December 31: Poem Full of Hope, Surrender and Trust, "Braiding My Daughter's Hair"

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I was looking for an appropriate poem for New Year's Eve.  It had to be a poem full of hope.  I came up with the poem below.

When my daughter was very young, I used to braid her hair.  After her bath, she would kneel in front of me, and I would go to work.  I loved those few minutes of complete and total surrender and trust that my daughter gave me.  It was one of my favorite daily rituals.

So, I couldn't think of a better way to end this year then looking back, meditating, praying. 

Happy New Year's Eve to all my faithful disciples.

Braiding My Daughter's Hair

by:  Martin Achatz

She lies on her back,

hair floating around

her head like kelp

in the Pacific,

sea otters diving

in and out

of the brown waves.

She hears water

swimming in her ears,

along her five-year-old

limbs, skin smooth

as fresh snow,

feet and hands perfect,

nails like pink snail shells.

When I wrap her

in the towel,

she puts her cheek

against my shoulder.

Her wet heat soaks

through my tee shirt,

into my skin.

I feel her breath

on my neck,

like August rain.

I rub her dry,

squeeze her hair

in the terry cloth folds.

Her just-clean body

squeaks against my fingertips.

I dress her.

She grips my head

for balance as she steps

into her panties,

raises her arms

as I slip the nightgown

over her head,

watch her boy

chest and hips

disappear beneath flannel.

She sits in my lap.

I pick up the brush,

test for knots and nests.

The teeth of the brush

glide and stop,

pick and untangle.

I repeat the motions,

gather a thick rope

of hair at the back

of her skull.

I slip the pink tie

over the hair,

to the base,

pull it tight,

the way a sailor

secures a rope

on a dock.

I divide the hair

into three strands,

begin to braid,

looping, crossing, pulling,

looping, crossing, pulling,

this eternal rhythm

of the planets

circling the sun,

the moon dragging

ocean to rock and sand,

a farmer sowing

seed in black earth,

my daughter stretching,

growing like winter wheat.

Please vote for Saint Marty:

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December 23: Nigh, Snow Fort, "Away"

The time is nigh. 

I love the word "nigh."  For me, it describes these last couple of days before Christmas morning much better than "near" or "close" or "right around the corner."  The celebration is nigh.  The coming of the light is nigh.  The baked ham.  Santa Claus.  Angel choirs.  Shepherds.  Magi.  Wrapping presents.  Nigh, nigh, nigh.

My son is outside at the moment, building a snow fort with friends on the playground.  It's dusk, night drawing nigh.  Pretty soon, he'll come stomping through the front door, throwing off his hat and gloves and snow pants.  Hot chocolate will be nigh.

I have a poem for tonight about all this nigh. 

Away

by:  Martin Achatz

Ox and ass aren’t good enough

for my son this Advent

as ice claims Teal Lake and snow

hangs in the air like clean sheets

on a clothesline.  He stares

at the bisque Mary and Joseph,

the Baby, tiny as my thumbnail,

while I sing him a psalm of hay, cattle,

stars burning over a barn,

a sleeping Child.

But my son wants more than herders,

sheep and camels, a trio of sad

kings with their unimpressive myrrh and incense.

He wants the Child to have a universe

of aliens with dove eyes, superheroes

with capes red as pomegranate Jell-O,

cars that roar like angel choirs.

The Child deserves all this, my son believes,

and more.  One night, I find

a tyrannosaur at the manger, paying

homage with tooth and claw.  Yesterday,

a Hershey kiss sat beside Mary,

a shimmering, silver comet.

My son keeps bringing gifts to the stable,

trying to find his place among angel

and cow.  I don’t tell him about

Herod, how innocence can be lost

in the time it takes for a school bell

to ring, for a soldier to raise a sword

and cut the young flocks in two.  No.

I’ll let my son return again and again

with his offerings.  Unicorn.  Harmonica.

Butterfly wing.  Dragon.  Chocolate

milk, cold and dark and sweet.

My son waits for the Child

the way he waits for the neighbor boy

to finish dinner.  He stands

in the driveway at dusk,

stares at the neighbor’s house,

and calls out Come play with me

over and over

until someone answers

his prayer.

Please vote for Saint Marty:

Voting for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.

December 22: Secret Santa, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, "Orange Day"

Yesterday, my son had a Secret Santa exchange in his third grade classroom.  Each child was supposed to bring one gift to give to a classmate.  My son brought three gifts because he wanted to.

It turns out that there were two children who didn't brings gifts.  My son gave out his extra presents, and every student in the classroom had a Secret Santa.  Later on in the day, my son's teacher texted my wife this message:  "Gestures like his today far outweigh his struggles."

My son has been diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder and attention deficit disorder.  He has a hard time controlling himself sometimes.  My wife and I have made many trips to the principal's office since he entered kindergarten.

Those words from his teacher left me a little speechless for a moment.  I think that I tend to focus on my son's struggles a little too much, and I forget to see his generous, loving spirit.

So, tonight, I dedicate this post to my son.

Orange Day

by:  Martin Achatz



My son had an orange day
in kindergarten, stuck crayons
in his ears, red in his left,
yellow in his right.  Chased
kids at morning recess,
tried to lick them, his tongue
a pink bullet in the barrel
of his mouth.  Sat under his desk,
screamed like a peacock at dusk,
roosted in dogwood above Georgia
clay, while his classmates practiced
their numbers:  1, 2, 3, 4, up to 100.
Took off his shoes, socks, spread
his monkey toes, picked up
a brush with them, painted
water lilies in a pond on the floor
where sunlight sparked purple,
pink.  Chewed his mac and cheese
at lunch to orange glue, spat it
on the table, made a map of Hannibal's
journey over the Alps, raisin
elephants on the highest peaks.
Beat plastic drums in music class,
refused to make that damn spider
climb the water spout, instead
played Ligeti's Atmospheres,
moonrise over the monolith
of his chimpanzee heart.
His teacher calls me at night, says
she's at a loss with my son,
doesn't know what to do
with his untamed ways.
I want to tell her it's all about
evolution, that he's learning
how to walk upright, hunt
through pinecone and maple
for blueberries, slabs of bloody
venison.  Give him time, I want
to say.  To learn the agriculture
of her classroom, its fields, furrows,
seasons of alphabet, trapezoid,
computer and gym.  In this epoch,
he won't be caught in tar lakes
underneath asteroid rain.  He will
survive, become a new link.
Homo kindergartenus.  Note
the wide scoop of his skull to accommodate
all he will know by year's end.
His cave drawings hang on our fridge.
Concentric orange circles, bull's-eyes.
"See," my son points, "this is King
Pumpkin.  He's bigger and oranger
than the rest."  I stare at his paintings,
feel the planet skip, stars reorganize,
something end, something begin.
The dawning of a new age.
Tonight, I'll pack his lunch,
for another orange day.
Apple juice, carrot sticks,
maybe a grilled cheese sandwich.
It's supposed to rain tomorrow,
enough to make the mastodons
hunker down in the woods,
orange hair slick with mud, moss.
Maybe my son will find
them there, in the trees
behind the playground.  He'll climb
into their orange center where all
he can hear is breaths.
Deep, orange breaths.
He'll skip school.  Stay there
for the rest of the day.
Happy.  Wild.  Orange.


Please vote for Saint Marty:

Voting for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.