7 Happy Poems to Welcome Spring

Spring!

I don’t care what the thermometer says. I don’t care how much snow is in the forecast. There is baseball being played somewhere.

I’m declaring spring!

And is there a better way to celebrate spring than reading some high school poetry? I think not. Poetry in general can be kind of morose, grim, and down right depressing. That’s not what we need right now.

We need happy, inspiring poetry that makes us think warmer and better days are ahead. And guess what? They are.

Here Comes the Sun
 

While I love The Beatles version of this song, I may love this live version performed by Richie Havens. I’ve been playing this song frequently since his death in 2013, so it was an easy decision to make on which one would be the soundtrack to this blog post.

Havens sings with an earnestness and hopefulness that is infectious. Here’s hoping it gets the warmer sun here a little faster.

little one
  

for Elizabeth

Elizabeth and I at S'onk Patrick's wedding

Summer winds brought
you into this big world, little one,
and you became our big angel.

You quickly captured big hearts,
dazzling with your big wondering eyes
and big open mouth smiles.

You were an instant big celebrity,
the center of the big stage, just like mommy,
even though you looked like your big daddy.

Six months into your little stay,
you face a big fight, little one,
more than just a big tummy ache.

It’s too soon, I know,
but you have to be a big girl now,
little one.

Your big friends and big s’onks
are saying big prayers,
so fear not little one, you’re not alone.

You have big life to live
and big love to give, little one;
this big world needs your big dreams and big hopes.

Winter winds are not here to stay,
but your big smiles and big laughs are, little one,
so weather the big storm and we’ll keep you safe and sound.

Saturday Morning With Dad

Raking the backyard with Pops

Back and forth does the rusty blade sway,

sweeping the rest of
the tall grass away.

The mower strays behind me,
with good ol’ Dad,
who wants to do nothing more
than run and flee.

We trudge silently along
with the sound of
the mower and the blade
as our only song.

Our muscles begin to fade
and we pause to
stare out on
what has become the Everglades.

After a stout cough
and a little chat,
we bravely set up our plan of attack
to finish it off.  

Milk

Did you drink my milk????

The milk is gone… 

because of me.

The milk you were to pour
on your strawberry covered cereal.

At one point or another,
someone was bound to drink it.

To be totally honest,
I’m not sorry it was me!

An Angel on the Bridge

The angel protecting the next generation

She waits with angelic patience

upon her arched wooden perch,
high above the harmful waters below.

All who proceed along the protected bridge
are helped along by her selfless, caring wings
and her watchful, caring eyes of sapphire.

She diligently prays each day and night
 for her dark-haired prince to come
give her peace of mind and fill her heart with joy.

Her countenance brightens as he appears,
making his way unto her safe haven.
Before her answers are fulfilled at last,
he slips upon the slippery planks
and tumbles towards the menacing waters.

Without a thought of hesitation,
she extends her affectionate wings
and catches his falling form.
She smiles as she lifts him back unto her bridge,
guiding him to her patient heart.

Take Hold of My Heart
 

Written for Judy and Michael on their wedding day January 13th, 2001 

Judy and Michael

From strangers from distant lands
to lovers not so far away,
a new and special love has been brought to life.

The beginning found them faceless on
opposite ends of a computer screen,
seeing each other only in daydreams.

Time wore on and soon friendship grew to love
and those daydream images became realities
as each braved the skies and marveled at the worlds they found.

He came from a world that
had shrugged off the bitter cold of separation,
bringing pieces of a fallen wall and a flag of black, red, and gold.

She came to him from a world
that was filled with power and might,
bringing a flag of red, white, and blue with her love.

Together they braved the dangers of disapproval
and together they conquered the scare of
losing her heart to the indifferent beings of fate.

Today, with a ring and tender kiss
she takes hold of his heart as he takes hold of hers
and a higher power leads them into bliss,
where they’ll stay now and forever more.

Family Man

Pops and I at the Alamo

He looks his best in early morning light,

trying to rub his eye’s awake, barely able to walk straight,
preparing to work all day surrounded by unknown faces.

His shirts come home with stains galore from his toil,
that are added to should mom be making spaghetti
and his eyes look more tired than in that morning light.

