhale the steam while it all cooked down and the snow fell. 

Nothing more than an exercise to keep my attention productively occupied.

Until a couple days later, I remembered that I owed my friend Jim a letter. 

Had not sent him anything yet in the new year. 

I try to make my letters worthy of Jim’s attention. 

In reciprocity for the treasure he shares with me. 

Jim’s a gifted poet. 

In his 90’s. 

Health has been failing him as of late. 

Still writes. 

Often achingly, always beautifully. 

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the act and the substance of what Jim shares with me. 

For starters, he hand writes everything … in wobbly but persistent, near-calligraphic penmanship. 

Sends me photocopies of his hand-written stuff. 

The intentionality of just that — let alone how he makes words dance — fills my heart. 

Our last correspondence was a golden phone call one evening a couple months ago, when he called just to let me know how much our correspondence means to him … and apologized that his short breath has kept him from going upstairs (where the printer is) to make me photo copies of his latest poems. The act of him, despite his circumstances, calling me … just to let me know that? 

Better than getting a letter in the mail, let me tell you. 

Though lately confined to the downstairs of his house, Jim’s aperture on the world remains wide.

He lets so much light in.  

Despite his body failing him from a long life’s wear, his poet’s eye, ear and heart remain undiminished. 

I find myself often saying aloud how I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90’s.

In the days after the blizzard … seeing all the snow on the ground, I imagined that he probably felt even more cooped up than we did. 

I tried to think of something I could send him that he might appreciate, but nothing came to mind. 

I hadn’t written anything lately that I felt was worthy. 

Then it hit me. 

Maybe he’d appreciate some of the soup I’d been toiling over … about the weekend I never had.  

So I sloppily ladled some of it onto a page, stuffed it into an envelope, and dropped it into the mail. 

This is what I sent … 

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“Thursday, Jan. 27, 2026 7:49 a.m. 

Dear Jim,

I hope this note finds you keeping warm. Karry just left for work, I think it’s one degree out. I am working remotely today so am anticipating a day of not having to leave the house, other than to walk to the mailbox and drop a postcard in the mail for Emma. 

Oh, the weather of the world. 

This past weekend Peter and I had planned to make our annual pilgrimage to Lexington to go see the Kentucky Wildcats play. We’ve done it for three or so years. Thursday night we decided to cancel our plans. I didn’t see us being able to make it back on Sunday, and we both needed to be home for work on Monday. The Air BnB host wouldn’t give us a refund, and we lost out on our tickets, but most of all, I just missed the experience of spending the weekend together with Peter. So, rather than wallow in disappointment, I decided to alchemize my circumstances … decided to write a story as if I was writing a journal entry commemorating the trip I imagined us having. Since I approached it as a journal entry, I allowed for the requisite frayed edges … 

A brief excerpt 

Saturday 

I’d be the first one up, maybe a small pot of coffee, a deep inhale from a half-full bag before scooping grounds, let myself be seduced by the slow, gurgling percolation … pour a half-cup into one of the host’s old mugs fished from the cabinets, scribble a few words at whatever desk or counter, a weekend post card from Kentucky to Em … coax Peter awake early enough for … a cold walk over to Stella’s, ceremonially donning our Big Blue gear before heading out, he lending me a jersey from his collection, I’d pick John Wall given the choice.

We’d wait for two together at the counter to open up, and I’d rub my hand over the old coin embedded in the worn and weathered wood … confirmation.  

Soak it all in like maple syrup … the tattoos and bleary-eyed chatter of the staff too young too early for a Saturday morning, listen for whatever they’re playing, maybe Tyler Childers … 

… scan the poems framed on the walls on the way to the bathroom, one about Fallingwater … catch clips of expectant, game-day banter buzzing from the tables as I pass through. 

Warm my hands around a mug of black coffee Kentucky straight from a fresh pot … 

… agonize with Peter over our day’s biggest decision … go with Stella’s Hot Brown – the work of the angels — or just eggs, bacon, home fries well-done and those biscuits I sometimes dream about … yeah, proly that, leave the Hot Brown to legend. 

