January 24, 2014 - 1250

It's quite the fashion to complain about the weather. Too hot, too cold, too much rain, not enough rain. If you live somewhere and it has weather, chances are you eventually complain about it.

I'm no fan of the cold in almost any manner. I drink a lot of ice water, and there was a time that I would enjoy more than my fair share of frosty beers with friends. Given the job that I do, there is a high probability that I will end up standing on the roadside with some yahoo who either violated some traffic law that caught my attention, crashed their car, or has flagged me down to play yet another rousing game of "Let's Give the Cop the Stupidest Question Possible".

However, this time I'm not going to complain. As I said, there's enough of that to go around. Instead, I wanted to say a few lines about the power of nature and the cold.

The Losing War

On the morning walk it was daylight. Well, light

I could look directly at the sun, through the heavy clouds

And not even squint. A fuzzy white blur in the sky

Yet strong enough to have me squint at the snow piled along the street

You could call it a breeze that blew through the neighborhood

If by breeze you meant an icy knife

Cutting through layer upon layer of Nylon, cotton, wool

And into my very being. A breeze like that

My boots crackled and crunched

On the packed and tamped remains of previous snowfall

Easy to walk, less so to run and play with her

Treacherous with the hidden water frozen underneath

Warm inside the house we had breakfast

Watched TV shows and remarked to nobody on the shaking walls

And rattling windows. There was a brief flash of the lights

A blink in time as the Matrix reset itself

I'll end up out there today again

More than once I will brave the wind and muted sun

We will walk outside again to take care of the baser needs

Before she heads upstairs and I head out there

Man against the elements; it's a classic tale

We armor ourselves against Mother Natures onslaught

Taking up the fight everyday to get to work or store

In a battle that ultimately we never win

January 22, 2014 - 1450

Did You Hear That?

Tick tick tick

The sound of the clock in the room

A monotonous droning

The whoosh of the watered air

Click click click

Keys on the keyboard

The gentle sound of fan blades

Easy breathing through a long, white-furred nose

Drip drip drip

As ice melts in the door

Rustling leaves on the side of the house

Blowing in the wintry breeze

Skip skip skip

Neighborhood kids playing on the sidewalk

Crunching frosty bits under boots

Cheeks and chins wind burnt and happy

Thump thump thump

My heart in my breast in the silence

Steady and calm as words finally return

To a page too long empty

October 30, 2013 - 1230

Today would have been the 15th birthday of our wonderful, sweet doggie Pepper. We said good-bye to her last June and every day we think about her, talk about her in some way, look at something that reminds us of her. Her memory will live on with us forever and in that way, she gets to live on forever. Since it's her birthday we wanted to do something for her memory. I'm not good at coming up with ideas like this, and even more so when there is such strong emotion attached to it. But, as I was thinking of her and missing her on her special day today, I came up with these words for her. Happy Birthday Pepperoni. We love you. We miss you.

509 Days

It's been 509 days since we said good-bye to you

I've grown 509 new gray hairs in your memory

I've shed 509 tears at your loss

I've said I love you 509 times

509 thoughts of you have passed through my mind

And 509 more. And more. And more

509 pictures of other dogs who look like you

Not one of them is as wonderful. You're 509 times better than they

In those 509 days I've talked about you

To at least 509 people, or so it seems

Maybe I've just talked to myself 509 times about you

So that I can never forget you

Your face has appeared to me 509 times

Pictures, video, thoughts and dreams - 509 memories

Frozen in my mind for the last 509 days

And each time, 509 times, it's made me smile

I know that no other could take your place

509 others could walk through my life and not be you

I wouldn't try. It would be 509 times as hard to replace you

So I won't. It's 509 times as easy to not

Someone could give me 509 reasons to let go

That these 509 days were wasted thinking about you

They'd be wrong. I haven't wasted 509 days by remembering you

I've relived 13 years with you.

September 11, 2013 - 1410

This past week saw a flurry of activity at the work place. Several arrests on one case that is one that shakes even the most hardened officer to his or her core. Child pornography, sexual abuse of a child, and on and on. The outcome was very different in real life, but the ending of this poem is all too real.

Regrets and No Regrets

What does he think of when he thinks of her?

Does he see long term love

In a child's eyes and body

Or is it the body he sees in his eyes?

Smooth, young, taut, untouched

Innocent eyes, trusting soul

Unknowing mind, thinking that this wrong is right

But not saying no to the right wrong

Does he see a in her a wife?

A woman child mother of future children

Is it deep in his soul that he loves her

Or is it deep somewhere else that his feelings reside in

She shakes inside of her t-shirt and shorts

The hand on her leg, feels wrong; dirty; shameful

She can't say no or he'll tell mother

It's her fault is what she is told

He was sure he'd get away with it with her

Scared into silence as he has his way

Gave her money and clothes and phones

In return for her body, mind and innocence

She says he's her boyfriend and pretends she loves him

While he loves her, she cries inside; dies inside

Her little girl days are gone forever

And she can't tell her mom because it's her fault

Braver and bolder, now he wants her pictures

Phone to phone so he can see her always

Share her with his friends phones

Relive his "love" when she's not with him

More and more she is sad inside; cries and cries

She can't take any more of the "love" she's been shown

Boyfriend is a monster; mother...can't tell her

She has no friends; she is alone

Her new phone rings and rings; he wants a "date"

When she doesn't answer he's confused and angry

Did she tell? Are the police onto him?