He still manages to smile proudly,
now surrounded by those who love him most,
even the dog who isn’t the same when he’s away.

His arms are sore beyond belief from years of labor,
but yet he never declines an invitation to roughhouse,
even when mom tells him to stop before he gets hurt.

He’s always good for a conversation,
even when he has no idea what you’re talking about,
and is always good for a laugh, even if it’s at his own expense.

He waits up patiently late into the night,
so that his son can sweet-talk his girl
and can’t help dropping a line or two of his own, just to show off.

He asks nothing in return for anything he does,
except a kiss from mom and tons of hugs from his boys
and falls asleep easy each night, despite the aches and pains,
knowing that his family loves him just as much as he loves them.

The Mouser
 

Written with Momma Ford and Patrick 

Since I don't have a picture on me of the cat in this poem, here's one of my favorite tree in Madison Square Park!

The little mouser rocks to and fro,
keeping her distance, along with her patience…
waiting…..waiting….till the time is right…..
TO POUNCE!!!

Her tail proudly swayed,
her keen eyes looked for praise and a friendly pat,
as she displayed her catch the day.

Her best views came from the
roof top of master’s domain,
where she watched the cautious movements of her timid prey.
After a sun bath and a little nap,
the bathroom window was her entrance to warmth
and a tired hrmph from master.
She raced him to bed where she slept and
had knitted her way into his heart.

Heavy scratches upon her front door scratching post
announced to all her appetite was back.
Her demands were quickly met,
not before the battle of who’s turn it was.
As quickly as it came, her appetite left her system
and with just two bites of the same ol’ chicken,
away she went to dig her face in a half- eaten ice cream cup.

She choose her quarters carefully at night’s end.
The cool cellar, upon that broken old work bench
in days of summer heat.
A window sill on a rainy spring day,
or the warmth of a car hood on a lonely winter day.
Of course, master’s bed was comfy on any occasion.
Wherever she lied her head to rest,
the little mouser clenched her eyes tightly,
let go a content purr
and feel fast asleep.

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out: 

• Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania 
• Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend 
• Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams 
• From the Archives: Summer Poetry 

How My 15-Year-Old Self Viewed the World...and How It Looks at 30

Being a writer has certain advantages.

For one thing, as a writer, you get to fully appreciate how terrifically awful Aaron Sorkin’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip was.

That’s some deliciously, chewy stuff.

The best advantage to being a writer however is having heaps of past material to reflect on. Odds are good that most writers have been doing it since the moment they realized their hands were meant for more than just a pacifier. I know writers who have kept archives going back to grade school. I am no exception. I have a wealth of material from my younger days including poetry, short stories, and even an autobiography.

This past Sunday, I posted excerpts from a handwritten re-write of my first completed novel. The edited tome included a section that wasn’t in the original. It was titled “Interlude: Daniel’s Tale.” I inserted seven pages based on myself to round out the character who shared my name. The pages offer the perfect vehicle in which to blare Bruce Springsteen on the radio, roll all the windows down, fall into a thousand yard stare while holding a lit cigar in between two fingers, and contemplate how the hell 30 years went by so quickly.

I revived the idea for an interlude for my novel Sid Sanford LIVES! It has a slight twist (which I’m not going to tell you about because I want you to buy the book one day soon. Buy in bulk people), but I imagine it will provide 60-year-old Daniel Ford the same kind of insights that the 30-year-old Daniel Ford found in reading the 15-year-old Daniel Ford’s work.

My full glass of single malt scotch tonight will be raised to Daniel Fords of all ages and times, and to the men and women who ensured he didn’t end up in a raging dumpster fire.

15-year-old-ish Daniel Ford

A Soldier’s Tale

Interlude: Daniel’s Tale

Every turbulent instance in my existence, every bump in the road, every obstacle paled in comparison’s to my grandfather’s take of being heaved into the cold, unloved by his parents; war, man’s only true enemy; and being disunited with the person he loved most in the world. The predicaments that have crossed my path through my 15 years are those that confront every young human being. Similar to my grandfather, I have tried to live my life without regret. All the mistakes I’ve made, and I’ve made my fair share, haven’t weighed one ounce more on my mind since their occurrences. Each one has shaped and molded me in an improved person. I’m someone who can enjoy the blessed moments that life has to offer. Mistakes belong in the past. However, I would be a hypocrite is I said all mistakes stayed there permanently. There are a select few that momentarily suspended my belief that better days were ahead.

