Wednesday, November 2, 2022
The First of Summer
The First of Summer
by Timothy Reed
The sound of fireworks
signaled the southern new-year
as we embraced on the porch,
awaiting our son’s entrance and
pondering all that passed.
We caught sleep to the sounds
of celebration
but woke to a hard rain
of sporadic kicks
coming fainter, weaker now.
I tripped through
a conversation
with two months’ worth
of broken Portuguese;
worry is the universal tongue,
need the timeless motivator.
4 wheels sped and sprayed
those weary miles between
us and that ultrasound
the wind and rain beating
hell against our car -
our silence, tempestuous.
Grainy grey blobs
danced on the screen —
sandpaper in our eyes,
in our souls, as we learned
you were to come today
(there could be no delay).
Red-hot tears flowing,
windshield wipers clapping
back and forth, back and forth -
I tried not to collide
with the outside world
as we pondered the knife
now dangling over us.
The sting and the stench
of alcohol, the rubber-duck-yellow
scrubs, the curtain hung tentatively
clinging to decency and protecting
us
from knowing with what slices
and pushes and needles and tubes
it would take to free him.
Suddenly, a scream
the newest, most fragile cry
and the face of Benjamin -
he had come home.
In the sleepy aftermath
of New Year in GoiĆ¢nia
he slept, swimming in his first clothes
we wept, cried, prayed, and coughed
but did not sleep.
Wednesday, May 11, 2022
Still Life
Still Life
by Timothy Reed
This vase of flowers
sits on our table
reminding me of the
didactic still life
that every student of
color must regurgitate.
It’s a funny term, “still-life”
as though life could ever
be held still.
These days, I take
a different sense
from that bouquet
with sun-yellow faces
smelling of apology.
Life is not stopped - it is
still: persistent and unkillable.
Life is try after bloody try,
as we try to find the way.
Life is still loving,
still forgiving,
still being willing
to start again.
Perhaps that’s the value
of still life:
if you persevere,
the flowers of meaning
will unfold to greet you.
Friday, May 6, 2022
Impatient Lullabies
Impatient Lullabies
by Timothy Reed
As sky blazes blue overhead
and fresh-poured coffee cools
I stand and sway, suddenly
aware of every ache and pain
staring at the open eyes of my son.
My son who, by no fault of his own
cannot grasp the will to sleep.
The stage has been set -
the shades, darkened
cozy pajamas provided,
white-noise softly droning,
a safe and soft bed.
Everything is in place but me,
my heart far from rest and
mind far from present,
singing impatient lullabies.
I think every child
is a sort of detective
by nature.
My son has me under the lights
and sees the no in my eyes
as my lips say yes. My son,
whose innate expertise
can sense the blips
on my polygraph.
When I want to take offense
at this subtle inquisition,
his hand grasps mine
and tells me the truth.
Above all else, he asks
those most basic of human needs:
love, honesty, consistency.
Friday, April 15, 2022
Campinas Sunrise
Day 19: Borrowed Home
Borrowed Home
by Timothy Reed
a hundred hazel diamonds
stare at me, questioning
my place in this home
and, truthfully, I can’t reply
except to tell them
your place in it.
We had found you one day
in a behemoth supermarket
with an American facade --
its existence an ode to
a “which one doesn’t belong” game.
Even so, you weren’t our
original choice, the best choice.
“It will do,” we both said
as we purchased two.
It seems that’s our favorite phrase
nowadays.
We tucked you in tightly
around the curves of
a borrowed couch
in a borrowed home
in a borrowed city
in a borrowed country —
thank God for you, though.
Even so, with so many eyes
you must know the truth —
there is no feint at permanence.
I love how, in Portuguese
(the language we’re learning here),
there’s no difference between
the words borrow and lend
and how you seem to understand that.
Monday, April 11, 2022
Day 18: Resurrection
Resurrection
by Timothy Reed & Esther Miller
My mind swirls in the icy currents
And I rise to life anew with Christ
With Christ - yes, yet what heavy bread and wine
This is my blood, my body broken for you
As around me, blood spills in vain
I wonder if mine, too, will be spilled
In these sun-shunned fields of grain
I lie on my belly and pray
As rubble-stones seal every tomb
Will I rise again too?
Yet third-day’s sunbeams break the horizon
And the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead
Lifts me to my feet once more
Friday, April 8, 2022
Day 17: Untitled
Day 16: Gifford-Pinchot
Thursday, March 31, 2022
Day 15: Cathedral Fig
Monday, March 28, 2022
Day 14: Dog-Days of Summer
They say a dog returns to its vomit
and I can confirm that
in the dog days of summer,
we do too.
When the sun beats down
and the walls grow close
we grow lazy and
instinctual.
Every modern man, sophisticated,
finds himself stripped to the waist,
looking for blood to spill.
We are not good; progress
is a farce.
When we know better,
we do better -
whoever penned that lie
is covered in their own
wretched return: putrid affections.
When we know better,
we only begin to understand
our guilt.
There are times when regret
is the camouflage of pride.
Change is the thing
that matters.
As much as I would like
to put a mile, a yard, or an inch
between me and them,
I was them.
I am them.
Please forgive me.
