My mother had this painting of me in her office
at SJSU.
the child's a fool, the child's a sage
born too soon; he may not die
too old- too young to act his age
calm blue marbles in a flesh-bone cage
squirt laser truth on each white lie
the child's no fool, the child's a sage
he stands aloof in a field of rage
in a vale of tears his mind stays dry
too old- too young to act his age
when boredom looms he flips the page
and shuts the book when others pry
the child's a fool, the child's no sage
luminous eyes take center stage
his face as wide as a northern sky
too old- too young to act his age
teach him now of what and why
all the wisdom life can buy
the child's a fool, the child's a sage
too old- too young to act his age
HEAT TREATED
Here comes the heat
To soften and temper me
To burn holes through
my hard-headed skin
And when I become a malleable mass
The Master sets me by.
Here comes the hammer
To bang and ping me
To force me into shapes
useful for horses and hinges
And when I become a specific shape
The Master lets me lie.
PORTRAIT OF A DORY IN GRAY
My father painted this sad and sober little dory
Listing listlessly leeward in its lonesome lagoon
As if set spinning its long and lingering story
Weaving in the colors of death's endless tune
She'd maybe been built, I'm thinking, for the sake
Of being rowed along river, estuary, and inlet
To take on netloads of tuna, salmon, and hake
Serving her master years without ruin or regret
But the old salt died and with him, her purpose
He left her tied up in the port of his last breath
Rust and dryrot marring her once-spotless surface
Lonely years of neglect would hasten her death
Cabin and decks were once bright blue and white
Her once-sturdy hull sported bold coats of carmine
But surely as youth's sunshine shades to cold night
Our dory's graying colors spell the end of the line
