peacock pajamas, pea-green sheets, the cylindrical form of a respirator, 

and a sleep-softened face, frozen in a state of shock.  

My choice of levity is the Sunday service, 

Where I remember doodling gardens on collection cards 

As a sea of heads bobs gently to the rolling words.  

The hymns hold my attention best, 

The great music of a congregation, reaching their voices to the sky, 

Then the soft pattering rains of silence. 

Your voice was a roaring waterfall,  

tumbling off the rocks of others, 

And hitting my bumbling brook with its faithful strength.   

By your bedside, the tinny phone speaker spouts music, 

Neither a sea nor a waterfall joins in song 

But the lonely voice of a bumbling brook.  

With every verse, my voice croaks and creaks, 

Reaching the highs and lows, holding the chorus alone.  

Your mouth faintly moves, smiling or singing, its unknown.  

I sing louder, growing into a river bolstered by your attempts,  

Stones pile over the waterfall, stopping all movement but the trickle of a smile 

And when the music ends and the sermon starts, the trickle fades 

The brook grows into a river, bolstered by the voice of the waterfall.  

As the last trickles of the waterfall lead into the river, the waterfall dries up, 

Leaving only the river to create a new waterfall one day.  

Next Sunday, I go to sing, only to find the waterfall has dried, the song over, stones silent.  

All that remains is the impression of sound, a faint echo of a waterfall. 

And the river floods. 

Wispy clouds tailing the trees, 

Soft breeze lifting tendrils of hair 

Strand by strand, a temperate day. 

Meanwhile the gulf roils, boiling  

water creeping to the coast, 

ready to unsettle the sandbar state.  

My grandmother shelters in an elementary 

the size of a high school campus, 

her background checked at the door, 

lawn chairs ready to hold steady.  

My father weathers his first Florida storm, 

hundred mph winds knock down trees,  

catching on power lines, roofs 

holding on against slanted rain, 

storm surges threatening coastal retirement. 

My state cools down, untimely 

fall weather welcome 

as I walk the college grounds, 

take a nap in the freshly mown grass, 

toss some frisbee with friends,  

the winds of favor blown in my direction. 

frisbee tosses, running in circles, and coming back, worn out 

fur glossy with sweat, cowlicked and curly, verging on fr-Izzy 

kin to kittens and babies, damp nose seeking hands in hound-like intensity 

huffing and puffing protectively up and down the stairs  

in enduring affection, cozy like a worn pair of Levi’s 

lazy yet stuffed with love, big-boned and bird-brained,  

frightened by NERF guns, cats, noises, cardboard boxes, living 

under the table, hand-fed and always with a full b-Elly 

of frenzied energy, a rubber band out the door after squirrels 

and bouncing back inside into a cozy ball,  

bestowing her blessing on laps and hands, the ones Lucky 

enough to hold the fort, dog the front door, lay 

a long lumpy body with the sprightly dedication of a pup 

placed in a family to keep safe the Chicks 

cooped in a kennel dawn to dark, excited 

for the front door to unlock, dejected until it does, watching 

reruns on the television of Good Luck Charlie 

a welcome company, gnawing on table legs, under 

wear, books and toys, teeth ground into tiny nubs 

leaving lone socks as ships of unmoored Sailors 

caught in a dopey smile like dog food commercial actors, gracefully 

navigating coffee tables and clearing contents with a tail swipe, 

securing a spot with the low rumble growl of a Harley 

warily waking up for belly rubs, but hiding a large labrador 

body behind blanketed walls and memories, 

a familial glue, inset with the family Jewel 

stolen through tiny picket pockets, 

pee-wee toe beads breaking in- 

laws apart, relationships clinging like strands of Ivy 

climbing over couches, a cat-like nimbleness and skinny 

frame, piecing relationships from fragments into family, 

making a house, home – hearts, whole.

frisbee tosses, running in circles, and coming back, worn out 

fur glossy with sweat, cowlicked and curly, verging on fr-Izzy 

kin to kittens and babies, damp nose seeking hands in hound-like intensity 

huffing and puffing protectively up and down the stairs  

in enduring affection, cozy like a worn pair of Levi’s 

lazy yet stuffed with love, big-boned and bird-brained,  

frightened by NERF guns, cats, noises, cardboard boxes, living 

under the table, hand-fed and always with a full b-Elly 

of frenzied energy, a rubber band out the door after squirrels 

and bouncing back inside into a cozy ball,  

bestowing her blessing on laps and hands, the ones Lucky 

enough to hold the fort, dog the front door, lay 

a long lumpy body with the sprightly dedication of a pup 

placed in a family to keep safe the Chickies 

cooped in a kennel dawn to dark, excited 

for the front door to unlock, dejected until it does, watching 

reruns on the television of Good Luck Charlie 

a welcome company, gnawing on table legs, under 

wear, books and toys, teeth ground into tiny nubs 

leaving lone socks as ships of unmoored Sailors 

caught in a dopey smile like dog food commercial actors, gracefully  

navigating coffee tables and clearing contents with a tail swipe, 

securing a spot with the low rumble growl of a Harley 

warily waking up for belly rubs, but hiding a large labrador  

body behind blanketed walls, and 

a familial glue, inset with the family Jewel 

stolen through tiny picket pockets, 

pee-wee toe beads breaking in- 

laws apart, relationships clinging like strands of Ivy 

climbing over couches, a cat-like nimbleness and skinny 

frame, piecing relationships from fragments into family, 

from home to heart.  