I was born with a reckless heart. I’ve been more than willing to give my affections to the opposite sex on a whim. The two “loves of my life” left me everything but unscathed. I met Audry my freshman year of high school.

I was totally unaware of the causalities I would endure in the months ahead when I pursued this eager senior girl. The first few weeks of the relationship were some of the greatest moments of my young life. I perceived things with her by my side that I had never considered real. I was on this impregnable pedestal. However, once again, a pretty face devastated me. To put it lightly, she began to feed at other troughs. With the assistance of a few divine companions, I managed to salvage the remainder of my dignity and peace of mind when I ended the relationship.

I think about her every now and again. I actually think more about the poor bastards she’s currently manipulating with her charms. Outside my grandparent’s house, I gazed up at the twinkling beings of light and contemplated that romantic mistake. I knew it wouldn’t haunt me forever.

Melissa didn’t walk into my life. She exploded into it. She was also a senior and we met at a school dance. I was convinced this was my time to find peace and happiness with a member of the opposite sex. However, like most romantics adventures in my young life, everything went terribly awry. Rapidly.

We hadn’t spoken a word to each other in two days. A fight over something trivial caused us to stop communicating. I summoned all my courage and vanquished all my pride to the bottom of the ocean, and went to her house. When I arrived something felt different. There was a different air surrounding her home…it was almost hostile. I will always shiver when I remember her mother’s voice.

“Melissa is gone.”

I didn’t cry. I was too filled with guilt at that moment. It was selfish, but I couldn’t help it. She had unlocked her father’s liquor cabinet and drank as much alcohol as she could. She decided to get into her car and drive through her neighbor’s living room. I piece of the engine pierced her heart. Her mother aged years in the couple of minutes I standing in front of the screen door. My mind and body felt 50 years old. I couldn’t shake the belief that I was the cause of it all. It was a stupid fight that one of us should have been able to forgive and forget about. What I didn’t know then was that Melissa was an alcoholic. When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I thought I knew everything about her. She was an expert at hiding it. The guilt dissipated, but I was left with the cold realization I hadn’t been able to clear the air or clear the air the way I wanted to.

I shook myself from the reverie. That was enough living in the past. There were certain times though when I felt the wind blow through my hair and imagined it was her hand running through it. I think in this moment she was nearby, like she promised she would be always. I believed she wouldn’t let me make the same mistakes over and over again, which is comforting to someone who makes a lot of them.

A year after Melissa's death, I attended a poetry slam. I left that event with a friend for life and partner in love. Ashley was patient with me because I was hesitant to begin a new relationship. She was willing to wait and take things slow. It wasn’t until I stumbled across a note Melissa had wrote me at the beginning of our relationship. She wrote that if anything happened to either one of us, the other had to promise to live life to the fullest. It stopped being difficult to enjoy my time with Ashley after that. I’ve been having the time of my life ever since.

Since Ashley and I have been a couple, I’ve become a more outgoing and caring person. I was creating new friendships and memories every day it seems and the hole Melissa left was beginning to fill in. I started writing again. My family took notice. “Seems to me he finally dug himself out of whatever hole he was in,” I overheard my father tell my mother one day. Maybe. I wasn’t out of it completely, but that’s the whole purpose of friends. Without my steadfast buddies, who always set aside their own dilemmas to come to my aid, I’d never come close to removing myself from a depressing abyss. I have been blessed with the most caring friends a young man could ask for. Old friends I’ll trust forever and new friends I’ll be thankful for forever have given me new confidence. And of course, I always have my ultimate confidant ; an ally so enduring that not even the grim reaper would dare toil with her. She’s a friend that not every human being is as fortunate as I am to have.

My mother.

