The Stop

The Stop

Sometime,

somewhere,

a simple breath

fell.

At present,

tender young

blades of grass

flicker

in 

whisper wind.

They guard

 bottoms of

fence posts

lining the way.

Split rail

fences

in wicked angles,

streak the drive

I drive.

Presently,

so quiet

in my head,

it rests

for me,

lets me be.

The crows

don’t crow,

they just stand there,

wing to wing

black eyes

unblinking,

staring from the dress line.

Shakes

of my hands

drop below

my flannel sleeves.

The crows

don’t care

that I am

where

I am.

The barn,

empty,

wooden cavern

today,

we are all empty,

but I’m content,

in vacancy.

Perfect

ensemble…

for the funeral.

Hayward 2006  

In a Station for Busses

In a Station for Busses

He sits and writes

inside a tiny book,

corralled

by

trembling hands.

Fortunes

pile

from his head

to the paper.

I know,

at times

he stops

he hurts inside,

he

stares,

surprised,

as if hatched

from

another world.

He ended my search,

for something

to study.

I looked

 for

anything,

according to school.

I wanted

to

build,

be king

to the sky.

I found a poet,

I know

now

I did.

He built buildings

in a book.

In a station for busses.

His mountains

lay flat,

but tall on

the page,

rivers stormed from

his paper and pen.

Rambling stories

tumbled from

his chewed

yellow pencil.

In the station

for busses,

we write by the travelers.

Going no where,

while they file by,

he writes,

held together

by his tales.

With all the words

inside him,

yet to come from him,

he writes because

he has to,

has to.

I watched,

him,

for years,

three times

during Christmas,

once on Thanksgiving eve.

The years never

forgave him,

they piled on

and left him here.

I know about

this art,

I build one word

before

another,

then finish

with a piece

of what I’ve built

that day.

At times

I stop,

not for long,

in the station

where the busses are.

They come

and go,

spilling people,

then,

swallowing more,

great steel stomachs,

rolling in and out.

I sit

and write,

building by the busses,

stories pouring

from the fountain

in the park

inside my head.

But,

I need to keep

me writing,

I have to,

or I’ll die.

Hayward 2006

Father and Son

Father and Son

Pop?

Yep?

What’s it like to get old?

Well, why would you ask that?

I just wondered when people

decide to go to their graves.

It’s not like going to bed.

No?

Nope.

You can’t decide?

Nope, someone decides for you.

And then you just go and die?

Sort of. You gonna eat that?

Na, I’m full, besides I should be ready

in case someone decides

it’s time for me to die.

Don’t worry buddy,

you got a lot of time left.

Just listen to your mom

and me and enjoy the ride.

What ride?

Life.

Oh.

How old are you?

Nine.

Nine?

Yep.

From where I am now, it’s not so bad,

but, I’m not so old. Your grandpa used

to be my age, and yours too.

Grandpa was nine?!

Yep.

Now he’s gone back to wearing diapers mom says.

Well, I guess we all go back to where we come from.

Pop?

Yep.

Where did we come from?

A seed.

How?

Nine huh?

Yep.

Wanna get some ice cream?

Pop?

Why did you change the subject?

I’m getting old.

Yep.

Chocolate?

Yep.

Pop, is this the ride?

Yeah buddy, this is the ride.

Hayward 2006

Tonight

Tonight

Withering by a candle’s light,

the flowers stand together,

in a vase with a handle,

atop a table with three legs.

Moths, fluttering hints,

on edges

of honest light,  as

hedges of thought,

steep in my head,

my ambition at ebb,

though,  a soufflé of clarity,

rises tonight.

Sleep waits in gangs

with patience,

as sleep always does.

Tonight whispers insistent,

insistent, in what

it knows.

By the candle’s light,

my shadow slithers,

as though leaving.

What I know,

tonight never knows,

so I think,

but never know,

withered flowers,

moths, sleep and I.

Just comfort

tonight,

peace in my home,

perfect vein,

in a moment in time,

whispers a quilt of syrup

quiet.

Tonight.

Hayward 2006

Gold Man

Gold Man

His was a feast

on focus,

a piercing plan,

in the lust

of his wishing.

An island was

he,

wealth galvanized

his existence,

food and water

failed to alter him.

Gold man drooled

at numbers

shadows.

Gold man did not

wonder,

if he’d die,

and never

feel the warmth

of a night’s fire,

or the cry

of his own child.

He stood,

within his dreams,

shiny and rich,

wallowing in assets,

moored in the

sea,

of himself.

Finally, the tributaries of want

pooled,

gold man,

one day,

turned to gold.

He screamed

from inside

himself,

but the cast of bullion

reflected

a silence of content,

as he stood guard

at the expense

of himself,

in the commons

in a fountain

in a park.

All the while,

the underprivileged,

as they passed,

were happy

for gold man.

He gave them hope

in their blizzards

of common.

They had heard,

money was the root

of all evil,

but gold man

was proof,

dreams

really do come true.

Hayward 2006

New Chicken

New Chicken

She could

almost walk,

balance was a teeter,

just this side

of fall.

Barely past,

one year

old,

she understood

when spoken to,

but,

when she tried,

it seemed

 she was a better

walker.

On this day,

she reeled

in front of me,

the walking

was working,

but words

were

train

cars,

on an uneven track.

She’d turn her

head,

steal a look

up at me,

smile,

during the first

tour,

of her new home.

There were,

new floors,

new rooms,

new stairs,

new windows,

everything was new,

in the new house.

She knew,

as she guided me,

so proud,

was she,

as she led

the giant following her,

each step,

a daunting task,

an almost

crash.

She saved

the most exciting,

to take my

hand,

and push me,

into

the new chicken.

New chicken

was

new kitchen,

close, as she would get,

but,

close enough,

to make me smile,

then laugh,

as we stood,

almost fell,

inside,

beside

one another,

 in

new chicken,

Hayward 2006