ODE TO GRANPA HATHAWAY

he died of a stroke today, age 83, in his favorite chair at
home. his youngest grandchild playing at his feet.
grandma puttering around the house. no symptoms. no
warnings. no lingering, no nursing home. just the blink
of an eye. could anyone ask for more than that?

he was aloud cranky funny hillbilly farmer. he ignored
church. the good ladies of the First Missionary Baptist
Church in St. John, America were convinced (praise
Gawd!) he was headed for hell in a handbasket

i wasn’t real close to him but like to think i inherited
some wordslinging talent from him. i pondered this the
day i walked into his house just in time to hear him shout

HOLY GOD DAMN SHIT ON THE EARTH!

i figured only a true poet could string a phrase like that.

 

LIT.101

9th grade

Mr. Burton oozed
on & on about
some biography of Lincoln
by Sandberg

our class was instructed
to read it silently,
then give our opinion
of it later

when my turn came
i said,
“it was boring.
i could have done better.”

i earned an F
for honesty.

 

10th grade

she grimaced
& gave me that stern
“English-teacher-look”
each time she saw me
with a Harlequin Romance
or gothic romance novel

one day she smiled
mischievously,
dangled Jane Eyre
in front of my face,
lovingly coaxed me
into the world of literature

from there, it was
Wuthering Heights,
Tess of the d’Urbervilles,
The Grapes of Wrath...

 

11th grade

“Today we will study
E.E. Cummings,” the English teacher said.
“Dirk, will you read the poem
on page 106?”

the class jock/joke
stumbled & mumbles his way
through the most soul-stirring
poetic mother tribute of all ages.

i cringed.

i’d like to have recited that poem.
having skipped ahead in my litbook
weeks before, it was already a part of me.
i’d like to have shared that poem
with my classmates,
to let the words fall
as they were meant to fall,
to decipher the holy meaning,
to let that heaven of dark red roses
bloom as it was meant to bloom.

 

12th grade

it was a landslide

on the first day of school,
the English teacher declares:

”We’re taking a vote.”

“Who wants to study literature
the second semester?”

one hand went up – mine.

and

“who wants to leave it out
completely?”

everyone else’s hands shot up,
and Democracy prevailed.

 

what blooms in spite of the wasteland

12 years after graduation,
at Wal-mart in Great Bend, Kansas,
browsing through a display of sale books,
i found a hardbound edition
of a Bukowski biography
discounted from $22.95
to 75 ¢.

i was stunned to find Bukowski
at Wal-mart in Great Bend, Kansas
at all.

indignant
to find the life of one of the brightest
literary gems of our time
marked down by Wal-mart
to 75 ¢.

enlightened as it dawned
that recently bankrupted,
i could take the book home
for less than a dollar

i accepted it
as how what is meant to be
happens

how what belongs in one’s hands & heart
finds its way there
even in the middle of Kansas.

 

from michael's
new book

cosmic children