I’ve tended to look outside of my family to get inspiration. Looking back, there wasn’t a moment when she wasn’t giving me her wisdom, guidance, and encouragement. Sure, like all mothers, she sometimes came off as overbearing. However, I now realized she was only like that when I needed a kick in the ass. My mother always had free time to help me with the most trivial problems. She puts up with all the mood swings I inherited from her brothers. She’s lucky now that I’m rarely in an unpleasant mood. I’ll never again take her love for granted. I’m blessed for having been raised by this tough Frenchy. I certainly don’t tell her enough that I love her.

A gust of March air stung my face like a hard slap, causing me to return my thoughts to the ailing storyteller. Another source of inspiration was dying like an ordinary man. But I knew better. He wasn’t an ordinary man to me. Ordinary men don’t make you feel like you are on a cloud overlooking the crystal clear images of the past. Ordinary men didn’t hold the emotions of the heart and mind in rapt suspense. No, he was no ordinary man. He was a man of strong beliefs, a man of character, and a man of trust.

And he was dying.

Present Day Daniel Ford

Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania

I wrote the majority of my poetry during my sophomore and junior years of high school. During one productive stretch, I was pumping out five poems a day.

If you've read any of my previous poetry posts, you know I hadn't lived through anything yet, so they read exactly like you'd imagine a sensitive 16-year-old boy's poetry to read. However, my classmates back then believed I could make a career as a poet. This one critique from a classmate says it all:

Not so much...

Alas, the poetry career, and the aduring harem that comes with it, were not to be (what reality presented to me was much more satisfying in the end). Maybe I'll one day write a novel about a rock star poet and live vicariously through my degenerate, but kind-hearted, protagonist.

Pennsylvania 6-5000

This song doesn’t go with any of the poetry you’re about to read, but I figured you could use something uplifting before things get grim. My high school jazz band did a rendition of this song that would knock your socks into George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of that ensemble’s superior musical skill even when I don’t hear music playing. Grandma Ford loved attending my high school band’s performances because it brought her back to when she was hotel bar hopping in New York City in the 1940s.

The headline of this blog refers to the lounge the Glenn Miller Orchestra played at the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York City. The phone number for that hotel back in the day? 6-5000. So swill a single malt scotch, get your heart rate up, and enjoy yourself before reading the inner demons of a white high school suburbanite. I’d also encourage shouting throughout the song in the most public place possible as nature intended.
 

Home

Come in if you like.
Remember to wipe your feet,
I don’t have a vacuum yet.

Have a seat if you like.
There’s plenty of room
on the matching sofa and chair.

Care for a drink?
Sorry,
the fridge is empty.

I’d ask you to spend the night,
but there isn’t even a
bed for me.

Feel free to use the bathroom.
You might want to close
the windows and draw the blinds.

I’d cook you something,
but the stove doesn’t work,
and you wouldn’t want anything that was cooked on it.

I’ll admit it’s not much now,
but just you wait.
In no time at all I’ll having looking like my home!
 

No Tears to Cry

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tenderly wipe away.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to wash away the pain.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tickle my cheek.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to cloud my weary eyes.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to mask my fears.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to match your own.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to share your burden.

Lend me your tears,
so you have no tears to cry.
 

This Night

My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
On this night, her red rose petals die.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, for the rebel she cries.
On this night, in her music she hides.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, for the creatures she strives.
On this night, her beauty knows no pride.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, she has no room for lies.
On this night, she has no wings to fly.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, despair fills both eyes.
On this night, the bitter winds sigh.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, the angels weep on high.
On this night, she waves her world goodbye.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

More inspirational notes from high school English class.

Her Word Say to Me, “I Love You”

Her words of compassion fill
my night with wonderful worries,
as they say to me, “I love you.”

They abandon all that she
has fought so hard to retain,
just to say to me, “I love you.”

They spell out the fabric of her gentleness and strength,
vanquishing any thoughts of misery and dank drips,
with a simple, “I love you.”

Her words cascade, cool and clear,
down the folded page of recaptured dreams of fate,
with the words, “I love you.”

Her dazzling blue baby’s find rest in the late evening,
her anxious mind uncoils around my loving touch,
as my words say to her, “I love you, too.”
 

