Good night my Lion Heart; Good night my King.

 

I sing to him.

An’ sometimes he sings along.

I hear him hold fast to my voice

When the strength in him persists.

I hear him drift away

When heavy slumber pulls him in. 

He loves me;

A high as the trees,

As high as the stars,

Wide as an ocean,

A million, million oceans.

He’ll insist on one more song,

One more hug ,

One more kiss,

A million, million more if he could.

I too insist

On one more kiss,

A million, million more if I could.

"Good night, my Lion Heart."

"Good night, my king."  

 

 

 

 

 

One of Callum's favorite songs I sing for him at bed time is King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men. He is always the Lionheart.

 

 

 

 

Rolling Back to Base

    or

Singing Pink Floyd in the Back of a Duece and a Half

In a wonderful world
That smells of burning garbage,
Cordite and viscera,
We’re stuck behind the sight of our weapons.

As the sun starts to settle
Out beyond the edge of the world,
The burden of heat starts to fade
In measure with the light.

The quiet din of a bleak and tired man
Softly rises,
    “So, so you think you can tell…”.

Before he conjures the words
    “Heaven from hell”,
It crescendos wickedly to a full choir
Of cadence-strong voices;
Flippant and cock-sure.


Eyes wide and mean,
We roll through hell
In harmony.


Jubilant, we chime at the top of our voice,
      “How! How I wish you were here!”
We never truly did wish any one
Into our hell.
Only that they knew of us.


For surely we felt forgotten .

Chocolate Pudding

I remember this one thing.
She had prepared a treat,
Instant pudding and Cool Whip
Placed in serving dishes.

Gathered on a platter,
Parental, familial, domestic inspiration
From a Good Housekeeping spread.
“Quick treats for the loved ones in your life.”

The presentation alone,
Made the simple victuals,
Seem luxurious and fine
To a child.

But, that’s not the thing I remember.

It was the strange curiosity
I felt.
The lack of excuse, need,
Or celebratory affair.

The random event, so poignantly void of obligation,
And presented to us
With a white hot glow of lunacy and glee,
Never seen before (and never seen again).

My imagination vacillates on the etiology
Of her sudden, abrupt, and unusual behavior;

Maniacal rush of joy
Too much Mother's Little Helper
Spite for my father
The zenith of effort to effuse love.

This was one of the greatest outward expressions of love
My mother had,
Culminating in 5 minutes of mixing milk and powder
And placed in dainty dishes.

I ate the pudding
With the guarded joy,
That a turkey eats his meals,
In November.

Never knowing why.

I wonder if I could
Persuade my wife to let me be

A poet

I’d work my shift each day;
A strait eight
Two tens and a half.

No outward sign of effort
Would convince her it’s work.
No toil beyond the finger-to-chin pensive stare
And random, intermittent bursts of typing.

Meetings scheduled
With myself,
For dreaming of similes and metaphors;
Teetering dangerously on the edge
Of creating hyperboles.

Oh the thrill!

At the end of a long day
Our dinner conversation could be;
“Do you think you’ll get that promotion dear?”
To which I would optimistically reply;
“Not yet. But, I’ve got my fingers crossed.
I learned today I can apply
For a copyright online.
It's only 35 dollars.
My stuff would be
In the Library of Congress!”

I’d chase some peas across my plate
Until I gathered enough for a bite then ask
“Do you have 35 bucks I could borrow…”
...just until I get paid?”

Yesterday and tomorrow will prove it’s best
To think only about today.
Cuffs and collars become 80grit.
Everything strapped to your back
Is made of brick.
Corners, windows, and everything
Hold your next burden of terror
Or sin.

Mom and dad hid the scissors and silverware
After you tried to explain to them that cordite smelled like sulfur
And brimstone.
Your demons are hip high with wet eyes
And a thousand years away
From a thousand and twelve years of age.

The neighbor’s help is a look of pity and a dollar
Donated for a paper ribbon on the wall at Petco,
Upon which they wrote their own name.

Your help is in pints, fifths
And near misses,
Or that fucker at the VA.
He doesn’t care or doesn’t believe
But he most certainly doesn’t help.

Regardless and right now,
You need to focus on how
To convince the hiring manager
That those things which make you vomit
Whenever they enter your thoughts
Taught you great customer service skills
And more
Than how to avoid getting shot.

What a curious choice
This man has made
When so many appropriate options
Exist in its stead

Armed with a delicate silver spade
Fitted with dainty barbs
He plunges forth
Again, and again, and again

Even without sweet comfort
He forges ahead

Against the sour and bitter

Looks from others
Furrowed brows and scowls
Lodged against the decision
To eat grapefruit on the bus

I’ve done it again.
I forgot to bring a fucking pad and pen.

Now I am trapped
Bursting inside
With fantastic shit to write.

Lyrical eloquence of copious quantities
A torrential flow of piquant melodies

Encumbered by my knowledge
Of self- limitation,
I curse inspiration.
Because by the time I arrive
At my escritorial haven and sit,
I will be a halcyon glacier
Of meter, foot, and wit.

Bruno makes my head wobbly

I get caught up
Sometimes
Thinking about the fact
That space is infinite.
I send my self hurdling out there
Past super novas, star dust, galaxies and moons,
Struggling to conceive what that edge may be if I found one.
And become overwhelmed
And scared
And small
And wonder, who needs that much room?

I am comforted and comfortable
With my 8 and half by eleven tract of land.
More than enough space to contain my self
And my thoughts.

My savior, offering baskets of bread
And red herring.
Sophistries for picnic blankets to dine on.
St. Jude hands me a towel, whispers in my ear;
“A tired soul can lie, as easily sneak
Angels back into heaven.
But, it’s not only the devil who can smile
When committing a dirty little sin. “
My choices are halos and horns for hand holds,
To hang onto that which may not be mine.

Thank you Mr. Lemon

I look to get what I need,
From the one who taught me,
I need it.
I wander through his forest
To learn how to spot a few trees
Of my own.

Inspiration,
And the switch is ticked on.
The short circuitous route zips alive
With its microcosmic electrical snap and buzz.
Hesitancy retards the flood of flash and flicker.

Tear gas and spent brass
Eggshell-delicate crowns scattered and crushed
Or the whore, who’s razored breast weeps
For the 100 “Gouds” she couldn’t proffer to save her self;
Are not such things people pleasure in their poetry.

My lovelies of Maple and Ash
Turn out to be the beasts in my belly.
If I am willing and able to manage so
Will remain in their eternal gestation
Period.