He’d ask the girl about the steak and eggs … sometimes we’re just looking for someone in this world to help us say yes. 

After ordering, the expectation and my topped off cup enlivening our conversation, I’d ask him his top 5 favorite Wildcats of all-time, and he’d give the cosmic question the attention it deserves … Herro, SGA locks for him, me, I’d proly reach all the way back to my first favorite, Kenny “Sky” Walker, who used to glide so gracefully from on high when he’d throw ‘em down … we’d refine and adjust our lists like safe-cracking thieves listening for confirming clicks til our waitress returns to put our plates down in front of us. 

Us just staring like beggars for a couple respectful seconds … and before reaching for the salt and pepper … one of us would certainly say Grace out loud … and oh my gosh … is there anything better than first bites?

Couple years ago a wise person gifted me the notion that, wherever we are, whenever we are, it’s an opportunity to ask the question, “What’s for me here?” It’s baked in the idea that things don’t happen to us, they happen for us. That we always have agency despite our circumstances. That’s among the reasons I remain soooooo inspired and grateful for both the act and the substance of your writing, Jim. I remind myself that the most important choice that you make is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place. 

Keep writing, my friend …  “

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Got home after 9 p.m. just this past Friday night, after meeting my wife and son for a comfort-food-filled dinner after a long Friday that dropped anchor on an already long week.

Proceeded upstairs, slow-dragging eff bombs across a few of the steps, sloppy-mop-style, as my right knee reminded me it is just not happy with me these days.  

But before trudging down the hallway to get ready for bed, I stole a glance at the dining room table to see if there was any mail. 

Saw an envelope on the place mat in front of my chair. 

Stepped close enough to see my name scrawled in Jim’s persistent near-calligraphic hand. 

Thanked the universe aloud for giving my Saturday something to look forward to.

Next day … I exercised monk-like restraint in waiting until I was sitting in the front seat of my car in the parking lot across the street from where I’d just finished a transcendent Saturday morning coffee date with my niece …  to pluck Jim’s letter from my bag.

Whereupon I melted in place. 

There were two pages in the envelope. 

They weren’t photocopies. 

They were the genuine articles, hand-written on notebook paper. 

First page was a letter, dated Feb. 4. 

With Jim’s permission, this is what he wrote to me. 

“Pete, 

Thanks, your letter of imagining, shaking me out of my accustomed lethargy. 

Eliciting an immediate response, to your creativity — woke me up today. 

Dull winter days, lasting forever chill, testing my old will to find something new and challenging to do. 

Friends, like you, willing to take the time, and energy, to remember, with compassion, a lonely old man, far away, appreciated greatly — as we wait the renewed spring of life’s productivity. 

I daily, nightly, pray for all your family, for love, God’s strength, to enliven your hopes and activity. 

Keep sharing, and God be ever with you all. 

Love and care, 

Jim”

The note itself, poetry. 

But the second page contained the poem. 

Signed, dated and … 

"Dedicated to Pete and Son's Imagined day,"

Imagine That!

I salute man's unique gift of imagining,

bringing life to an entirely new world, 

of what might have been, 

setting his feet on streets where he's never been, 

feeling an intimate touch of impunity, 

looking into eyes never meant for me. 

Imagining, escape from a world of set destiny, 

freedom to create, in god-like accuracy, 

people, places and things, 

of sheer, imagined fantasy, 

perfectly fashioned and enjoyed, if only momentarily

my own separate world of autonomy. 

The coffee is perfect, the eggs even better,

the son at my side, a co-conspirator, 

not hindered by time, or other places to be, 

we idle, an hour, in a diner's protective imagery, 

reality forever bypassed, in this freedom's play,

to make a day go entirely our way. 

Having had our opportunity, in spite of a short dismay, 

life always has a way of disappointing us, 

I have created a whole new day, 

paper and pen and who's to say, 

which of the two will last the longest, 

in our time-clouded memory?

