I wrote this poem about two and a half weeks into New Hampshire’s COVID-19 Stay at Home orders.
Stuffed Animals at the Window
in Poetry
Life Lessons
Intertwined
in Poetry
For as long as I can remember, I've had a tenuous relationship with people--collectively speaking. My relationships with individual people are for the most part healthy and rewarding, but I've always found people in general to be intimidating and enigmatic. Though not particularly shy, I find that I'm slow to bond, quick to isolate, and generally wary of forming connections with others. I say this as a matter of fact, fully recognizing that--though some of this can be chalked up to personality bent--a portion of it is the result of flaws in my own character.
Several months ago, I began reflecting on the 10th anniversary of our move to New Hampshire. I was surprised to realize that I've lived continuously in this location longer than any other place on earth during my life. The fact seemed weighty (in a good way), and I soon began composing a poem describing some of the changes I've detected in myself over this last decade.
Maybe there's hope for me yet...
Five Seconds per Mile
in Poetry
I don't primarily think of my poetry as a means of teaching lessons or preaching morals. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with using a poem in this way. I just don't view my poetry like that--not usually. Occasionally, however, a lesson will come along that seems ideally suited to be communicated through a poem.
Such was the case here. A few weeks ago, I was relieved one afternoon to find that a storm would pass just to the north of us. As I listened to the thunderclaps in the distance, I realized that a life lesson was in play. It is one that applies to weather events and many, many other situations in life.
I hope you'll keep this short verse in mind the next time you hear of a tragedy on the news.
Not Every Mountain
in Poetry
Okay...at the outset I need to disclose that this poem makes me sound quite altruistic and noble. I guess I'm okay with that as long as you know that it embodies more of what I want to be than what I am.
I found the inspiration to write this one from a phrase that I tend to use a lot. I started thinking about the words, and soon I had the first line of the poem.
As I've watched events unfold around me in recent years, I feel like I've become more aware of the world with all its complexities, nuances, and conflicts. I believe the times demand that we know when to fight, why to fight, and (probably most importantly) how to fight.
I give this poem as a word of advice and encouragement to myself and to anyone who reads it. May we all be "true fighters" in the end.
The Actor's Guild
in Poetry
Pulling myself up from crawling to walking.
Shaping coos and caws into intelligent talking.
A towheaded toddler on a mission to grow,
But I wasn't fully human--
Not yet.
Driver's license and diploma duly awarded.
18th year privileges to me were afforded.
Had the world by the tail on a downhill slope,
But I wasn't an adult--
I was bluffing.
A battery of lessons outlined and planned.
Seating chart, red pens, and inspiration in hand.
The classroom a caravel with me at the helm,
But I wasn't a teacher--
I had good intentions.
Vows of fidelity tearfully said.
Nervous but gentle in the honeymoon bed.
Across the threshold with a wife in my arms,
But I wasn't a husband--
Not fully.
Nursery accoutrements assembled and ready.
Delivery room sidekick holding her steady.
They put a life in my hands and let me walk out the door,
But I wasn't a father--
I was afraid.
As a functioning adult in the balance I must live.
Needs versus wants. Take versus give.
I keep the plates spinning and just try not to crack,
But I'm not an expert--
I learn as I go.
When we've funded our Roth and emptied our nest,
We'll turn our attention to retirement rest.
Adventures of a new sort as we live out our days,
But we won't know what we're doing--
We'll be starting over.
Last will and testament by a notary sealed.
The final scenes of my life will be gradually revealed.
Grasping for the sunset as it fades into twilight,
But I won't know what it's like--
It will be my first time.
Champions, dictators, celebrities, and doormen,
Activists, artists, and factory foremen,
The young doctor in surgery, or the priest in confession;
We're not who we say we are--
We're just doing our impression.
How Much Does a Moment Weigh?
in Poetry
And the words came to mind,
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The question, of course, is ridiculous
Because moments don’t have mass.
They’re intangible, untouchable.
