Sunday in Fredericksburg

She is Tall Now

She's tall now standing there with the refrigerator door flung open staring into a world of decisions.

The school day wears lightly on her face; her eyes dart between the shelves and the door like fireflies

She is tall now. Her mother competes in a fruitless battle. I notice. She doesn't have to stand on her toes; she doesn't have to step into the refrigerator like her sisters.

She weighs all of her choices.

She's tall now and indecision furrows her brow while she chews on her reddened bottom lip.

In a moment, she shifts the weight of her choices on her hips and plucks an apple from the drawer and leaves.

Her choice made.

I consider this moment in the continuum of her life - my life. She is tall now. The choices are hers now. I fear the seduction of the artificial and the shallow will sugar over her innocence, but I remember the apple and all of its symbolism and think . . . she chose the apple . . . and her life will be rich.

Another Poem

The Occasioned Solitude

December 5^th: Arturo Fuente slowly burned . . .

Coldness blanketed the night with a determination that patiently crept into the tips of toes and of fingers.

The holiday glow of suburbia betrayed the darkness of the night casting dancing hues of violet, white, and gray into the street.

A solitary bat wildly hunted darting between the shifting shadows.

The Occasion ignited.

Arturo stood boldly against the night. Cameroonian and Dominican tones blended in a heated earthiness against the intention of the night. Inflamed, engulfed, contradicting the regulated, the enslaved, the uniformed. Arturo, a blaze in revolution, on this night, would save the world.

She's Tall Now

She's tall now standing there with the refrigerator door ajar staring into a world of decisions.

The school day wears lightly on her face; her eyes dart between the shelves and the door like fireflies

She is tall now. Her mother competes in a fruitless battle. I notice. She doesn't have to stand on her toes; she doesn't have to step into the refrigerator like her sisters.

She weighs all of her choices.

She's tall now and indecision furrows her brow while she she chews on her reddened bottom lip.

In a moment, she shifts the weight of her choices on her hips and plucks an apple from the drawer and leaves.

Her choice made.

I consider this moment in the continuum of her life - my life. She is tall now. The choices are hers now. I fear the seduction of the artificial and the shallow will sugar over her innocence, but I remember the apple and all of its symbolism and think . . . she chose the apple . . . and her life will be rich.

Kings of Suburbia

This is our dominion.

Castles. Secured bastions skirted
by an infantry of concrete.
Sinewy sidewalks,
tandem curbs line neighborly boundaries.

Homogenous mailboxes, sentries,
standing at attention
guarding asphalt moats.
Stones and bricks, bulwarks
against encroaching enemies.

This is our WAR.

We are the masters of strategy planning
against the parasitic platoons
of nimblewills and foxtails.
Ever vigilant against the goose and quack.

We are the generals marshaling
militant mowers, whining weedwackers,
and spinning spreaders
preparing pristine battlefields.

We are the Kings of Suburbia standing
alone prideful of our victories in battle.
Greener days are the dreams of tomorrow.
For us, we soldier on – watchful.