 following the family from home into heart, 

piecing it together.  

now our hearts, holding the family together, 

and breaking them when you leave. 

We love you, our dogs, may you go in peace.  

The news will use language to report 

death, politics, sports, scandal, 

obtaining views, inserting fear 

into the native narrative. 

The FAA, NTSB, DPS, HFD, HPD are all investigating the crash. 

We investigate rhetorical appeals, 

using class credibility to claim 

subjugation over institutions 

until we forget it’s real. 

A tragic loss of life, four people, including a child, are killed. 

Debris still lingers in our backyards 

while we pull this piece to death, 

horrified at its untimely truth, 

four dead, not us.  

And turn it into an analysis 

Of how the news sensationalizes, 

Reports on the death, the negativity,  

Uses language and reinforcement to incite fear, 

But rarely tells the right stories. 

In the afternoon I forget to preface the article 

With the story, fresh off the press that morning. 

When I finally do, after it’s been picked apart, 

Their faces are horrified,  

To have taken this “tragic loss” 

And taken it apart, 

Meanwhile debris still lingers in our backyards.  

How quickly an attempt to teach rhetorical appeals, 

How the news manipulates and uses language 

Turns into guilt at manipulating students minds. 

A helicopter crashed into a radio tower in Houston’s Second Ward on Sunday night, logos. 

The FAA, NTSB, DPS, HFD, HPD are all investigating the crash, ethos.  

A tragic loss of life, four people, including a child, are killed, pathos.  

This poem is a helicopter crashing into an unlit radio tower,  

no audience, just flying, oblivious to who dies. 

It comes apart anyways.

water creeping to the coast, 
ready to unsettle the sandbar state. 
My grandmother shelters in an elementary 
the size of a college campus, 
her background checked at the door, 
lawn chairs ready to hold steady. 
My father loses power, 

hundred mph winds knock down trees, 

catching on power lines, roofs 

slanted rain beating down unshuttered windows 

I walk the college grounds, 

take a nap in the freshly mown grass, 

toss some frisbee with friends, 

the winds of favor blown in my direction. 

Your voice croaks and creaks, a great rumbling waterfall beside my bumbling brook 

As the church brings our voices louder in praise, we harmonize on a single note 

As the congregation claps into a new song.  

On a Sunday when you were on bed rest 

I turned on the church livestream. 

It started with praise, so I sang -- 

My voice cracking and creaking, yours stone silent. 

My throat ached, holding the chorus alone, 

Trying to reach the highs and lows  

As the phone’s tinny speaker struggled to keep up. 

I almost stopped. 

But your smile lit up the room, 

Stroke keeping the corners of your mouth from lifting, 

As if stones held them cemented to your face. 

But your eyes said it all. 

For when the singing stopped, now time for the sermon, 

Your smile fell just as much, told me to stop, 

Because no one wanted to listen to Rick anyways.  

Your voice croaks and creaks, a great rumbling waterfall beside my bumbling brook 

As the church brings our voices louder in praise, we harmonize on a single note 

As the congregation claps into a new song.  

I scribbled on a collection card,  

Creating sunsets over the garden of Eden. 

You always dropped a $50 check into the tray when it came by 

Sun streamed through the sunroom’s big bay windows, 

You were the sun in the room 

One sunny Sunday by your bedside, 

I tried to bring some levity through the Sunday sermon.  

When they praised, I sang,  

My voice cracking and creaking, yours stone silent. 

My throat ached, holding the chorus alone, 

Trying to reach the highs and lows  

As the phone’s tinny speaker struggled to keep up. 

I almost stopped. 

But your smile lit up the room, 

Muscle paralysis prohibiting your corners from creeping into a smile, 

Stones holding them cemented to your face. 

But your eyes said it all. Your eyes spoke for the mouth,  

For when the singing stopped, now time for the sermon, 

Your smile fell just as much, told me to stop, 

When I came for our Sunday singing,  

I didn’t make it through the door. 

Your song had ended, and as the dull tones of the sermon 

Echoed through my speaker, 

My song came out through tears 

And never stopped singing.  