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Oh my gosh.

I hope to some day write as well as Jim writes in his 90’s. 

My heart was singing the entire 37-minute drive home from where I’d met my niece for coffee. 

Had to pee by the time I pulled in the driveway.

Climbed upstairs and made a beeline for the bathroom that sits off my bed room. 

On my way back through, I instinctively grabbed an old journal off my unmade bed. 

Cracked it open to some random page that, it turns out, wasn’t random at all, and read the words I’d been moved to scribble on a page on some forgotten day some years ago … with only a vague hunch that my someday heart might need them to help me make sense of a cold world. 

A quote from Rick Rubin. 

“We share our way of seeing in order to spark an echo in others. Art is a reverberation of an impermanent life. Enduring affirmations of existence.”

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From the thaw of a weekend-ruining blizzard … a poem for this world that would have never otherwise existed … 

… If I hadn’t imperfectly imagined what was lost … and shared my way of seeing it like thrown together soup

… to warm an old poet’s heart … moving him to write and share spring once again.

Every bit of all of it … nothing more and nothing less than the reverberations of impermanent lives. 

Enduring affirmations of our existence.   

A whole new day, paper and pen and who’s to say … 

which of the two will last the longest?

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 11: City Lights

Type “cathedral” into my brain’s large language model, you’ll get an image of 261 Columbus Avenue in San Francisco’s North Beach. 

This t-shirt unlocks so much for me … beginning and ending with the Pilgrimage.

Whenever work or friends would take me to San Francisco, I’d stay at the Hotel Rex on Sutter, which was part of Chip Conley’s Joie de Vivre collection of boutique hotels, each one inspired by a different magazine. The Rex was inspired by the New Yorker, and was designed to evoke San Fran’s literary salons of the 1920s and 30s.

Their lounge was The Library, all cushy chairs, reading lamps and the magical musty smell of old books (swoon).

Its atmosphere was cozily curated for unburdening … conducive to liberating one’s hands to alternate between a good book, a pen and paper, and a half-full glass of the house red.  

Make a left exiting the hotel, I’d walk the few blocks down to Bush, hang a left and climb its hill to the iconic Dragon’s Gate.

From there take a savoring stroll through North America’s oldest and largest Chinatown, a world unto itself. 

Keep walkin’ until I find North Beach. Make the right, slowing to a reverent saunter through Jack Kerouac Alley, pausing to bow and whisper read his pavement words etched in its center, “The air was soft the stars so fine the promise of every cobbled alley so great.”

And then, proof that alley promises come true: City Lights — Ferlinghetti’s fierce, tender, defiantly flickering eternal flame of a bookstore. 

Every single second I’ve spent walking amongst its stacks has been a replenishing.

The sound of one’s shoes creaking its old wooden floors while in slow-browse reverie? A poetry all its own. 

I love reading the staff’s hand-written recommendations slash love letters adorning the shelves as much as I do the books they hype.

The pleasure of stumbling upon treasure you didn’t even know to look for.

Going upstairs to the poetry room, where Ferlinghetti’s rocker — the ‘poet’s chair’ — still sits by the window in open invitation. 

Harvesting an armful of sustenance for the suitcase home.

Walking back to the Rex drunk on Kerouac’s soft air and fine stars, clutching my brown paper bag tightly as I imagine he did his.

