Poetry
Sometimes I feel a twitch in my leg,
Or maybe it's in my shoulder.
This type of thing seems to happen
More often as I get older.
I've talked with my doctor about it,
But she feels it's creating no harm.
"Muscles and nerves sometimes do this,
But it's really no cause for alarm."
Still, it can be quite annoying
Like someone is knocking on my skin.
I want to know if this knocker
Is trying to leave or get in.
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.
It snowed
Then it rained,
And we felt like we’d been cheated.
The raindrops froze,
Encasing every hillside and meadow
With an icy glaze
In a crystal coffin.
The trees bore the brunt
Of this wintry mix
As they stood with their arms raised
In defiance
Of the storm.
But weather is a despot
Undeterred by wood or will.
The next day
Our land sits glowing
But browbeaten.
Trees, young and old, are forced
To bow in submission
As they groan under the weight
Of winter’s tyranny.
A gang of grey clouds
Is storming in from the west
With their weapons loaded and ready.
We watch from our window
While we wait and wonder,
“Can these arms sustain
Their resistance
Until they can rise again
With the sunlight?”
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.
This poem is the result of two specific events in my life.
First, I read a book about a decade ago in which the author mentioned that his father told him to pray whenever he heard or saw an ambulance with its lights and siren on because it meant that someone somewhere was in trouble. I've never forgotten that. Though I don't always pray when I see an ambulance, I find that I'm often filled with a sense of dread and anxiety when one passes by with lights flashing and siren wailing.
Second, when I was driving along the interstate in Nashville a couple of weeks ago, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw an ambulance far behind me on the road. It was an odd sensation to see the emergency vehicle chasing me from so far away. My inclination was to pull over right then, but that wouldn't have made any sense. All I could do was drive, watch, and wait for it to catch up to me and then pass me by. I felt like the moment provided good potential for a poem, so I started sketching out some ideas that day.
I'm pretty happy with the result. What do you think?
by Andrew D. Doan
I’m traveling.
Moving about in a rental—
This temporary home of my ambition.
Shrill lights
Reflected into my vision
Are arresting my attention.
An ambulance—
Harbinger of trouble and pain—
Is rushing down the road behind me.
It’s distant.
Barely cresting above the horizon,
Too remote to hear its wail,
But it’s gaining.
Other vehicles give right of way,
And it’s moving ever closer—
Chasing.
Still too far for me to yield,
But impossible to ignore.
Approaching
With chilled foreboding
As if driven by the Reaper himself.
It passes by
To find the one in need
Leaving me behind with a sense of dread and gloom.
I resume
My travels ever mindful and wary of the day
When it will seize the right of way and stop for me.
“And yet,”
I hear myself say, “Don’t forget
The siren sound also means that help is on the way.”
I lead a double life
As divided as day is from night.
An unseen dichotomy. A split personality.
An amalgam of shadows and light.
Most days, I expend my energy
In well-intentioned efforts to be good.
Do my job. Toe the line.
Live, look, and think as I should.
But when darkness begins surging
And the day gets turned on its head
I experience a strange transformation.
It begins when I’ve just gone to bed.
First, come the questions.
Springing from an insecure soul
They whittle and weaken my assurance
About so many things I should know.
Existence, God, purpose,
My commitment to my children and wife,
My job, the future, my ambitions—
“What on earth am I doing with my life?”
Next, come the dreams.
Though the details are usually dim
The emotions that come when I have one
Are as real as a cut to my skin.
Rage, Terror, Lust,
Deep sadness and confusion.
I often wake up to these feelings,
With no reason or real resolution.
Then, there are the screams.
Please stop me if this is too much information,
But my family tells me I’ve done this
On several nighttime occasions.
Personally, I’ve never heard it
And I couldn’t explain to you why
I sometimes shatter the stillness
With a tortured and guttural cry.
When the light returns as it always does
And Jekyl pushes Hyde back down under
I walk from my bed into a new day,
But sometimes I look back and I wonder.
“Are we still ourselves when we’re asleep?
Is it someone else who is dreaming?
Is my subconscious telling me something?
Am I really that guy who is screaming?”
I’m a good person. That is—I hope I am.
At nighttime I’m not quite so sure.
When I see both my sides, I just have to ask—
“Which version of me’s the imposter?”
I've got another poem I'm putting out there into the world, but if I'm transparent I have to say that I don't like it.
Let me explain...
I like it for what it is--a poem that I labored over and poured a lot of thought into. I'm still new to the art of poem crafting and have much to learn about this particular form of expression. Nonetheless, I like how this one came out both in wording and rhythm.
