Dad Hands Large. But graceful fingers. © 2002 by Jed Block
Like a sunflower, © 2000 by Jed Block
Difference I remember © 1999 by Jed Block
Fine Lines © 1999 by Jed Block
Hunch © 1999 by Jed Block
Nothing © 1999 by Jed Block
Teacher Forty-two years ago, © 2001 by Jed Block
Medicine © 1999 by Jed Block
Measure Good mood? © 1999 by Jed Block
Dog © 1999 by Jed Block
Christmas Gift On December 14, 1998, © 1999 by Jed Block
Voice © 1999 by Jed Block
Unbraced I took my daughter to get her braces © 2000 by Jed Block
PRETTY POOR POETRY
Deeply creased with extra skin
that can be pulled or
pinched without hurting.
Strangely soft. Expressive.
They talk. Not the same
color as anything else.
Yet, familiar. Strong.
Always cut or nicked.
Oversized knuckles,
cracked too often or broken,
turn white in a grip.
Cells big enough
to see. Maze of resilient,
blue veins in relief
that can be traced.
The wedding ring won’t
come off anymore. Quivering
slightly, they smell of him.
Good, clean hands to hold.
Somehow, they turned into
my old man’s hands.
when you're there,
I turn my head.
last winter
as not throwing
a single snowball.
This year,
with you,
I know a guy from Florida.
Never saw snow.
And I hope that sometime
it'll snow four feet for him.
Love and hate.
Pain and pleasure.
Cops and killers.
Late and never.
Priests and nazis.
Hot and warm.
Good and evil.
Calm and storm.
Peace and war.
Rage and passion.
Failure, glory.
In or out of fashion.
Fear and patience.
Here and gone.
Wise and simple.
Which side you’re on.
I played a hunch
today was the one
you'd take a drive
here just to come.
When I awoke
my only surmise
was thinking you'd show
to be my surprise.
So quickly I rose
to make my house neat,
to be groomed to my best
and ready to greet.
I played an old record
and fixed a lame chair.
I polished and dusted
and recombed my hair.
Wanting to be here
when you finally came,
I skipped lunch, then dinner
and kept saying your name
This morning I started,
tonight I realize,
you weren't ever coming
to be my surprise.
Now, some may get mad
for occasions not had,
but dwelling on you
all day got me through.
There's nothing as sheepish
or awkward-looking
as a full-grown
German shorthaired pointer,
surprised during mid-dump
in somebody's front yard.
Unless it's a
solitary high school student
who must cross the street
in front of your car
as you wait at a stop sign.
I snagged a jagged,
dirty, five-year-old’s
fingernail in her nylon.
A good day was when
you didn’t soil yourself
and were able to squeeze
close enough on the floor
to rub her shins while
she sat on a child’s chair,
reading from a picture book.
I made it,
only to have
my first taste
of public humiliation
when she had to stop
and untangle
my ragged claw
from a thread
of her run stocking.
Goiter pills.
A maypole.
Sing. Play.
Naps on mats
on the tile floor.
First true love,
not counting Mom.
She wrote today
to say, “I’m proud
of you.” Forty-two years
later, and it meant
just as much as when
she liked my finger painting.
Every three months or so,
I require a good, bitter dose
of humble pie
to remind me
I'm not as smart,
or as big,
or as good,
as I think I am.
Bad mood?
Human beings get to choose.
How I choose to respond
-- what I choose to be --
is the measure of me
as a human being.
Evidence is mounting.
I used to be a dog.
I smell things
you have no right to smell.
It's how I test, screen.
Lured by smells.
Not perfumes.
But scents.
I press on. Pursue.
Even if you run.
Until you tap my snout.
Or wriggle free.
This afternoon,
on a sun-drenched spot
of the bed,
when everyone was gone,
I dreamt I lay with you.
My back against yours.
Occasional guttural sound.
Breathing in sync.
More evidence.
I enjoyed a round of golf
in Oshkosh, Wisconsin,
when the temperature hit 50 degrees.
As two friends and I approached the 10th tee,
another golfer walking off the 18th green
said, "Merry Christmas."
Succinctly. Nonchalantly.
The only time
I've been so greeted on a golf course.
Something I could get used to.
We also could have played on the 15th.
But I had to start my Christmas shopping.
It's been about half a lifetime,
developing this voice.
Once in a while, consciously.
Unconsciously, most of the time.
Maybe it was happening
before cognitive thoughts.
Birth order?
Maybe it goes back to other lives.
Like when I was a dog.
Sometimes it seems
to come together.
Like, I'm about ready to sing.
off. She was nervous. Thrilled.
After two and a half hours, she
came out. Happy. Smiling big.
Like I have never made her smile.
I bought lunch. Burgers and fries.
She ate for the first time in four years
without wires and bands
in her mouth. It was apparent
nothing ever tasted so good.
The tasks we do for our children
are the best ones.
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