On the Edge of Heaven

Those storm laden clouds are rushing down
and clash with that sun streaked blaze of sky
and form a nothing….and then a nothingness.

I watch those cherubs cry out loud
and met those demons groans,
both merging into a song silent.

Those divine doves toil
with deadly assassin crows
in biting air of hostile tranquility.

I feel that pleasant prairie breeze
collide with scalding typhoons
that reach in and seduce the breath of lifeless souls.

Here, the edge of heaven waits for me,
losing the virtuous on the backs of the wicked,
long waiting to be saved.

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out:

• Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend  

• Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On

• From the Archives: Summer Poetry

Feel Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend

Nothing says Friday like high school poetry. And nothing says high school poetry like unrequited love, dripping sentimentalism, flowery stanzas, and more lovesick metaphors than you can shake a stick at.

Light some candles, turn on some jazz, and hope that the one you love still wants to get busy with you after reading him/her these poems.

Jazz Soundtrack: Take Five

The Dave Brubeck Quartet’s “Take Five” is jazz ecstasy. There is something so mysterious and sexy about this track. It teases you right up to the moment it ends and leaves you desiring so much more.

Rare that you can find a tune that works for seducing someone and making sweet, sweet love to them.

The Detritus of Love

The heart of your amiable existence
has abandoned my own ruptured core,
slipping into that obscure dead of nightfall.

No longer can you discern passion.
No longer can you contemplate the marvel of eternity.
No longer can your eyes of chocolate behold my affliction.

You are lost to me,
lost as the reveries of tales grown tall,
spent with a trusty shovel and flowing cape.

…and you forsake me.
As a criminal, a robber, a thief of nothing matters.
A victim am I of the slamming door, rusting off its red hinges.

I am left,
laying upon the grainy floor of my loveless forest,
dying like the wind swept leaves of autumn.

I am left,
trying to slip into that nightfall of obscurity,
to battle like a war starved Roman,
for the missing heart of your adrift soul.

In Dreams

As radiant sunshine melts into crystal starlight,
As merciless waves settle into tranquil seas,
My world is calmed by an angel’s heavenly breath,
if only in a dream.

As shadows become frightful enemies,
As demons plan their mischievous deeds,
One star of an angel’s bright blue eyes sends them away,
if only in a dream.

As tortured screams subdue to exquisite music,
As wind whistles their tune aloud,
I share a dance with an angel upon a moonbeam,
if only in a dream.

As cities plunge into slumber,
As hearts are set afire,
An angel takes a flight upon her golden wings,
if only in a dream.

Then, as inky darkness gives way to radiant sunlight,
As crystal starlight gives way to playful clouds,
An angel kisses me awake,
no longer in a dream.

Stay Here Tonight

Stay here tonight
among the silver stars
that glimmer gallantly
for your wondrous beauty.

Stay here tonight,
take away the barbarous hands of time
so that we may find forever.

Stay here tonight,
ordain relief into my rest
and establish my mind’s
endless exuberance.

Stay here tonight
amidst my thoughtless words
that rapidly roll off my tongue.

Stay here tonight
to find protection from
the oppressive outside
obstacles of your world.

Stay here tonight,
amid these gallant silver stars.
Take not away my living breath,
sweet baby, stay here tonight.

Should I Stay?

Should I stay and fight a battle I’m sure to lose,
to lie along the body filled trenches among
the fallen cannonballs that crushed dawn’s early light?

Am I just divulging into hollow love,
where the voice of reassuring reason
is lost in the groans of dying hope?

Do I care enough to place a bet
on this rigged game of cat and mouse,
where I could forever surrender my very soul and sanity?

Have I derailed my train of happy times
and plowed into a depthless gorge of forgotten troubles
that have yet to put me in my place?

Can I now lean on the crumbling walls of indifference,
which my punctured essence has been slammed into
again and again with no signs of mercy?

Should I stay and save you from drowning in tears,
and lead our hearts back into the good graces of the sands of time,
which sift through the cracking crystal glass?

I ask you sweet darling, should I stay?

Something Heaven

She kisses asleep the last blinks of sunlight,
ready now to be relieved of lonely hours
and retreat into the warmth of her secret paradise.

