Act | Sing | Teach | Write

Author: dancallaway (Page 1 of 12)

Choice (?)

It’s the question humans have asked since
We started asking questions. Oedipus felt
Royally screwed when only life could convince
Him the blind guy was right re: the deal dealt.
And the whole ordeal in the Garden–we all know
That sooner or later one of them was going
To eat that fruit, invent shame, and go
Full binary–Hey! Your fig leaf’s showing.
And has it not been a blame game
Ever since? –pointing outward to the source
Of our problems. Destinee said some lame
Shit, so I had to slash her tires, of course.
So yeah, I had a choice, but she made me,
And look how free will done played me.


While the future is always in the mystery
Category, a year ago there
We’re greater odds that a view of recent history
Could provide a reliable map to stare
At as one move forward to a desired
Outcome like traveling to Norway,
Or if you’re an actor like me, getting hired
To tell stories to a theater full of play-
Loving listeners. I know philosophically
That we never know what tomorrow holds,
But before all these catastrophically
Blunt lessons, we ventured how it unfolds
It also frustrates me that the future is not real.
‘Cause something to look forward to– that’s the deal.


The tenderest hurricane I ever met–
Category live-wire connected
To all conductive elements. When you set
Your course, alert the weather service–affected
Parties (like your brother) take cover.
The force of you is beautiful–my hope
Is that I provide sufficient anti-hover
Padding as you dive-drop from the top rope.
Dang, kid, you’re strong. Diaper time resembles
A rodeo event complete with deft doodoo
Dodging. My heart laughs as it assembles
Your fiery traits and your soul’s orange hue.
The red is for love’s blood pumping intensity
Mixed with yellow’s laughter light density.

Off Grid but with electricity and internet and such

These YouTubers who moved off-grid
And live in restored cottages in the west
Of Ireland or the Faroe Islands bid
Me welcome as their curious, questing guest.
“How do you have internet?” is my first
Query, but soon after that I’m asking–
Is there a wooded idyll like I’ve rehearsed
In my head near mountain trails, while basking
Very close by is a sun-warmed coast?
Oh, and ready accessibility to
A major live theatre market, a host
Of museums, public transit, and a sunrise view?
I’ll crack open the Google and see what I find.
Zillow: three bed, two bath, Hobbit-designed.


Somehow you know I only managed to get
Four hours of zzzs last night. Thank the Lord
I had the foresight to grind you up and set
The auto button before bed. Poured
Into my favorite mug (milk first)
My newly-recovered nose neurons rejoice
At that sweet olfaction meeting me with a burst
Of “you know you need me” in a sweet, velvety voice.
Indeed, when the morning roast is low in the tin
Everyone knows an emergency dispatch to Trader
Joe’s for well-priced fair trade is in
Force–or I’m a headachey first grader.
I’ve quit you several times but always return.
You just percolate, “When will you learn?”


You’re a two-and-a-half-year-old reflector
Reminder of all the parts of me I forgot,
Suppressed or maybe healed–my psyche deflector-
Finder sweetly gathering flashes of what
I was, like leaves along the greenway. Your
Gentle spirit examining elasticity
Of limits with an innate need to be sure
Of intact animal crackers, the felicity
Found in predictable patterns, and a fascination
With angels points me back to to times when I spied
Light portals in cumulus clouds, elation
At the sounds of choirs I knew were from heaven side.
You are fully yourself, and in your you-ness
Every day’s a chance for re-membered newness.

For Melissa

I notice, my love, the more we nest together
In this sequester time, the more I want
To go in search of twigs and twine to feather
Our den. My truest friend and sage savant
Of this oft-confusing soul, sitting with
Your legs resting on my lap is the sweetest
Of the spots. When you get pissed or take the pith
Out of stories I sometimes tell myself (defeatist
Tales based on past fictions) I think–
Look at that–shes angry and standing
Right there–not going anywhere, brink
Of despair or highest peak–my safe landing.
I know folks don’t get this lucky, my heart.
That’s why locking this down was really smart.


An augur in ancient Rome studied signs
And bird behavior to discern a proposed action’s
Favorability rating with Latin divines.
Many have been auguring outcomes, respective factions
Prophesying destruction while others predict
Improving days. I don’t know about
The future, but the image I choose to depict
With my day-gifts is a canvas on easel, out
Where colors and drawing methods I’ve yet to learn
Await my sight-gift. We are all beginners.
This clock tick, and this. You see? Yearn
For the kingdom that loves and makes the losers winners.
There’s been an inauguration we haven’t esteemed–
The one St. Matthew told and Dr. King dreamed.


The thing we misunderstand when we say things
Like”we’re divided” and “there can be no unity”
Is that we are joined by infinite strings,
Like it or hate it, much like the beloved community
Of my nostrils welcomes oxygen that fills
My foot blood. Try it on and feel the pain
Of that statement: your sins, needs, and ills
Are not mine–I’ll take care of my main
Man–me. And we wonder why our cells
Attack themselves in this place built by jumping
Over people we knocked down, ignoring yells
For help–insisiting my drumbeat keeps thumping.
When the lungs tell the heart, “you do not belong to me,”
The spirit must vacate in the absence of We.

Side Fat

As far back as mid-childhood, I’ve had
Side-fat hugging my guts like cozy chain mail.
This faithful foam belly blankie holds mad
Thoughts, muffles gut yells, and keeps the jail
Cot soft–a detention center cemented together
By juvenile infractions and judgments handed down
By a very junior justice. Inquiring whether
Or not I could see the case files, I’m told The Crown
Has sealed the records. (My psychic incarceration
Takes place in a British crime drama.) This
Reminds me it’s time to watch an episode
Of The Great British Baking Show. Swiss
Rolls and scones. Yum. TV a la mode.
These loyal chums have always stuck by my side.
It’s objectively true–everything is better fried.

« Older posts

© 2021 Dan Callaway

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