Is their romance over? Run or stay is what's on his mind

Mother comes home and sees the bag and books

TV is on too loud again. She has to leave soon

Three jobs is what it takes to make the rent

And food on the table for girls home alone

She was found in the closet

Her favorite pink belt coiled around her throat

New phone open to her pictures to him

A note on the bed said only "I'm sorry."

September 4, 2013 - 1020

I've heard and read that if you're going to write, you should stick with what you know. It makes it easier and you'll be more prolific and happier with what you have put down. So, I started thinking about what I know, and what I like to write about.

Calliope, Erato, and Thalia

I didn't want to stick with just writing about my dogs

or my job or my family

But that's all that inspires me

These three things are my muses

I don't want to bore the readers with

how I think about my sweet dog not being with us any more

How sometimes I laugh about her and sometimes I cry

and she's been gone for over a year

I didn't want people to think that I was only the police

and that all I could tell them were stories about drunks

and fights, and blood and pain

But some days that's my job

I was not really willing to tell everybody how much I care

about my wife; how much she inspires me every day

To be a better man that I ever thought I could be

But it's the truth. She does

Zoomies and whippy tails and squeaky toys

Lights and sirens and radios

Smiles and warmth and love

This is what I love to write about

June 6, 2013 - 0030

Once again I am back here with some words for you. I was on a short break when I got caught in a hole called YouTube. My subscriptions are mainly gun related, with a smattering of humor and a bit of workout motivation. But now and then I leave the suggestions and venture out into the wild, wild YouTube and search for something more. And tonight I found myself listening to poetry, and to be specific slam poetry. As I listened to the words that these wonderful writers had come up with it hit me.

I Am What I've Always Been

Do you know what I can't write?

Slam Poetry

Because I've never had to fight 

or rise up against the strife

of the Man keeping me down

I am white and middle class through and through

The police were and still are my friends true

Even when I did wrong as a child

I knew. And I was sorry for my indiscretions

Stealing, lying, speeding. These were my crimes

Sent to my room to do hard time

with my bed, and books, and the view of

maple and oak trees. Hardened criminal

More like hardly a criminal. I was vanilla

Still am in many ways. Almost every day I

listen to metal, and punk...and Mozart

Yo! You hear that Sonata No.4? Shits tight!

That's right. I'm the guy who doesn't like to fight

Who covers his head and feet at night

One hand reaching out to pet the dog and

fall asleep so that everything is all right

I can listen to slam poets and I'm moved

Almost to tears by their words, the

verbal manifestations of hopes and dreams and fears

And know that isn't me. I'm not afraid

of what they're afraid of. Police helicopters above

No mother while growing up to give love

Father abandoning me when I was young

Bullied in the halls at school, pushed and shoved

That's not me. I was a different kid

And now a different man. Odd man out

Picked last in games because I was gangly

and spindly and uncoordinated without a doubt

But my folks were there for me

When I was in the school play they came to see

I had a real speaking part too

Not just in the background as a tree

I didn't get bullied in the halls

I was unmolested in the spring and fall

And as I grew up I knew that 

I would be okay. It didn't have to get better for me

And that's why I can't write slam poetry

April 6, 2013 - 2215

I wanted to write something about politics and how I feel about certain issues that are foremost in the news right now, but I had nothing. I am pro-gun, pro-choice, pro-gay, pro-police. I am liberal with certain conservative leanings. I don't follow politics because I find it mind-numbingly boring. There, that's what I wanted to say about that, but I didn't have the poetic words to say so.

I just watched a video on YouTube of a poetry reading/spoken word performance by Andrea Gibson. It was phenomenal. 12 minutes, three pieces and at the end I had exactly zero words. Amazing. Watch it and enjoy it. It also made me think about some things. About me and my wife and our marriage. I haven't always been the best husband, but overall we are pretty damn good together. Everyone can see it, we don't try and hide it. But we have gay friends that don't get the same things that we get. Living in a big city, they can be together and no one really bats an eye, but as of this writing they can't be married in that city. They can't go through that ceremony in front of their friends and family and say the vows. There are civil unions, but as I heard someone say recently (and I wish I could remember because I would totally give them credit for it), certain words have MEANING. And marriage is one of them.

Untitled Poem Number Whatever

As it stands before the Supremes

Not Diana and the girls

But the nine justices in D.C.

Here's hoping that they realize what justice is

It's not justice that a man can't marry his boyfriend

Like so many hasty Las Vegas girls can marry theirs

It's not justice that a girl can't marry their girlfriend

Like young eloping boys can run off and marry theirs

"Justice" Antonin Scalia has it wrong

And if he were to read my words and want to speak in person

Privately or publicly I would tell him to his face

You sir, have it wrong.

Is it justice for my friends and the friends of others I know

That if my wife and long time companion goes into the hospital

That I can see her, be with her, make decisions for her

When others cannot for their long time companions

Can "teh gays" raise a child? This is a question too?

In my job, after many many years

I wonder if some straight parents deserve the children that they have

When I see dirty clothes, squalid homes, broken bones and dreams.

\

It makes me angry that my friends have found their one

The one that they love, honor, cherish

But the ceremonies and the rites that were afforded to me

Aren't the same ceremonies and rights that they have as well.