In the dog days of summer,
we each return to our vomit.
In the dog days of summer,
we all return to the apple-bite.
Sunday, March 27, 2022
Day 13: A Simple Letter
A Simple Letter
Dear God,
Thank you for sprouting seeds
and for sprouting sons --
for sprouting relationships
in this new plot of dirt, cement.
Thank you for autumn rains
for tears that do dry
for hot water, undeserved
for every channel of grace
carved by your hand.
Thank you for the daily harvest
of the fruit-man’s smile,
of shared meals,
for the fact that you
are the vine-dresser.
Thank you for the sun
warming the pots on the patio;
for your light, gently
shining on my soul,
burning out mold and shame.
You make all things grow,
you make all things new.
Thank you for being you.
-Your son
Friday, March 25, 2022
Day 12: Lovers' Quarrel
Lovers' Quarrel
by Timothy Reed
In starry cottage robbed of balance
‘ere the dawn of firstborn day
two lovers split and promptly severed
left their home and parted way.
By the burning light she smolders
in her silent rage she bakes
cakes from gardens, blackened forests —
steals the shimmer from the lakes.
In the evening glow she softens
as her sorrow blends with care.
As she ponders past offenses,
breathing frost into the air.
He grabs his pail and gets up early
with yellow boots and whistling birds;
tries to bury seeds of sorrow
‘neath the dirt and ‘neath the words.
Things he said and left unspoken,
memories stacked in hay-bales, grey.
He spills his pail in torrents streaming,
sets a match to end of day.
Still they fight, and still they suffer
o’er our sorrow-torn landscape
bringing good and bad together
in their lovers’-quarrel wake.
We sit beneath them, sit beside them
in each dire situation
as we look on earth together
longing for their re-creation.
_____________________
The challenge today was to imagine the seasons as people and to write about how they feel. Since I've spent a good portion of time in the tropics, I tend to think of two seasons rather than four. Both seasons have things harsh and gentle about them. Consequently, since there are two seasons, I personified them as a fighting couple. They are farmers, meant to tend the earth. Now, in the excess of their sorrow and anger, they unintentionally harm the very earth of which they were given to take care. This certainly describes the seasons, but also our relationships and the natural effects and progression of grief and broken relationship.
Thursday, March 24, 2022
Day 11: Transition
Wednesday, March 23, 2022
Day 10: Sonho de Creme
Sonho de Creme
by Timothy Reed
the first thing is the sugar,
powdered and forward-facing
reminding me of the church
parking lot, waiting for my dad
to finish talking to his friends.
If only I had known then
how quickly powdered sugar dissolves.
a rich fluffy canvas
like that house on San Luis,
plain but familiar, warm.
the knowledge comes late
that it could have
just as easily been
bitter, sour, or burnt.
Finally, a sweet vanilla cream —
not oversweet. The reality of
a Crayola sunset in lieu
glass-slipper promises, false.
Something true and unspeakable
in the pleasure of that flavor
put in layaway by my 5-year-old self
to be rediscovered here
in the least-likely of places.
Desserts are more difficult
to recognize now.
Tuesday, March 22, 2022
Day 9: Equatorial Spring
Equatorial Spring
by Timothy Reed
earth has grown fat
under the tutelage of tilt
as continents lean close
for a sun-kiss and hope
springs eternal near the equator -
unbridled life breaking through.
You don't need winter
to appreciate spring
but it does help the ray
shine more sweetly,
and makes each wet
drop more benevolent.
Monday, March 21, 2022
Day 8: Kinetic (30 days of poetry challenge)
Kinetic
by Timothy Reed
years of covenant are
counted out in hours,
minutes, and seconds
each pendulum swing
starts at faithfulness,
ends at sacrifice, and
has passion at dead center
love is kinetic.
Friday, March 18, 2022
Day 7: Glen Arbor (30 days of poetry challenge)
Glen Arbor
by Timothy Reed
Landlocked in a sea of green
who would ever have known your treasure
- you had kept your secrets from us
you taught us the constant beauty that
underneath, regardless of winter's chill
you wait to be born with the kiss of spring
we strolled through your streets
young, frustrated, contented, longing
as you tried to exert your motherly care
on our wait-weighted souls
Louis Armstrong's trumpet swelled and burst
through an artisan's open garage
as clay took shape - made meaning from mud
your dot on the map there on M-22
reminds me of all buried gemstones
unseen and forgotten, but precious.
Thursday, March 17, 2022
Day 6: Maxine (30 days of poetry challenge)
Wednesday, March 16, 2022
Day 5: Key to the Delta (30 days of poetry challenge)
Key to the Delta
by Timothy Reed
A mud-stumped green
boot of cheap rubber -
my golden key to the delta;
kept the blood-suckers at bay
held fast my bone, crushed 'neath a tire.
You cracked in the black puddles
of that tundra-heath in Marshall
and let in the sog, a torrent.
_______
Day 4: August Flight (30 days of poetry challenge)
by Timothy Reed
wax wings 'neath molten honey
we squished along in the muck and grime
of an August breeze, malicious.
Some sweetgum and hickories
approach for a wet-smack kiss
I, suddenly anxious, dive for the underbrush.
_______