John Irby's Blog

In the beginning
there was a constant
stream of noise,

and then God

sat down on a wooden stool,

and like grandmother,
intent upon her business of
snapping harvested beans
for the canning jars,

God broke that noise

into discrete pieces
called words,

knowing the Tower of Babel’s
foundation had already
been laid

that we might
understand each other,

and laugh,

and love.

Slender are the
Base Paths
Our
Heroes
Race
Around.
Slender are the
Willows
That,
Shade
Our
Flowing
Creeks.
Slender is our
Forgiveness
For
Apologies
Unmade.
Slender is the
Tightrope
Our
Hearts
Balance
Upon.
Slender is our
Patience
For
Hindrance
In
Commutes.
And Slender are the
Catwalks
Our
Models
Slink
Along.
But Wide as the Mississippi at flood is our
Capacity for
Kindness,
Generosity,
And
Pie.

To be young,
And unfettered

of the burdens
and troubles
of life

is a most precious
slice of fleeting time.

nimbleness itself!
innocence personified!
curiosity aflame!

Climbing towering trees,
diving into summer lakes,
building warrior forts,
chasing after brothers,
teasing freckled sisters,
giggling without cause,
and
creating memories

are the enterprise of children.

Let them be.
Celebrate them.
Forgive them.

Time will cure them soon enough.

anyone
who
will not
eat
an apple core,
seeds and all,
or shuns
a
stale bread crust,
is not
fully
acquainted
with
hunger.

One of my biggest
regrets
in life is
my inability to
return left-over
toothpaste
to its tube.

I can insert key to lock,
throw pill to mouth,
squeeze foot to sock,
slide letter to mailbox,
transfer love to heart—

but forget
cram toothpaste to tube.

Admittedly,
I’ve handicapped
myself—

I didn’t earn a
Harvard Law degree,
or Stanford PhD—

I’m not a Rhodes scholar,
or Oxford Fellow—

Cal Tech Engineer,
or win Summa Cum Laude honors.

Coupling those failures
with even a kindergartener’s

common sense,

makes life a constant
pothole.

No wonder
the toothpaste debacle.

I don’t have one.
I don’t buy none.
I don’t borrow none,
I don’t crave none.

No!
I don’t want a single one
of those racist bones,
not underside my ribs,
not shielding my head,
not ‘tectin’ my heart.

No!
When i’s an innocent child
i’s not born with some those
racist bones,
and Mother don’t love me
racist bones,
and books don’t read me
racist bones,
and friends don’t friend me
racist bones.

No!
But just a second young man,
now I been thinkin’ ‘bout it
long time, goodly while,
indeed, mosta my life--

despite I lovin’ LeBron
and marvel that Stephen Curry pest,

why do my soul keep hopin’

yeah, hopin’,

quietly,
so
nobody see me,
nobody hear me,
nobody know me,

and if I don’t have no racist bone,
growing inside me,
secret in my mind somewheres,
crouched down my heart chambers,
camouflaged in my soul,

all invisible like,

then,

why,
I’m askin’ you why,

do I keep hoping some skinny

white kid come along,

and put a stuffin’ on LeBron,
and hold Mr. Curry to 18 measly,

all the while putting up
a grand 42 and 12 assists
himself
on any given Saturday night?

If I got no racist bone,
then why am I thinkin’ that way?

Somethin’ not right here.

Could it be possible i got 'fected somehow
with one them racist viruses,
and it be festerin, my marrow?

He stood alone in the center island formed
by the intersection of Kolb and 22nd Street.

Sleepy-eyed commuters glanced at his cardboard declarations:

Not Homeless.
Not Hungry Yet.
A Vet. Just Like You.

Sheets of white paper held in one hand flapped,
seagull wings on the stirred currents of whizzing cars.

The light turned, autumn leaf red, he supposed.
Cars slowed and rested.

Windows slid down. Elbows protruded.
Voices sang out.

“Any of those old-fashioned rhymes today?”

“Hey, man. Make me giggle. Need one.”

“Loved yesterday’s. Read it to my kids at the dinner table.”

“Touch my heart, Poet. It’s hurtin’ bad sore.”

"Go Seahawks!"

“Help me out. I need a good cry.”

He walked the line. Leaned down. Handed ‘em out.
Touched skin. Stretched his grin.

“Morning,” he said. “Feelin’ good today?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout yuh,” he said.
“Hope this helps,” he said.

The light turned, golf course green he supposed.

Traffic edged away, a reluctant tide going out.

Some waved the words out the window in a

see yuh later kinda way—

while his ribs ached from the banging goin’ on inside.

Should i but read

my poetry

to cornfields
and
fence posts

i

might be assured

of

a polite and
attentive
audience

with soft murmurings
of approval

and spare grumbles

of

complaint.

We are of the sea

and of the caves,

though

time

has rinsed us clean

of these dim

memories.


And yet we still long

to splash about,

ride the tumultuous waves,

and

explore dark spaces.


Yes, we have

forgotten whence

we came,

but

our desperate thirst for water—

our voracious appetite for meat—

and

our hideous capacity for violence—

abate not.

Can you lay a big tree down, Rhys?

Yes, an’ it be gently

felled as any Welsh babe

ever laid to cradle.

Can you make it

fall exactly so, Rhys?

Aye. Set your compass to it.

It’ll fall

as
straight
as
any
country

road
there
be
in
Wales.

Then have a go at it, Rhys,

but let me caution you,

trees are as unruly

as your lovely Blodwyn,

or any woman on earth.

Yeah, yeah. I’ll be minding that.