Once a child gets behind 

Difficult to overcome 

Building a house 

Will move here 

Spent the weekend in the Wagner home 

Recently won two foot ball games 

Making her home with them and teaching piano 

Moved to cross plains 

Spent Sunday with her parents 

Spent Sunday with relatives 

Purchased a home in Brownwood 

Leased the farm 

Will continue to run the Cafe until next spring 

Automobile accessory thieves have raided the Burns and Burkett Garages recently, getting tires, tubes and batteries 

Was a caller here Saturday night 

Visiting their brother and sister 

Attended the Abilene fair Monday 

Returning here from Sipe Springs and have apartments 

Moved to Ranger 

Charge of a barber shop 

Attending school at Santa Anna 

Helping in Piggly Wiggly Saturdays 

Opened the Miller barber shop last Monday 

Purchased the Y.C. Boyle farm 

Happy parents of a baby girl who has been named Zenobia Christine 

Returned from a visit with her daughter 

Spending some time with her mother at Commerce 

Recovering from a tonsil operation 

Assisting Mr. and Mrs. T.A. Burns in the Gift Shop and Post office 

Recently married and after a short honeymoon are at home 

Recent visits of the Stork left a baby girl at the Jim Baker home and a boy at the Drewey home 

Attended the funeral 

Loved by those who knew him 

Bright faced little fellow 

Go out to the bereaved 

Returned to her home at Bartlett 

Preach at the church of Christ Sunday, Oct. 9^th.  

-- 

Furnished our city 

The world has been wondering 

The young people seemed to enjoy it 

Enjoyed a sunrise breakfast 

Enjoyed very much. Entertained. 

Is she boiling 

At a cost 

Will not exceed 

Repair, rebuild 

Near the goal 

Equally desirable 

Careful workmanship 

Fitting qualities of the finest type and manner 

We go the limits to please 

Everything hurt me 

Felt better 

Complete home 

If desired 

Invite you to visit us 

Passed into the hands 

Posession 

Shaking 

Represents an ideal 

High standard 

Only the very best 

Extra comfort 

Just received 

Been in ill health 

Nice crowd of young folks 

They are valuable 

Piece by piece 

Fat juicy mackerel 

Just arrived 

death claimed him.  

Recovering. 

Recent visits of the stork,  

a boy, a baby girl –  

Zenobia Christine. 

Move here.  

Build a house.  

Lease the farm.  

Run the cafe.  

Attend school.  

Assist in the post office. 

Marry, honeymoon. 

Make a home.  

Is she here? 

Move to town, 

build a house. 

Lease the farm, 

run the cafe. 

Help in the shop, 

marry, honeymoon. 

Is this the goal? 

Valuable visits of the stork  

just arrived, children 

passed into the hands  

of happy parents. 

Bright-faced little sunrise, 

a boy, a baby girl, 

Zenobia Christine--  

a complete home, 

piece by piece.  

playing with wispy strands of clouds, 

a capricious breeze tangling hair  

strand by strand, teasing temperance 

nothing but a bluff, boiling 

gulf sludge creeping to the coast, 

primed to unsettle the sandbar state.  

My grandmother packs pillows, lawn chairs 

arranged in a primary school classroom, sheltering  

evacuees from trees poised to topple homes.  

My father fills the generator, bracing 

his new home for flying winds 

catching power lines, roofs 

battered by slanted rain. 

I sidestep the shower, Texas welcoming 

early fall temperatures that uplift  

frisbees in sudden air currents, 

close eyelids resting in freshly mown grass,

winds of favor blown in our direction.  

peacock pajamas, pea-green sheets, the cylindrical form of a respirator, 

and a sleep-softened face, frozen in a state of shock.  

Sunday service, I doodled gardens on collection cards 

A sea of heads bobbing gently to the rolling words.

The hymns hold my attention best, 

The great music of a congregation, reaching their voices to the sky, 

Then the soft pattering rains of silence. 

Your voice was a roaring waterfall,  

tumbling off the rocks of others, 

And hitting my bumbling brook with its faithful strength.   

By your bedside, the tinny phone speaker spouts music, 

Neither a sea nor a waterfall joins in song 

But the lonely voice of a bumbling brook.  

With every verse, my voice croaks and creaks, 

Reaching the highs and lows, holding the chorus alone.  

Your mouth faintly moves, smiling or singing, its unknown.  

Stones pile over the waterfall, stopping all movement but the trickle of a smile 

And when the music ends and the sermon starts, the trickle fades 

The brook grows into a river, bolstered by the voice of the waterfall.  

As the last trickles of the waterfall lead into the river, the waterfall dries up, 

Leaving only the river to create a new waterfall one day.  

Next Sunday, I go to sing, only to find the waterfall has dried, the song over, stones silent.  

All that remains is the impression of sound, a faint echo of a waterfall. 

And the river floods.