Poem: Mining in Tandem

I didn't write this poem in response to Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner's marriage and divorce.  Punditry about their divorce, which is either (charitably) hair-splitting or (more viscerally) asinine, did inspire me to post it now, though.


Mining in Tandem
an original poem by Jeff Forster

In the wedding cards of
family and friends,
we write,
"Welcome to the institution." Ha!
and
"Marriage is fun."
We don't write,
"Work like hell."
But we probably should.

It's hard to picture one of those
not-believably-rustic Pottery Barn plaques
with the slogan printed in
some harmless font:
"Fall in love.  Stick together.
Work like hell."

There's a lot to overcome
deep down in any one of us.
When we put two down deeps
together, why wouldn't we
guess that it would be a ton of work?

It's like mining in tandem.
Holding onto one another while chipping
away at all that lies down deep.
Holding the line.  Shining a light on
each other.
Working.  Like hell.

The reward for all this work is not
some pile of gold or jewels
or even coal.
The reward is discovering
that it is possible
to bring each other out of the dark.

Isaac, Behave

(A parenting poem in some jest)

When we're in church and you can't sit nice
And the scripture's about child sacrifice,
I cannot cope.

You should pray when I go to punch your ticket
That the Lord provides a ram in the thicket.
 It's your only hope.

Before church, I tamed your wild hair.
We stand for hymns and kneel for prayer.
It's what we do.

Yes, you have to wear church sandals.
Yes, they're going to light the candles.
Now sit in the pew.

An Everyday

An Everyday

a prose poem
November 2013

Almost as soon as I get into the 
night-lit bathroom on Saturday,
I hear the smallest knock one hears
in our house.

After my "Come in." (compliant
like his mother was as a child), he
enters, his hair a true sculptural 
artifact of sleep.  He never sleeps in long.

Running the hot water for my 
shave, I watch him paste up his toothbrush.
Rather than "Good morning", he says
"I need cold."

Sighing, I switch from
hot to cold for him.

Just like I do, he sticks the pad
of his pinkie into the stream to
see if it's cooled to his liking.

Then it's back to hot for my shave.
And we're standing side by side
Y shaving, 1/2Y brushing.

When I thought about being a
father, I thought about feeding
and clothing, looking out for health,
teaching children right from wrong
and how the world works.

I didn't think much about
shaving cream and toothpaste
squeezed out simultaneously.
I didn't contemplate
competing demands for hot and cold water.

I didn't reckon with
a roommate thirty years my junior
sharing the sink.

While I help them learn how to live,
I also live with them.

And the lack of these 
moments will make me miss
them when they have new roommates
in East Lansing or Lewisburg.

Quiet dinners and clean, orderly rooms
will make me miss them.
Already, when they're gone for just
a day, their mother and I mock-remind
each other of chores to do.
They are not there to remind.
How will we handle it when they're
not coming back to share our
space
anymore?

A Poem for Age 40

40 is the new 38

I pause today at 40 to look forward and look back.
I’m not upset with 40. It’s a mathematic fact.
I’ve shed some pale illusions, and I’m trying to slow down.
I’ve put down roots for me and mine in a stout, three-rivered town.
I’m married to the woman I have loved since eighteen years of age.
Forty minus eighteen equals twenty two years with Paige.
My skin has spots like some big cat’s, but I lack a leopard’s fierceness.
Said skin’s unmarred by tattoo ink, intact with zero piercings.
My back acts up, and my knees are sore, especially after hoops night.
By now I know
my second toe
nail will never look right.
I take three pills each morning and another few at night.
I’ve come to fear that my next beard will grow in gray and white.
There’s less hair on my head than there used to be and more on my ears than I care for.
I find I’m too often in some room with no idea what I went there for.
We’re closer today to my younger son’s college commencement than mine.
It’s hard not to take a certain offense at the lightning passage of time.
My twin brother’s better looking, but at this point, I’m stronger.
That makes sense; he’s been forty six whole minutes longer.
I’m raising two young patriots of whom I’m duly proud.
I wonder in the mornings if all patriots are so loud.
Despite eating better and working out lately
I can't seem to get and stay below one eighty.
I sweat from the scalp when I eat something spicy
I stay in at night when the roads are too icy.
High school students look really young;
that’s something that age forty has done.
I’ve lived through eight presidents.
I own my own residence.
No man is a failure who has friends.
I hope making new ones never ends. 

(Gasp. Panting. Out of breath.)

I wouldn't trade my life today for any day that came before.
I'm poised and ready to take on what my forties have in store.

