He is fond of saying that it is
“water under the dam,” and she
constantly calls him on it, reminding him
that water goes over the dam.
He smiles when she does this
and reminds her that it isn’t a dam
if water is going over it, and it is mindless
to say its water under the bridge
for that is the essential nature of bridges,
and, he adds, when I say it, you know I’m flying
by the seat of my pants, so why don’t
you just give it a rest for now, okay?
She replies, if that is what you want,
I will gladly do so, just realize that this
is why almost all your verbal analogies
have a tendency to crash and burn.
As a child I often
flew kites, which is to say
that I ran haphazardly
pulling a string and
dragging a wood frames
paper rhombus across the park.
My father laughed until
seeing me on the edge
of tears he took up the string
and dragged the kite
across the park.
One day a strong wind
blew across the park
and the kite lifted into the sky
trailing its string
to taunt me.
In southern winter
odd-shaped and ungainly birds
fly in gracefully.
The egret peers in
and we peer right back at him
still in the afternoon sun
ignoring the birds
and just imagines himself
lying in the mid-day sun.
I suspect that I am not alone in wondering
if there is a corner of literary hell set aside
for those who foist clichés on the world
and at the head of that table should sit
the fellow who first said “time marches on.”
Even Einstein realized that time is relative,
and as one who served in the military
I can assure you that time does not march,
does not follow a neat, tidy cadence,
and all to often doesn’t know where it is going.
Time does many things, it can meander
like an early morning walk along the shore,
it can rush forward like the youth
discovering what he is sure is love,
it can even plod, when the pain is growing
and the doctor is ever so slow to respond.
Oh, and sitting next to our marching friend
I nominate the fool who thought that time
might actually fly, maybe hell will be fun for him.
into the middle seat of five
three hours into
the fourteen hour flight
SFO to Tokyo Narita,
it is easy
to imagine myself
a sheet of origami paper
carefully and precisely
folded into a crane
of taking to the air.
A man ran down the street this morning, flapping his arms. It wasn’t clear if he was running for exercise, moving his arms in the bitter cold, or actually thinking they were wings and with enough motion he might take off. There is also the possibility that he was simply crazy and a look at the thermometer, reading 6 degrees did lend some support to that conclusion. He ran up and down the street staring up at the sky. I watched him for the better part of an hour. I grew tired just from watching but he seemed tireless. Finally, unable to stop staring at him, unable to accomplish anything else, I picked up the phone to dial 911, to get him the help he needed or soon would in this chill. The 911 dispatcher said we get them all the time, particularly as the holiday approach. “Keep an eye on him,” the dispatcher asked, as if I could do otherwise. Just as the squad car turned around the corner, carefully approaching him from behind, I looked on in awe. I saw the man lift gracefully into the sky to the surprise of the crows gathered in a neighbor’s gingko tree. As the police officers stood by their car, staring at the sky, I finally looked away and daydreamed of origami cranes.