What I don't like about it is what it says about me. I began writing it after several long days last spring, and I used the poetic space to articulate how I was feeling at the time. That's what you're supposed to do as a poet, right?
When I read back over it later, however, I felt ashamed of myself. The difficult parts of my day that I talk about in the poem seem insignificant and silly compared to the struggles that others around me face each day. "Uneven sidewalks? Holes in the trash bag? Really, Andrew?
Some people don't have drinkable water, and you can't put up with a leaky trash liner?" I think to myself as I scan the lines in disdain.
The truth is that I am blessed and wealthy compared to most of the world's population. The struggles of a typical day for me are miles away from the difficult reality so many others have to accept each day. It is also true, however, that the only life I can fully experience and understand is my own. As an individual who is naturally curved inward toward my own interests, I will freely admit that I often allow the small frustrations I find nipping at my heels each day to distract me and steal my joy. It's not right, but it is where I am more often than not.
From that perspective, I guess the poem is a good one in that it accurately captures the experience and feelings of the poet at a specific moment in time.
Here it is...
by Andrew D. Doan
I put on a habit each morning
Like a nun who’s keeping her vows.
I wake up at the same time,
Roughly speaking.
I eat the same breakfast.
I revert to the same line of thinking.
This is the day
The Lord has made.
It’s new and clean and fresh.
Pristine.
Packed with promises.
Like the interior of a rental car
Idling at the airport curb.
I should learn from past experiences.
Reality often outweighs expectation.
Yet, despite my better judgment
—Or maybe because of it?—
I listen to the day’s whispered overtures
And offers of salvation.
“Today is the first day of…”
“Each moment is a gift.
That’s why it’s called the present.”
“A journey of a thousand miles begins…”
“This is the day
The Lord has made.
You WILL rejoice and be glad in it.”
Productivity.
Tasks completed.
An inbox that shrinks in the sunlight.
Clarity.
Outbursts of joy and laughter.
Moments of connection and calm.
Roots of nostalgia
Burrowing deeper into memory.
These are the breadcrumbs I find
Waiting for me at dawn.
But somewhere along the path
The day’s intentions give way
Under the weight of a life lived ordinarily.
Uneven sidewalks.
Holes in the trashcan liner.
Misinterpretation of motives.
Benefits of the doubt revoked.
The agreement is no longer valid.
The day’s potential has retreated
Like an old man hiding behind the curtain.
It’s hard not to feel cheated and betrayed,
Lied to or taken for a fool.
If the good days—
I mean the really good days—
Are scattered like bubbles on a bar of soap,
Then why do all the other ones
Overstate their abilities so brazenly?
They’re nothing more than campaign promises.
Satisfaction guaranteed
But you must not forget the fine print.
By evening, I tear off my habit
And throw it in the hamper.
Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Hardly!
I’m much smarter than that.
I’ve learned one of life’s most critical lessons.
The key to happiness is to lower your expectations.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
Excellent question, my friend!
Tomorrow will be different, I assure you.
I won’t be snookered again.
And yet
When the new day opens its doors
Here I am!
Wishful and confident once more.
Don’t ask me to try and explain it.
Hope is an obstinate companion.
I'm sure I'm not the first one to suggest this, but I believe that great writing strikes a balance between the unfamiliar and the familiar. We love it when a story takes us to a place we've never been before, but in order for the story to truly resonate it must tap into thoughts and feelings with which we can identify.
To that end, I've been toying for a while with a poem that tries to connect to that sense of familiarity and resonance. My thought is that most people can identify with the situations and feelings I've laid out in the poem.
by Andrew D. Doan
Sometimes it’s like the feeling
When you’re putting the dishes away,
And a plate comes tumbling down.
You watch it descending toward disaster,
And cringe when it breaks apart.
Other times, it’s like the feeling
When you save it from slamming the ground.
Sometimes it’s like the process
Of reaching your desired destination
From directions you receive on your phone.
Each step is meticulously measured
As an algorithm determines your path.
Other times, it’s like the process
Of finding your way on your own.
Sometimes it’s like the excitement
Of finding a new book to read,
And snatching it up for yourself.
Each page is crisp and clean.
Each line propels you forward.
Other times, it’s like the disappointment
When you’ve read every book on the shelf.
Sometimes it’s like the moment
When you open a liter of cola,
And the carbonation sputters and spits.
Peppered with sweet perspiration
You blink through the drops in your eyes.
Other times, it’s like the moment
When the soda is flat with no fizz.
Sometimes it’s like the chill
Of raindrops freezing and falling
On a day you thought it would snow.
Grey puddles and pools at your doorstep.
Ice layers as it coats the trees.
Other times, it’s like the warmth
Of basking in golden summertime glow.
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!"
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.