Little League Dreams - in Parallel

LIttle League Dreams - in Parallel
an original poem

OK.  This is it.                                              OK. This is it.
Last inning.  We're down one.                        It's 4:45.  We're so busy.
Two outs.  Two men on.                                Game scheduled tonight.
Their best pitcher.                                        No other open nights this week.
It feels like everything hangs in the balance.  It feels like everything hangs in the balance.
Bend the knees.  Line up the knuckles.          Check my texts.  See if there's an email.
Back elbow up.  Can't drop the hands.            Send this work email. Don't think about it.
I've never faced this pitcher before.              He hasn't played in this age group before.
Don't know what he's got.                              Don't know who makes the decisions.
First pitch.  Ball. Pitcher's nervous, too.         Check my texts.  Nothing.
Whoosh!  Here goes nothing.                         BUZZ.  Wait.  What's this?
Oh baby.  I nailed it.                                     I dare not hope.
It could be.  It might be.                               It could be.  It might be.
HOME RUN!                                                  RAIN OUT!

Found: terrific parent poem

This was published in One of America's Great Newspapers on Saturday.  I thought it was just terrific.

TEN WORDS

by Mary Soon Lee

If I could only say
ten words today,
I wouldn't tell you
to eat your broccoli,
or inquire why there's purple ink
all over your feet.

Instead, I would lift you up
and lay my cheek
against your tangled hair
and say:
I love you;
I will always love you.
Always. Always.

But today I have
such a multitude of words to offer --
such an unrestricted store of
commands, questions, answers, anecdotes,
exclamations, explanations, exasperation,
advice, admonishments, adulation --
that I might quite easily forget
the ten words
I want to say.

Menu Plan Man

Before the house wakes up,
I sit with tea and cookbooks
and - of course - the calendar
planning the week's menu.
Some nights don't need a dinner plan
besides "Little League concession stand".

What can we make with zucchini?
Where is that recipe?  
I know I saw it.
How did these magazines get out of date order?
Musing like only an artist of routine need do,
I seek inspiration in what's on hand.

Battleship Mad Lib

B4 you start D9 it, let me just say that Battleship is a F1 game.
G2 many people don't realize it.  
C4 yourself: lining up your ships and finding your opponents is a good challenge.
I4 one really enjoy it.
I played with my friend Eddie, whom I call "E".  Let me tell you: E8 it up.  
E2 found it to be a terrific game.
I do H8 it when my opponent sinks my carrier.
I just have to accept my F8.
You get to say the most satisfying sentence in Battleship at the end: I1.

A Prayer for my Sons' Wives

For some reason, one of the things I think about often when I stop into the boys' room after they're asleep is who they'll marry when they get older.  Sometimes I pray something like this for each of them:

Dear Lord,
One day, this boy is (hopefully) going to marry someone.
Please make her smart.
Please help him love her because she makes him a better person.
It will really help if she knows and follows you, Lord.
For everyone's sake, please make sure she has a sense of humor.
Please give her a generous spirit and patience.
Please make her practical and ready to work hard.
I know he'll think she's cute, so I don't need to ask for that.
Please give her a long life and good health.
Please let them agree on how they spend, save and donate money.
This may be selfish, Lord, but please make him choose for life someone with cool, well-adjusted parents.
Please make her the kind who will call him on his [bleep]. Gently.
Please forgive my language.
Finally, Lord, it's a lot to ask in this crazy, mixed up world, but:
Please make her like baseball.
Amen

Home Poem

Spitting my toothpaste into the kitchen sink
because I came down to the
too small kitchen
to put away the bread
where I always do
on top of the fridge,
I think about the dexterity
one is afforded in a house
that has been home for so long.

"What's your definition of home?"
The professor asked at the literary do.
"Home," answered an older, dark
woman almost immediately
"is where I can get to the
bathroom in the middle of the night
without a light."
Just so, I could scoop that bread
off the rack I always cool it on
and box it and fridge top it
in the dark.

This house that we, childless, bought
and have filled with two boys.
This house with its tiny rooms and
creaky floor and one bathroom day or night.
Not every happening we've crammed in here
has been one to hold onto.

Will any other house be as home as this one?
I'm sure. Actually, I'm not.

Maybe, actually, I'm afraid.
Maybe I fear that what's happened
in a decade here is in fact
as happy as I remember it to be tonight.

When I fear that these are the best
years of our lives and each day tips us from
peak to downward slope, I should remember
how hard it was to fall asleep here our first night.

Part-time Poem

Water rings bounce out

from the tulips to the edge of the vase

as I type a little too hard

here at the dining room table

on a day when I am not supposed to be

working at home.

A gentle load whirs in the dryer

downstairs

Teddy calls out m-nah (banana) when Blue prompts him

electronically

upstairs.

Cookie dough chills in the fridge

“This dough is very soft,

so it’s imperative that it’s been chilled before

you roll it out.”

Charlie’s bus will be here before too long

bringing with it

for better and worse

a play date companion.

Despite the sun and rare warmth

the weeding and pruning will have to wait

amazingly

for yet another day.

I went part time in December.