She lies contently on her bed of daises,
unaware of a million uncaught glances
and blind to my heart’s silent declarations.

She smiles as she begins to dream out loud,
bringing the light back in to a pain distant past
and forces the dark eyes out of the shadows.

She’s not afraid of putting her heart on the line here,
learning to fly again on her angelic wings
and journeying back to a sweet new beginning.

I just hope I don’t blink and send her back to dreams;
I’ll just steal a kiss from her perfect tender lips
and reveal the love buried deep within my modest spirit.

Fall in Mine

She’s gliding down the highway,

stepping on that broken line.

She wanted to show heaven,

it was not yet her time.

She stopped and came upon a man,

who hadn’t yet been born.

She couldn’t see behind the scars the face that had been torn.

She cried 1,000 tears upon his eyes,

 begging him to see.

It was then I lost the heart,

 to say that man was me.

I watched her fly away, defeated,

and I got back in my car.

I had loved her long ago,

and have not strayed that far.

The engine hummed loud and low

and I left the road behind.

I sent a prayer up to her,

so not to be unkind.

She loved him enough to ignore and stay,

and I’m giving all not to go away.

My soul’s being driven,

but destiny’s disguised.

The truth used to be so young and deep,

but I’m finding comfort in this little sleep.

She never falls outside her line,

and never makes a sound.

But I know if she ever does come down,

baby doll can always fall in mine.

I stopped by to have a bite,

at the same routine café.

Rhonda was a friend of mine

that let me have my own way.

I couldn’t quite remember

just how to say good night,

So I closed tight the blinds

and forced away the light.

The morning brought the stars

and I headed right back out.

I caught myself wondering what this sin is all about.

The radio talked softly,

but the words weren’t so mild.

They kept bringing up tomorrow

and murdering my child.

Where have all the world’s angels gone,

it’s what’s got me singing this song.

People have given up on good loving,

and think in terms of army shelling.

God's to busy designing devil costumes,

to stop us from rebelling.

But when heaven falls out empty

and hell becomes the time,

We’ll all need a place to keep ourselves,

so baby, we can all keep in mine.

I pulled off that gravel road

because sleep was soon to hit.

The marching bells of comet toils

kept my trailer cool and lit.

I had a dream explode in my head,

one that kept coming back.

It had a good and tenderness,

some perfect it did not lack.

The weather held out for one day

and the church was stainless white.

That dress gleamed off her,

she sure was a sight.

She sailed up that long aisle

the angels flied in free.

It was then my heart turned it off

to hide it wasn’t me.

She loved him enough to ignore and stay,

and I’m giving all not to go away.

My soul’s being driven,

but destiny’s disguised.

The truth used to be so young and deep,

but I’m finding comfort in this little sleep.

She never falls outside her line,

and never makes a sound.

But I know if she ever does come down,

baby doll can always fall in mine. 

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out:

• Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On

• From the Archives: Summer Poetry

Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On

There was a stretch during my high school years in which I churned out a ton of poetry.

It’s hard to believe, but yes, I did actually have a girlfriend or two while penning these ballads, limericks, villanelles, odes, and haikus.

And not all of it was prompted by teenage love and angst—it only feels that way re-reading my canon 10 years later. But what else was I going to write about at that time? I hadn’t done anything yet!

When I first started this blog, I published some baseball poetry that prompted my girlfriend at the time to tell me: “Please find something to write about so you can spare everyone your teenage poetry.”

Screw that! I’m going to ignore that advice, and eventually be embarrassed and shamed that I did.

Every Thursday, I’ll post a few poems and maybe some thoughts on how and why they came about. Throw on some Miles Davis, wear dark sunglasses in a poorly lit room, snap your fingers, and jam with me.

Jazz of the Week: Birth of the Cool

There’s no better soundtrack to a poetry reading than great jazz music. Each week, I’ll include my favorite jazz tunes for your listening pleasure (as well as make it part of the post’s headline). If you have any jazz favorites you want to send along, I’d be happy to share them.

