I am bringing trash and recycling to the edge of my driveway.
I am tired. I am discouraged, for way too many reasons. I turn back to finish my morning routine with a sigh. The sky is still dark enough to see the stars and Orion is standing between my home and the basketball hoop on the side of the driveway. As he does most of the time.
I am a stargazer (as many of you know). Somehow I feel comfort in the smallness of being a single person on a single planet in this vast universe. Orion is my favorite constellation (and no, not because of the Prince song, “The Arms of Orion”). One of my first Boy Scout badges was the Astronomy Merit Badge.
So, I stood there, garage door open, waiting for me to return to the day, but instead I gazed up at the stars, at Orion. Strong and consistent. The crickets added the soundtrack to the moment, the air cool, and my heart slowly letting go of my troubles.
I am here. For however long Fate decides. For sure there is so much to be worried about, so much fear and frustrations. But I am here, like Orion. Like all the stars, shining, beautiful because of the darkness.
In just a few days August 2026 will be in the books.
No nuclear war, no shadows burned onto the walls of a house that tried to keep a routine without any humans.
But there has been poetry. And rain.
Raise your hand if you understood the allusion I used for my introduction. Nice! Yes, I referenced Ray Bradbury’s “There Will Come Soft Rains.” Which officially took place on August 4, 2026, in California.
I’m sitting in the middle of Nebraska and have washed the dishes by hand. Earlier today we vacuumed and dusted by hand. But I have read poetry. And last week it rained every day for four days.
Sadly, there is war in the world. Planes are flying overhead and so are missiles and drones. And poets are writing poetry about it.
If you are a faithful reader you know that I am participating in the Sealey Challenge; reading a book of poetry a day for the month of August. I have read a wide range of styles, topics, and even time periods. And something that has saddened me is how many poets have dealt with issues we deal with today. And not just war, broken families, drugs, and prejudice.
There are poems written in every generation that could pass for a modern poem. A reader would assume it is about the state of the world today if I didn’t tell them the time period it was written in.
But what gives me hope is the power of the human spirit to create art during troubling times. Yes, poetry, but all forms of art. I don’t know if we can finally learn from our history, but art will record it. Will give us avenues to discuss the hurt and share the hope that we will be better. The human heart may have a shadow to it, but creativity is the light that illuminates the corners and shows us the way.
It was a little after 7 a.m. I was playing our version of catch with my youngest daughter. Two people stand across from each other in my classroom and do crazy throws across the desks (see banner above). Example, trying to bounce the ball on just the middle desk. Then the other person tries to catch the crazy throw. Been playing this game for years… the family has spent a lot of time over the decades in my classroom, not just during school.
While we were playing catch I had a mix CD going, and the song “Desperado” by the Eagles started to play. This was one of Mr. Monter’s (passed away in 2013) favorite songs. It was played during his funeral. Hearing it as I attempted an “Every Desktop Bounced” throw reinforced the joy we can experience in the small moments. Everyday moments.
Another dot was last night. Around 8 p.m. I went to check the mail box. The sky was a mess. On my left there were dark clouds with small lightning bursts, on my right the clouds were thin and in front of me the division line and the sunset. The air was warm but filled with a swirling cool breeze from the building storm. I sat down on my front step. Listened to the breeze and crickets. Enjoyed the unique sunset, darkness and cotton candy clouds. I was just me for a while.
No, life is not stress free. We all know this, we all live it. But life does have moments, moments of beauty, of family, of a depth of joy that can steady us when we are hit with the difficult moments in life.
I was inspired to write a poem this morning. By posting it here I can no longer submit it to any lit magazines, but I like it so much I still wanted to share it. If you enjoy the poem, please consider sharing it with someone who enjoys poetry, too.
“To the young girl dancing alone in the street waiting for a parade to start”
I am sitting in the dark, just finished a bowl of cereal, Trix if you want to know. I am listening to the rain and thunder. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I am worried. Worried for so many reasons. Worried for so many people. Worried about the days and years ahead. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
Yesterday sometimes feels better than today. Tomorrow feels heavy and sticky, like the humidity that will soak my skin on my morning walk. Routines can foster a dread of the unknown, yet that is where we find the edges of who we are.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I don’t understand so many aspects of this life. How Love never really wins, never lands enough punches to turn the tide. The judges always side with Hate. But when the bell rings, Love finds its legs, making it through another round. But I am tired. The temptation to throw in the towel gets harder to shred.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I was originally going to title this post as “I attended a funeral on my 28th wedding anniversary while reading poetry.”
