228/365

Even when covered—
under three layers of sheets—
toes curl in the cold.

225/365 - 227/365

12.24.10
Just before midnight—
everyone asleep in the house.
Silence vibrates close.
•
12.25.10
While reading pages of
haiku—some lines are glossed tight
with a dark blue line.
•
12.26.10
Pen against my mouth;
baby in his crib; I wait
for a new haiku.

222/365 - 224/365

12.21.10
Leaning into night,
from the edge of the mattress,
the cat blurs darkly.
•
12.22.10
Unexpectedly,
I cut myself while shaving.
The wound clots, slowly.
•
12.23.10
Inbetween feedings,
in moments of scant, brief sleep,
you appear in dreams.

Happy Christmas and Happy Seasons

Happy Christmas and Happy Seasons, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

221/365

Feel the need to say something important, with the solstice outside forming, spiraling out to encompass the Earth. But a heavy sense of weariness soaks my bones— numerous reasons play into the sensation. Logic fails. I hear Ricky and his sister talking in the other room. Fragmented sentences. In the distance. I should be reading.
•
Solstice night falling.
Memories of my brother
call from the next room.

220/365

During one of the late feedings I stepped out of the kitchen into the family room; the moon startled me with his bright face, light drenching the house and streaming through the blinds. Holding Brendan, the two of us stepped into the angled light, into a shower of silver coins, Brendan swallowing milk and moonlight in greedy gulps, mouth foaming with saliva and formula, our reflection leaning to meet us at the window.
•
Four in the morning:
moonlight streams through the windows,
covers you and me.

219/365

Apparently I missed publishing a poem; with relatives in the house and the new baby seeking attention every two hours or so I completely forgot to post the hiaku moment for yesterday.
The event behind the formation of the poem contains an edge of symbolic irony: a few weeks ago I devised a folk-loric fable regarding the birth of my son, soon to be transferred to a long poem.

Brendan is a figure fallen from the skies in a meteor shower, a star-boy who lands in a pond to become a water-creature, a koi-child with wrinkles and whiskers. Later he leaps into our laps, a fresh baby human, all wriggles and eclectic squirms.

In the logic of the haiku presented below, Brendan is the green ball tossed by the wind into the water, only to be pulled out once I discovered it/him on my daily walk. The essence of the object, of Brendan's nature, is still intact, even with all the changes falling around him.

He remains my catfish boy, my dream-child fished out of marshy shallows.
•
The plastic ball pulled
from the full pond yesterday
remains a green sphere.

218/365

Nothing new to say—
baby in his crib, sleeping;
night shifts overhead.

217/365

Mid-day winds bluster—
pause—then esculate—sending
newspapers skyward.

216/365

The last remnants of Brendan’s umbilical cord fell off this morning, looking similar to a dried-fossilized worm, or sheep entrails dehydrated. For the moment it lies on the counter, out of reach of both baby and cat, a possible icon wanting to remind me of ancestral pasts. I think the Plains Native Americans carried the remains with them, in a small muslin-like sack worn about the neck. A symbol of heritage or a traditional birth rite. Is this a fiction placed in my head by false memory? The concept carries a weight of practicality somehow: the mummified flesh showing acknowledgement of one’s past.

And of the ultimate end for the journey.
•
Despite the late hour,
still feel the pull of verses
wanting attention.

214/365 - 215/365

12.12.10
Too late for grackles,
this season— what remains are
shadows flying.
•
12.13.10
The baby's crying
echoes with intensity
as cat at his bowl.

213/365

Walking after a week of disrupted schedules and occasional naps from feedings in the middle of the night. Today the crescent moon still hangs outside, persistent in the blue of afternoon. Even a week after Brendan's birth the moon remains lit throughout the day, dodging clouds and low flying airplanes.
•
A reminder pinned
against the sky, suspended.
The crescent moon hangs.
•
Just behind the crib
the nightlight glows: arched aura.
Encircling closely.

212/365

Paper magnolias
on the dresser cast off light
as twilight deepens.

211/365

remaining inside,
almost all day; the moon's shape
stays hidden by night.

Update || 206/365 - 210/365

Much has happened in the last six days which cast aside all plans of writing and developing new poems. To the point, my partner Ricky and I welcomed a baby boy into our lives last Friday—a hungry little fish who demands much attention.

Already a change in direction for my writing emerges; when Brendan existed merely as a possibility or a plausible thought, the interference was minimal. Now, with his physical form heavy in our lives, his image walks into many of my projects in the guise of a teenager, or as a young child, wearing the mask of a red-tail fox, laughing and crowing loudly.

Consequently, although the last week feels like a month of events, publication of the daily haiku was placed on hold. However, the poems themselves were composed, often late at night, sometimes after feeding, as a means to bring a renewed sense of structure into my writing.
•
12.03.10
at a loss for words—
the crescent moon in daylight
rises at your birth.

12.04.10
only one day old—
and the seasons tilt around
your sleeping new form.

12.05.10
Took a moment to drive out by myself into the cold Dallas morning for a strong cup of coffee and a take-away breakfast for both Ricky and me—while pulling away from the hospital driveway, I saw in the street's meridian a blackbird standing and tilting his head sideways with an over-sized nut in his beak. A good omen of plenty and ripe harvests. Possession, ownership, protection.
•
your grandfather crow
sits with a nut in his beak
contemplating life.

12.06.10
Three days old, Brendan fills out his form rapidly—he develops rituals and personal routines within the family's circles and inner circles of circles—even now across the room he sleeps a blue bundle of life, a fallen star-child in our laps. Dad and Mom both bridge themselves over his little form, another generation of protection—
•
you are my koi-child
a whiskered carp rising up
to the bright surface.

12.07.10
your bundled form hides
beneath a printed pattern
of blue and red stars.

205/365

Trying to forget
consequences of the day—
seal off awareness.

Update: Acceptance

After the day closed with a sense of tediousness, a twist in mood fell out of my computer: received word that a poem was accepted for January publication in 2011. The on-line journal displaying the work is called Saltwater Press and the upcoming issue is their inaugural project.

In particular, the piece focuses on a collective stream of conscious, shifting from one main character, falling into the heads of two other secondary figures. Ultimately, the three voices prove that although they have diverse histories as individuals, they all have a common element in their lives.

A link to the full poem, titled "Variations on a Theme of Desire," will be posted as soon as the publication is available.

204/365

A flat horizon
unfolds into prairie grass—
extension of self.

203/365

—and without warning,
a dark blue heron startles:
an awkward marsh priest.