 

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Postcards

Page’s

We pull in to the packed lot

tuck the Jeep between two parked

with their hatches open,

occupants saying “Ah,”

legs dangling like fishing lines over a dock

kicking lazy with life

we attach ourselves to the end of the long line

— last but not for long —

hugging three sides of the building

before unfurling

free

for ever and ever like a kite string

the longer the better

always the perfect length

for the moment’s the day’s the summer’s biggest decision

the choosing and unchoosing

and choosing, waffling, going back, entertaining, dismissing

granting ourselves wishes and permishes to change our mind

all of us, in all our shapes and seasons

every flavor of the same love

equal and equals in our expectancy

all of us, standing

under an ugly bridge upon cracked pavement

ice cream sandwiched between used car lots and abandoned buildings

a stop light and every so often

some poor motherfucker trying to make a left across a double line

coaxing occasional grace

but mostly impatient car horns and angry curse words out the window

from a world holding them accountable to knowing better

even though they are soooooooo close

until finally

we gain sight of the two windows in front

— the Swirly Gates —

and then …

it is

Time.

and despite 40 minutes in the car

and another 40 to decide

we still ask the young girl

we hope will always be here

for as long as there is a summer

to help us pick

between the extra large banana

or the large chocolate chip cookie arctic swirl

the oreo we had before

or the turtle we’ve never tried

and even after he makes his choice,

he hedges …

asks if it’s too late to change

— it’s not. It’s never too late here —

and so goes for the Large Marge Sundae

fuck yes he does

and we step back and wait

for the girl who took our order to make it herself

that’s how they do it here

she can take as long as she needs

take her own sweet time … we’re good.

Everybody here is good.

When she calls from the window our orders back to us

the kids in all of us spring forward, say thank you

and one-hand snap a few extra napkins for everybody

for the mess we always make

and for a few minutes we linger out in front

with the others still waiting, and us spooning,

just to be amongst

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Righteous riffs

The Greatest Tribute (Ode to Jim)

A letter arrived yesterday from my friend Jim.

My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.

To give myself something to look forward to.

And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.

My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.

He happens to be in his 90s now.

When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.

At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.

Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.

And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.

Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.

And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.

“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”

For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.

Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.

We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.

I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.

He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.

In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”

But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”

I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.

When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.

And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.

Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.

“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”

In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.

So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.

May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.

May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.

May we always (always) have something to look forward to.

If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.

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Postcards

Finding Whitman ….

Saturday, November, 16, 2024, 12:44 p.m.

While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).

Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.

Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.

And too good not to share with kindred spirits.


Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads 

To solid ground for all. 

*raises cup to meet the morning light

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Postcards

My Life In Politics

Sorting through the dozens of bins that my Mom lovingly slash compulsively stuffed with just about every artifact from my childhood — Andy Warhol style — I was recently reminded of my one and only foray (so far) into running for public office. 

My campaign for Safety Captain in the fourth grade.

From the forensic evidence, it looks like I had my sights set on the presidency, but was forced to pivot at the 11th hour. Not sure if I lost in the primary, or received insider info that I didn’t have the votes, but it seems forces conspired to turn my attention to a high-ranking cabinet position instead. 

Also from the forensic evidence, apparently “safety” was not on Miss Barkett’s spelling list that week. 

Not sure what motivated me to land on Safety Captain as my Plan B, but I am retrospectively impressed by my 4th grade resiliency. This may have been my first exposure to the adage, “When one door closes on one’s quest for world domination, another one opens up.”

Apparently I ran a successful grassroots campaign.

Looks like I took great care in drafting my platform.

Like Lincoln tweaking his famous address on the train ride to Gettysburg, the last couple lines added in pencil suggest a deliberate approach. I imagine myself scribbling between classes, or ruminating after getting eliminated in dodgeball.

Didn’t waste a word, though.

The 54-year-old typing this only wishes his aim was so true.

I must’ve worn the object on the right as a button, as it looks like there are a couple pin holes up top. Didn’t skimp on the professional head shot.

Ahem.  

I think (?) I may have won. Hatfield Elementary alum please fact check me on this. 

For all I know I may have run unopposed, but I’d like to believe my sincerity counted for something.

From what I recall I served a fairly uneventful term. 

To say it was a simpler time would be an understatement.  

And by that, I don’t mean pre-puberty, though that proly also helped make the execution of my responsibilities a little easier.  

I’d like to believe I kept my campaign promises. 

To work hard. To not fool around.

I hope I tried my best.

I hope they liked me. 

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