I also thought about the title, “What is life if all we do is die?”
Instead I dated the post, because it was yesterday, and now it is a memory. I read a book of poetry, had a lovely dinner with my wife, and have a program from the funeral. I am driven to write a blog post about why any of it matters. (Yes, I thought of writing a poem, but the muse is indicating this is a blog post about connecting dots.)
So let me explain the dots.
First, I am doing the Sealy Challenge: reading a book of poetry everyday in August. Yesterday I read Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder. Today I am reading Dragging Sand Creek for Minnows by William Kloefkorn. I’ll come back to the poetry later.
Second, yesterday was our 28th anniversary. We had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, The Odyssey. (The best bread pudding dessert. It was lemon blueberry this time!) Of course we talked about the last 28 years, but the funeral we attended in the morning was the main conversation topic.
Third dot, the funeral of my wife’s aunt, age 83. She was the youngest of seven children. The church was filled with family. She had 10 children of her own, 27 grandchildren and 38 great-grandchildren. I am always amazed at the size of my wife’s side of our family.
The last page of the program summarized 83 years of her life. There was a table at the luncheon that had photo albums and the wedding album of her aunt’s marriage. Especially at lunch the air was filled with stories, and with tears and hugs.
August 1, 2026, was a day that reinforced the foundation of what this life is really about. Love expressed through living every day.
Here’s what I mean on a deeper level with the three dots. My wife’s aunt’s life was more than the five paragraphs on the back of the program, the family and generations in the church was evidence of what she did, how she lived.
The poems I read, and the ones I’m reading today, gave me a glimpse of the poet’s heart, of their lives. As a poet, I know the vulnerability of writing, of crafting a verse that reflects the heart.
Twenty-eight years of marriage. Our own six children, the ups and downs present in the everyday, the love it takes to build a home, to build a life. It takes time and heart.
There will come a day when someone will try to summarize my years on this earth on the last page of the program for my funeral. There will probably be some photo albums, too. And my children will share stories, and maybe even my best dad jokes or even read some of my poems. But that day will simply be the accumulation of the days I tried my best to live this life with love. Love of the written word. Love of my wife, children, and friends. Love of having ordinary days to show that love.
As a child of the 80’s and a music fan, I know the wonder and addiction of a great one-hit wonder.
A-ha, “Take On Me”
Tommy Tutone, “867-5309 / Jenny”
Big Country, “In a Big Country”
To name just a few. I can give you the first few bars of a one-hit wonder and you would be able to identify it… “We can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind.” I know you started to sing this outloud.
As a poet, I could live with having a one-hit wonder poem. I have about 300 poems published in books, unknown amount of original poems submitted for the weekly #BornBattleReady poetry challenge. And the scraps of paper, notebooks, that contain rough drafts and poems that just haven’t found a home and I can confidently say I have over a 1000 poems.
The world of poetry is vast, and many poets, like Emily Dickinson, William Blake, and Henry David Thoreau, just to name a few, became famous after they passed away. I would rather have a one-hit wonder than become famous after death.
No one can predicate a one-hit wonder (or any success for that matter). But if I could choose one poem to be my one-hit wonder I would choose one of my earlier poems, “Air Jordans and Big Gulps.”
“Air Jordans and Big Gulps”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
the graveyard shift
at 7-11
(24 hour convenience store)
They do not match the Smock
(a dull pepper green)
Or my name tag
(red stickered first name)
“i I.D. it’s my job”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
cleaning the nacho cheese
and chili dispenser
(free for your chips or dogs)
They do not match the bottles
(40oz. and up)
or the cans
(lined like a library)
“please have I.D. ready”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
counting cigarette cartons
and filling the shelves
(Camels are on special)
They do not match the coffee
(freshly made every hour)
Or the Styrofoam cups
(one lid fits all sizes)
“Must be 21 or older to purchase alcohol”
I think this poem reflects my style the best. There is a form to the poem, but yet stretches the theme creatively through that form. I do use everyday life as a theme to highlight the depth of living, which this poem does. And it is autobiographical. I still have the first draft of this poem on the inside of a cigarette carton I used to write it on during my graveyard shift.
