Sun-Eater

photo courtesy of Scott and Robin Lunt

On the cusp of June and forever
I gasp and pant
in this heat, the high summer
of my life arriving so soon;
still a crisp plant
still in bloom
just so thirsty, ah so thirsty
and so thirty-something,
just so missing something now
and yesterday, what is it?

I peer from my garden
into flourishing streets, ready
to breakfast on the morning sun
and all goodwill,
but only now does it dawn on me
who the good earth is
to whom my roots cling fast
and ever draw their water.

*
From Matt to Suzy

Shadowplay

Sun slants half madly into the room
which means night has gone up
like a show-curtain
and the day is summoning its actors.

After six extra weeks of winter
and a couple of more of pseudo-spring
a certain nine-and-a half-month old
sees his shadow
which means June will arrive any minute.
Solstice and high summer
will flare like the breath of the dogstar,
enveloping everything in warmth.

His scene has started. He finds himself
in medias res. Like a Re
or a Pharaoh, this one knows his role.
Like a priest, this one knows his lines.
Like a bee, this one knows his business.
Like a fire, this one knows the drill.
Like a shadowboxer he presses a soft fist
to the brow of his opponent.

Dramatis personae: I and I.
The hands of his double are cool
to the touch. Either he
or his silouette begins a soliloquy
in a language he can no longer articulate.

A language spoken in that elusive world
whence he came not long ago.

The Wastelands

Crawling through vast deserts of carpet

with a diaper bag in tow
in search of what, pray tell?

Crawling through vast deserts of carpet.

Hark! The stork cometh

bearing a bear

wearing a fedora

and friendship on his wing

Crawling through vast carpeted deserts.
Stop for a meal
at a mirage restaurant
famous for their airy eats,
still towing a load.

Treading that same wasteland path
tomorrow and again.

Hobbies @ 8 mo.

Optometry: Beauty is in they eye of the beholder, after all,
whether you're a cyclops, a cyclone,
or a potato:

Sitting up: the minimal requirement

for ascending the throne,
although crawling around on one's footstool

commando-style

and traveling carpet deserts like a sidewinder

is still legit . . . and lotsa fun,

the Pharaoh even says so! Or would if he could.

Bouncing: not at the doorways of bars,

not from job to job like a loafer

or a bad lounge-act,
not like a football on atrocious astro-turf

or like a player, from woman to woman,

or a particle.

but out of pure joy . . . bouncy, bouncy, bouncy . . .

Curling up in the corner with the household turtle:
The party's over
and all of the excitement has decayed
like a radioactive sugar isotope
and fizzled into dream foam
to be used and reused by by the stagehands
that manage baby dreams
in the littlest theaters:



Terpy is with me.
I am swathed in a blankey!

Ah to rest, at long last!

Early-Life Crisis?

No small decisions for me, even at 4 months:
Do I wanna rock out to AC/DC ... er ... I mean AB/CD
or play with Terrapin Turtle (aka Terpy the Turtle)?

In my economy,
blankets are still comestibles.
I've learned to elude
nap-enforcement
the way some people charm
bill collectors:
I beam the parentals a pulsating
supernova smile
and they are putty
in my recently-sucked hands.

Nope. No small decisions at 4 months,
AB/CD or Terpy?



Guess we know who won the day?

Zach and Lennox

2nd cuzzins, born two months apart

already tight as spirals, just like their moms

who grew up together at Granny's house

swimming summers away outback

eating peaches and taco bell

cruising Santa Cruz, dreaming

on her beaches, admiring surfers

and surf, cakewalking the boardwalk,

sometimes more than eyeing ice-creams,

missing the gentle breezes and people

the rest of the year.

One afternoon, it fell to Matt to hold down the fort
whilst Suz and Steph were down in Filene's basement
and the two wiggle-worms took turns testing
his infant acumen, a brief baptism of baby flame . . .

Success!

All Smiles

Oh that every smile

could be captured like a butterfly,

pinned forever on the memory . . .

or engraved on the bronze

of the sky, emblazoning the dawn

with the image of God

happily countenancing

limitless possibilities

of an eternal Day.

Serenity Now!

With hurricane suddenness
and force
smiles and coos
fade altogether
giving way
to the five distinct cries
in my arsenal:

hungry cry,
dirty-diaper cry,
lonely cry,
fake cry,
and serenity-now cry:

a.k.a. the Not-tomorrow,
not-after-breakfast
NOW!-cry

Why can’t you parentals
figure out what I want?!

Okay, I’ve said my piece . . .
time for Zach to zonk.
In minutes,
I’m happier than a clam
in shallow waters
at sunset.

happier than the sunset himself
now that you mention it.

A Mom's Joy

Only she
can know this joy:
watching him grow
inch by ounce

his honey-vanilla
milky smell
his mannerisms
that seem almost expert

his grunts,
his groans,
his dovish coos
as he stretches himself
into the day
and smacks his lips,

the gentle splaying
of his fingers
fists of baby stress
clenched next to his temples

chipmunk cheeks,
gummy grins and grimaces
silent stares
and full-blown smiles
of recognition

little evening walks with him,
seeing her reflection—
and dad’s—
in his face, personality,
and soul.

Of Bottles and Binkies

Hard to tell the real suckers
from the sucked
Parents, pacifiers, or nippled bottles.

Zach’s most pressing philosophical question
these days: “What love I more?
Parent or binky or bah-bah?”

From zero to a hundred
in under three seconds
if he doesn’t get the bah-bah.

Dad’s hand has to stay on top
of the binky (a.k.a dragon appeaser)
to keep it in mouth.
It’s like keeping a lid on a basket,
or a hot coal on the lips of a prophet.

He had us trained.
At 4 a.m. we would rise like corpses
to the crescendoing grunts and squalls
climbing to climactic “wahhhh!”

Now he’s trained.
Been sleeping six hours straight.
Food coma comes on at 11 p.m.
Cooing at 5 a.m.

Zach

He was due today,
he arrived six weeks ago.
He started out at a little over 5 lbs.
He's almost 10 lbs. now.
Mom would have been passing
a veritable bowling-ball.
Dad watches him grow
and sometimes gets a vacant look
on his face, standing around
scratching his head, wondering
where time is flying off to.
He enjoys the noise
and ambient traffic of the city
Every time we take him
outside the lair
he just zonks.
Must be the fresh city air.

When we bring him back
into the lair
He drifts through the realms
of baby sleep
dreaming of mother's milk
and formulae
with contented smiles
drifting over his face
like tiny clouds
in an endlessly blue sky.