2009 poems

on mother's day in hannibal, MO 2009

I.
Missouri welcomed us with the outstretched arms of midwest charm.
Coaxing dreams of the city from our feet.
Inviting us to stay for a weekend, meet the family, and
listen to the river.

II.
And now there's a streetlight on at the station by the tracks.
It's flicker illuminates the gravels in the parking lot-
a desert of broken bottles dreaming of a bar fight.
A place where people pace.
plan to plan,
kiss and ride

III.
away from the bustle of city streets.
The screeching tires of taxi cab drivers clamoring from light to light.
Away from the people who are in it only for the money.
That man on the corner.  The one I'm not suppose to make eye contact with.

IV.
I wanted to buy you flowers while we were in Mark Twain's home town-
the red ones that were being sold out of the back of that black van.

V.
That night after walking you to your room I counted over 100 things that I would love to say to you.  Collapsing onto the hotel bad as the hallways closed up.
My shirt still clinging to my chest
from where you were pressed against me.

VI.
Stairwells use to remind me of
kids who can't control themselves

but, now all that comes to mind are those lighthouse steps.

VII.
For moments are often made golden
by the amount of heart measured into them.

IX.
We celebrated the accomplishments of your sister the following day.
She would smile if she knew that I saved
the real claps for her.

We all loved the bag pipe player.
Because few things are as impressive as a man who refuses to
run out of breath.

When the sun came out to pose for pictures
I could feel it spreading its warmth across the lawn,
coating the afternoon in shine.

XII.
Longfellow once said that a boy's will is the wind's will.
He wonders where we will be when we can comprehend how our memories
rest and rise on the currents that carry your eyes to mine.
For I am a boy composed of compass needles.
Focused.
Determined.
A spot of glue.
Constant.
Constantly
concerned with charm;
Something smooth, something new.
This life is a series of lines,

and,
I couldn't be happier that mine        all lead me      to you.

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From Town Of Same Name

There is a place where empty streets sing
Of a wondrous past and once realized dreams
Lined by silhouette shadows of Montpelier's best
Believe it or not, you are a part of its past.
For this town belongs to you as much as to me
It's where your life should probably be
All around daydreams sweep through its trees
Mocking old tales of faraway meets
When from a town of similar name
You would visit, but wouldn't remain
And oh, what would I give to have that again?
My only excuse to bring you close
Fingers are shaky, thoughts take off
And this will plague me for the rest of the day
Knowing that at one point in time, we weren't so far away.

History books sing praises of efforts to bring us together
They line my shelfs, and I will read this outloud...

"History tends to repeat itself."

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Hushed

I hate these lengthy lines of loose-end dialogue.
The fumbled words that
pace along paneled floors
and strike poses each time she enters the room.
Lying beneath low-level library lights,
this elevator awkwardness
won't let me breathe in the words I want to whisper.

Across blank pages,
thumb-tacked to bulletin boards.

Steering through the
cobblestones of Parkway Drive.
A view of historic houses,
a race to run out of time.
And the trees,
appear to be blanketing the sky.

I have walked through these lackluster lights.
Strewn between pine trees,
the sky, a massive sink,
dripped drops of stars in between the leaves.

Leaning in layers, I felt myself
falling for the moonlight
peaking through those pine needles.

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eleven months

Only at the end of these winter nights, the cold caressing the windows outside-
does my heart find its beat.  Sure and steady as the sounds of passing feet.
Each step pounding against the pavement as the world races to run out of time.

And I remember when I first woke up in this city.
I could hear the rush of traffic outside and the wind ripping through the streets.
A morning of hope that was far too scared to breathe.

Now, eleven months later, I am still waking up to the city.
The same one that I fell in love with last November.
We still sink into the same skyline, and you still want to tie my shoes.
The picturesque places that plastered a scene behind us last year
are still painting backdrops for our story.

I've pressed my love in between these pages as a reminder of our novel nights.
For you have always been worth the prettiest of words.
When my fingers are at their swiftest, nimblest, most charming of states,
they still fumble over finding the perfect things to say.
Yet even through my flaws, even when my words trip past my tongue
and heave themselves into a pile on these pages -even when I
nearly lose my balance on a patch of ice at the South Bend airport-

You still see a perfection in me,
and I am still yours and you are still mine.

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fountain nights

You literally kicked me in the head tonight.
And,
then exclaimed that it
was a classic moment.

Classic.
Like the time we bought ice cream from Osco
and my little handwriting
saved us several dollars.

Or the first time you showed me your hands.

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three minute songs

A tin car tracks its way into the city,
pushed along by steam and a constant drive to
be free of the country.

Only thirteen more three minute songs,
until the city air will stumble into my lungs.
One exhale, a single chord struck,
and my thoughts will align themselves against the tracks.
Do you remember when you held my hand in the art museum?
The way the paintings seemed to pace against the walls
reminded her of how I can never sit still when
we whisper.

I notice the buildings stretching their limbs over everything.
And I wish that these thoughts could fly,
ink up this page with line after line of perfectly
plotted love thoughts.  However, my love for you
chooses to take ginger steps through each sentence.