I have better written poems. I have more heart wrenching poems. I have poems about my family, my children. Poems about fate. Poems written in poetic forms from the 14th century.
But one-hit wonders are powerful, unique, and addictive to listen to… to read in this instant. And I could die happy if this poem was my one-hit wonder.
transitive verb : to call into question the truth of
noun : a lack of confidence
To me doubt is a heavy stone that often sits on top of my lungs. The weight pushes against my sternum, sending small pulses that make my tear ducts itchy.
In everyday life we all can be plagued with this feeling. Doubts greatest strength is in its ability to make you question any aspect of your life. Your parenting, your skills, your personal growth, your relationships, any aspect of living. Doubt adapts to any situation, which makes it hard to battle. Especially since the fuel it uses comes from the external world, from other people’s opinion and reaction to us, from social media, from the negative bombardment of society.
It all sits so heavy in our chests.
Trust is an antonym to doubt.
According to Merrian-Webster TRUST is defined as
transitive verb : to rely on the truthfulness or accuracy of
noun : assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something
To me trust is the foundation I build from the beauty of everyday interactions with loved ones. To live in the talents and dreams I have for my life.
In everyday life we have the opportunity to show our strength, build our character by the way we approach our relationships, to be honest in living according to what we say is valuable. Trust takes work and work is a part of every aspect of our lives. Trust opens up our hearts. It gains power from our talents, from the work we do, and the way we treat others.
I find that doubt gets to me when I am not engaged with my everyday life. When I value other people’s opinions, especially regarding my writing, over the joy of being fully engaged with what I love to do. Doubt is never ending in its attacks or the ways it can find to sit heavy in my chest. But I trust the sunrise. I trust the words I write. I trust in the truth of living by loving every day.
This poem / observation was jotted down in my note app as I was on my walk. I also took this picture to reinforce the idea.
One of the reasons I like to walk everyday is the mental aspect, the way my mind can drift and be inspired by the world around me. As I continued on my walk I thought about how much a home is like a tree.
On average, most people (6 out of 10) live within 100 miles of their home town. And most of them are only 30 miles away (2022 Census).
Even wind-dispersed seeds of trees travel just over a mile, but can reach 18 miles.
I thought about how my desire to create a stable home for my own family influenced aspects of my personal life, my goals. One of the biggest aspects has been coaching, specifically football. But also my writing goals. This town is not a poetic mecca by any means.
But the thing about trees is that they are beautiful in their strength and characteristics; leaf shape, color, and their bark patterns. Trees withstand the seasons by changing with the weather.
We have been in this particular house for 15 years. My three oldest children are out in the world, two are over 100 miles away while one is in town. I have three more children at home, one of them will be a senior and ready to make the decision of which college to attend.
I do not know where the wind will take my children, but they know where home is. It is a strong blue house… sitting pretty close to heaven.
I took my walk this morning, before the day got too hot, plus we have an electrician coming this afternoon.
The day was beautiful. Sun was out, the sky was clear blue, and I was on the last stretch toward home when I saw a tiger swallowtail butterfly. It was drinking from a small puddle in the street. Its black and yellow wings slowly moving. I stood right next to it. The butterfly didn’t seem to mind.
Now, I tend to take photos on my walks, usually of flowers or funny things I see on the street (even blogged about a Sonic mint I saw on a walk, “A Sonic Mint and Holden Caulfield”). So what I did next was more of a reflex. I thought it would be cool to get a close up picture of the butterfly.
The butterfly was cool with me until I bent down with my phone to try to get the close up picture. Then it took off, even seemed to buzz my head as if to say, “You ruin the moment.” As you can see I did get a shot of the butterfly before it finally went to the flowers of a nearby house.
There is so much I could address about this moment. But that would reinforce the main idea of ruining a moment.
Even in simple moments, there are a thousand ways we can ruin them, technology, over-thinking, being distracted by any number of things, wanting moments to get over so we can get to another moment… but we miss out on the depth of our lives, of emotions (whether it is positive or negative) and of understanding life and ourselves when we are not fully engaged in these unique moments.
I was enjoying watching a tiger swallowtail butterfly drink from a puddle on the street. I got distracted by wanting to take a picture and ruined it.
It is all Connected 