This week is one of my favorites. Miles Davis’ “Moon Dreams” from his album “Birth of the Cool.” Obviously, I wasn’t birthing any kind of cool in high school, but this is one of the first jazz albums I ever listened to and it made me feel cool. This song in particular matched so many emotions I felt then—and now—so it felt natural to make it the soundtrack to this week’s selections.

The Tremble and the Wait

waiting…waiting…waiting

a tremble buries itself inside heathen trench,

devoid of the once potent stench of luck

waiting…waiting…waiting…

the tremble lose the will to want,

the will to need and desire,

the will to feel the flower petal’s bloom

waiting…waiting…waiting

once the shiver of heavenly touch,

once the eagerness for rising sun,

the tremble is but an uneasy ache of madness

waiting…waiting…waiting…

tired of the test of truth

tired of not seeing light

tired of the wait…

waiting…waiting…waiting…

the tremble surges into awareness,

eeking its way down crowded quarters,

lusting to find the memory of a smiling face

waiting…waiting…waiting…

nothing but the gloom…

nothing but eternity…

nothing but hushed spirits…

waiting…waiting…waiting…

the tremble retreats into restless submission,

left to taste failures vapidness,

left to tingle no more,

left to wait…

Reuniting Midnight

I talk with you,

asleep,

dead to my words,

complaining of simple hunger.

The table has not been set,

or laid out with bounty or bread,

and yet you make no effort to cook,

or clean the yellowing linens for your darling husband.

I dream of feasts,

you tease with treats.

You save your food for

the table of an estranged vagabond.

Twelve chimes I hear,

as my stomach growls,

howls,

wails,

pleading with you for just a

morsel,

a nibble,

a remedy.

“No, no no, ‘tis late,” you say.

“No later than a fortnight ago,” I grumble,

thinking of the goodies

brought to midnight’s table.

“You have had your fill, be thankful for that,”

you say as you roll over and snore me away.

Alas, I choose not to

stay and wither away into my tight stomach.

I throw on my clothes

and brave out into

the frigid moonlight of

midnight.

I shake my fist at his

smirking,

eager,

well-fed smile

and scour the dark for

anything to appease my appetite.

Through my neighbor’s open window,

my watering lips come

to view an untouched meal

laid upon his table.

Luscious,

tantalizingly sweet smelling,

just what my hungry eyes

hav been dreaming of.

All the while you sleep and sleep

and give the pleasures of your

dreams something to nibble.

I think not twice and squeeze through the pane

and trip past the drunken hounds

and sink my being into the goodies

upon my neighbor’s tale.

“What a waste, a meal left in haste,”

I think.

My stomach breathes again as I

return to my pillow and blanket,

you unaware of my whereabouts.

“Would you like a snack?

I can whip something up in no time at all,”

you whistle, surely to midnight your lover.

“No, no, no, ‘tis late,” I say.

“I’ve had my fill.”

I Know I Say

The Devil’s in my corner and he’s wearing polka dots.

He’s wearing a toupee and he’s knocking down shots.

An angel’s on his lap and she’s working him slow.

I know I say I love you, but I’m outta here now.

Inspiration’s fading fast and the monkey spits on me.

Coffee’s burning down my throat and I gotta take a pee.

The buzzard’s are circling ‘round my head, smelling up the joint.

I know I say I want to live, but I think I’ve made my point.

I’m seeing changes rolling fast as I try to make you cook.

The stew’s gone cold, the bacon’s burnt, you’re giving me a look.

The walls are closing in and the paint’s peeling off.

I know I say we’re gonna try, but you’re just too soft.

I’m holding onto luck as the highway’s driving by.

I stop in for a shot of rum and a piece of Maggie’s pie.

The screams are louder than the rhythm of the jukebox.

I know I say that the ground is good, but I think I’ll keep my locks.

The devil met me down in sunny Tennessee.

He’s dropped the angel’s toupee and now’s a real big tease.

I wrote down what he had to say but I think I lost it all.

I know I say we are good friends, but I’m trying my best to stall.

He took me to the desert where the bullets began to fly.

I watched the cold silence of the young boy’s dyin’. 

The Devil took them all to Heaven’s gate to live some more.

I know I say blow ‘em all away, but get the hell out of war.  

The blindfold masks the voices of the critic and the poet. 