My love has a collection of
John Cusack movies and refuses to let
Bill Murray sit anywhere near them.
And, my love for you has its own house.
A house cluttered from basement to rooftop
with strung out maps and compass needles.
Consider the clarity felt when my love and your love
wind up in the same room.

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on the first day of spring

The apartment was quiet last night.
Lindsey's feet were lying in piles on the floor,
and the city was dressed in clouds.

Morning light stretched its limbs
across the street, and for some reason I couldn't
stop thinking about her hair, and the way
it pulls from her face when fanned by
the turning of a page.

I remember thinking to myself-
All I want is to lay here with her.
Framed by the sliver of city shining through the edges of the curtains.

And I thought about how she finally took my picture yesterday.
and all I wanted was to turn it around
and capture how perfect she looked

on the first day of spring.

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the ink canopy

Chad crumples his poems with one hand.
The weight of blue ink has always been a bit too much,
and his fingers are beginning to cramp.

Retiring from those four lines of carefully crafted
storybook has cost him his ending.
Instead his pen strokes pool together to form a parachute
plummeting an obtuse man into Afghanistan.

Crashing through a skyline whose veins
have been set in September; the only resilient month.

He spies the ground.
The fastest greens and browns that he has ever seen,
and he thinks of a bar room floor speckled with broken glass.
A gleam clings to the shards like a moth
hovering the living room lamp.

Chad's poem has become a man.
The type who will face the lake and envision a world
color-casted in blue hues.

Laying the pen down, a thud-
the shuffling pile of parachute confesses
that it once strained its eyes for days,
          attempting to glimpse
                          a world turned ocean.

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From Inside The MT Cup

She steps into vision, shielded by a pinkish purple kiddie pool.
A slight fog drapes across the window as she walks by,
and my eyes try to fight through the images of
boys and girls splashing around.

She's beautiful.
Well, at least from the ankles down.

A matchstick salesman is
at her side.  Lifting a heavy box
of Hardy Boy books and the dust that they have

collected.  Their mysteries solved,
the office closed up, and the documents
now merely a need for Kleenex.

They look like rummage sale robbers;
sneaking off with their discarded treasures.
I'm sure that they sacked
a resident on Streeter Street.
An old couple, always perched
on their front porch, overseeing a stack
of unwanted items on their lawn.

One time,
I drove past the pastel pair
and a "For Sale" sign was set between
two rusted kitchen sinks.  Did they
have two kitchens?  Did both
sinks drop their last drip on the same day?

I think,
"Wow, just my luck,
she's carrying a giant plastic swimming pool."

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An Old Poem About New Castle, IN

New Castle sent me a letter the other day about how
it was home to the world's greatest park.  I didn't believe it.
But, decided to check it out anyway.

Sure enough; it was impressive.
A treeline canopy, with quick glimpses of clouds
stacked up for miles.  Slick blue slides, and
the possibility of climbing on nearly everything.

I love how
this state is home to such silly things as
fun parks, racecars, and great white basketball players.

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Tyler W. Ingram

The painted sky clings to its stars
and he lies in his cot; sleeping with his eyes wide open.
Amidst a cellar room full of weapons
and books on killing people with your bare hands.

He spends his sleep
dreaming of prison breaks and terrorist attacks.

One day,
God skipped a stone against the Atlantic

took a breath, and
carefully created Tyler out of
German steel and camouflage
duct tape.

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Petals

slanted windows shield my sight
as the common chatter of wind chimes
fills the night.

the echoes of memories still drive
whispers into my ear, as the streetlights
pause for a breath.

an East wind will not let them last.
those tiny piles of leaves, stacked

in rows in your backyard.  hugging
your knees against your chest;
you watch them
disperse.

from a distance
all I know is that

  you live on flowers.

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wind chimes in Hebron

the purple paint begins to
peel from the corners of your bedroom walls,
and the dust from the sidewalk

chalk tickles your nose.  you are now
surrounded by the checkered past of
those Hebron streets.

you walk in pairs, gripping the hands
of the only person that has never

seen you succeed.  carefully crafted stacks
of snow dot your sidewalk, and white out anything

that history would like to repeat.

those phrases, overused, will now be
nothing more than a pile of flakes and scattered sticks.
resting our regrets on the shoulders of questions; we stop,

and stop, and finally start again,
only to stop.

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Bluffton, Indiana

Population:  9, 536

    1.  The downtown distress of rush hour

    2.  leading you to the bustle of Ft Wayne,

    3.  follow 3, and turn left onto those circling country roads.

    4.  Loose ends and landmarks dot the picturesque town square.

    5.  Please, take note of the marble buildings

    6.  and how they slink back off of the streets.

    7.  Antique store fronts (buried beneath the small talk of old friends).

    8.  Grass paths sticking close to the ripples of creek beds

    9.  and the adventure of counting off each step on the way to that "X."

    10.  The townsfolk will stare at the holes in your shoes and do their
            best to patch them up with rumors, nostalgia, and patriotic threads.