They’re not here, then they are,
Then they pass unnoticed and unappreciated
Most of the time.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The mental energy required to think this through
Is nothing more than a waste.
We might as well ask,
“How tall is color? What direction is fear?
What taste does an idea have
When it’s thought?”
“But how much does a moment weigh?”
If we must persist in asking the question,
Then I suppose moments in a way
Can have weight or a sense of gravity.
After all, they occupy space
In our day and leave indentations
Once they’re gone.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The more time I spend considering this idea
The more logical it becomes.
It’s true that some moments feel light and breezy
As if they whip around corners to blow through our hair
And fill our lungs with the fragrance
Of pleasure and ease.
Now that I’ve started this, I’ll have to admit
That the comparison is undeniably apt.
Some moments feel dense and heavy
As if they burst in the room like a lumbering
Giant wrapped in thick folds
Of worry and woe.
Then I’m struck by this observation—
Our perceptions are fickle at best.
Because some moments seem heavy at first,
But as time passes it reduces
Their heft when we look back through
Eyes of experience.
Or who is there among us
Who hasn’t let a light moment slip
Past only after the fact
To have its significance and
Import grip our heart through the echo
Of its happening?
“How much does a moment weigh?”
I will concede. To speak of time in this manner
Can be helpful and fitting.
The weight of a moment
Is the weight we give
As we’re living it or reliving it
In our memory.
Research
in Poetry
Although the title might sound a bit banal at first, this poem represents two important steps I've taken in the last year in my development as a writer (I guess it's three steps, technically, since it comes in the form of a poem).
First, this poem talks about the realization I've come to that the ebb and flow of daily life around me is rife with opportunities to find content for writing. The stories are there, someone just has to take the time to carve them out.
Second, this poem contains a declaration that has taken me several years with which to grow comfortable making. Truthfully, I'm still feel a bit conspicuous saying it, but I know that's just the voice of doubt and insecurity trying to hold me back. I can say it because it's true..."I AM A WRITER!"
Research
by Andrew D. Doan
A middle-aged woman sits crying
In the driver’s seat of her car.
A child’s winter mitten is lying
On the sidewalk outside a sports bar.
The trim on the ceiling emblazoned with runes
In one of the city’s old haunts.
Shock-eyed and tail-less, a lonely cat moves
Past my window looking hostile and gaunt.
I am a writer. I like to take walks
In the city or on far-flung rural roads.
Taking deep breaths and occasional stops
So to learn what the local man knows.
I am a writer. I listen to music.
My catalog is eclectic—a bit odd.
But when the lyrics and arrangement bring weightiness to it,
A good song’s like a whisper from God.
I am a writer. I take many photos.
My camera of choice is my phone.
I’ll use an odd angle. Look high or look low.
Take the picture but make it my own.
I am a writer. I love to watch shows
And movies that matter and speak
Through subtext and dialogue that gradually grows
The characters motives and needs.
I am a writer so I of course I must read,
But it’s a challenge for me oftentimes.
For I’m not voracious nor gifted with speed.
I just plod through—line upon line.
They say that a writer is his own story.
Her experiences will determine her work.
Sometimes, when I hear that, I wonder and worry
That what I’ve got to say has no worth.
It seems, as a writer, my life is not grand.
It’s a hair’s breadth away from mundane.
A father. A teacher. A husband and friend.
Predictable, safe, clean, and sane.
But then I remember that all human writing
Is bound by at least one common theme.
It was penned by mere humans, each one of them trying
To capture a particular scene.
So, as a writer, I am continually training
To expand the scope of my work.
I read. I listen. I watch. And I’m straining
Through life’s endless bits of research.
I am a writer with a touch of obsession
To carve stories from whatever I can.
The ceiling. The cat. The woman’s depression.
The mitten that’s missing its hand.
I am a writer because that’s what I do.
It is me as much as my name.
Every picture’s a story being woven in view,
And every story’s in need of a frame.