Nothing here is good, so don’t pretend to not know it. 

It’s tough to see with sand running ‘round in my head. 

I know I say all’s well, but that’s because I’m looking for my bed.

I’m only as important as the sleep you keep so patiently dear.

There’s no sense waking your eyes so I’ll just go down a lite beer.

The Devil’s brought me back to a home away from everywhere.

I know I say I am, but I’m nowhere here. 

A Mother’s Day Tribute: May 13, 2012

I’m man enough to admit I’m a momma’s boy.

I once chased after my mother’s car in the parking lot of my elementary school because I wasn’t feeling well and wanted her to take care of me. I don’t know what it took for her to drive away without me that day, but she did and taught me how to be tough in the process.

No one is tougher than Momma Ford. She’s the youngest of 11 and taking care of her older brothers and sisters has largely fallen on her shoulders. True to her character, she has never let any of them down. My uncles—Roland, Clifford, and Jimmy—all must have left more peacefully knowing that she was there to keep the Blanchette family together. While my mother, Tantes Lucille and Peewee, and my Uncle Bobby say there is no true “boss” of the family, everyone knows who is really in charge. 

In my toast at my younger brother’s wedding, I said the following: 

The Ford family has also been blessed with strong women. I’m sure most, if not all, of you in this room have met my mother. She’ll be the first to tell you that without women like her, as well as our grandmothers and aunts, that the Ford men would be lost in the tall grass. 

Those words become truer with each passing year. I haven’t been a perfect son, but she has never once abandoned me and I know she never will. Thanks to her, I love deeply and passionately, I am a fiery Frenchman, and I am intensely loyal and true to the most important people in my life. 

So I will raise a glass of wine to Gail Ford today—I really should toast with a wine cooler or Mike’s Hard Lemonade, but I just can’t do it—and thank her from the bottom of my heart for the life she has given me, and for protecting and loving that life with all of her being. I’ll also drink to my Mémère, Aunt Cathy, Tante Peewee, my Aunts Kathy and Ellen, my cousins Judy and Caryn, Grandmas Ford and Cassidy, and all the other incredible women that have blessed my life and made me the man I am today. 

In further honor of Momma Ford—which I’m sure will embarrass the hell out of her—I’m including some of the poetry I wrote for her when I was in high school. 

I love you Momma. I always will.

Mother

When I was lost in darkness,
you gave me light.

When I was grounded,
you gave me wings to fly.

When I was sick,
you were my medicine.

When I became tired,
you carried my world on your shoulders.

When I was tossed upon the ocean,
you were my safe harbor.

When my heart was broken,
you sewed together the pieces.

I could always count on you
to see my through my darkest hour.

You are my mother
and I owe you my life.

Mémère Ford with Katie and Madeline

Milk

The milk is gone…
because of me.

The milk you were to pour
on your strawberry covered cereal.

At one point or another,
someone was bound to drink it.

To be totally honest,
I’m not sorry it was me!

Mémère shares a moment with her Jack

Let the Pretty Lady Be

Let the pretty lady be alone
with the thoughts she holds inside.

Let the pretty lady dance down
the travel along her path so tender.

Let the pretty lady reprimand the
people whom have caused her to stumble and tease.

Let the pretty lady share a secret
dance with her dark haired prince.

Let the pretty lady be the one to
show the world what power she holds for her three protectors.

Let the pretty lady be.
Let my pretty lady be.

Momma Ford with her rock

An Angel on the Bridge

She waits with angelic patience 
upon her arched wooden perch,
high above the harmful waters below.

All who proceed along the protected bridge
are helped along by her selfless, caring wings
and her watchful, caring eyes of sapphire.

She diligently prays each day and night
for her dark- haired prince to come
give her peace of mind and fill her heart with joy.

Her countenance brightens as he appears,
making his way unto her safe haven.
Before her answers are fulfilled at last,
he slips upon the slippery planks
and tumbles towards the menacing waters.

Without a thought of hesitation,
she extends her affectionate wings
and catches his falling form.
She smiles as she lifts him back unto her bridge,
guiding him to her patient heart.

Momma Ford with all her boys.