above the sea

the sea
of us. the certainty
of tides.
the spread of so much
below
so far
so wide.
the shells of crabs
washed
onto sand.
how we skim the tops
of these oceans,
the freckled fish,
silvered like spoons,
the whales,
their mouths like enormous
doors
opening and closing
for so little.
their eyes weeping.
the turmoil
of storm.
the froth of green.
the grime of salts heavy
in wind.
we need to get there
again.
find some meaning in
this life.
this life above the sea.

the hand of love

what a gentle rain it is
walking about
at this late hour.
the cars fast asleep on
the roads.
the lights, one by one
blinking off
for the night.
how kind the world seems
when walking
alone to the sound of rain.
to the soft petals
of water
falling against my face.
my heart.
what's to come, I don't know,
but in this moment
i feel the hand
of love upon me.

the rain

it smells like rain
is on the way she says from
the porch swing.
she points to the sky.
and I agree.
I remember watching the storms
come in
across
the long stretch of street
and field.
the smell of it
before lightning.
before the first drop fell.
waiting
on the concrete steps.
staring up into the open
roll of clouds,
blue as blue can be
going black.
and then it comes. it comes
hard and swift.
but we don't want to get
up, or leave.
we want to stay put
in memory and make a new
one now.

finding love

some birds
light
upon the lawn. grey
fat mourning doves.
pecking at the bare
black soil.
rich
from dead leaves
now raked away.
how gentle they are
to each other.
nuzzling.
doing what birds do
in spring.
finding love
in the simplest things.

on the outside looking in

the doors are locked.
the windows
slammed shut.
I am on the outside looking in.
I bang
I knock, I ring the bell.
there's a light on
in the upper room
so I know there's someone home.
but I can't get in.
there are no keys.
no code.
no secret passage way
inside.
I stand out on the grass
and yell.
I throw pebbles at the glass.
I call on my phone
it rings and rings.
i'm on the outside looking in.
I am alone.

nothing going on here

the knob
is loose, the key won't fit.
the door bell
won't ring,
there is no one home
to let me in.
the ceiling has a crack
in it.
the faucet leaks.
there's a hole in the wall
where the mice
slip in.
the window is broken
from a pellet gun.
damn kids.
the bed is cold.
the stairs creak.
she's fast asleep.
the phone rings,
wrong number once again.
there's someone at the window
looking in.
there's nothing, I want
to tell him,
there's nothing in here to see.

the gunfight

high noon is no time
for a gun fight.
how about 7 ish after
dinner and dessert.
a strong cup of coffee?
can we have the shoot out
then?
can we stand in the street
without the sun in our eyes,
with a full belly?
in fact, can't we decide
this some other way?
a card game, arm wrestling.
rocks paper scissors?
maybe we can go to a bookstore,
and browse books together, or
go see a movie.
i'll get the tickets, you
get the popcorn and the junior
mints. deal?

in circles

trust is a hard
thing
to arrive at.
on what shore does it sit and wait.
past betrayals and lies
creep in
to make you disbelieve
even the one
you love.
such a mystery these emotions
are.
to float about
in a boat on a lake in
the middle of nowhere.
no map.
no compass, no stars to
guide you.
just the pitch black world
of unknowing,
stroking at the cold
water with an open hand,
going nowhere.

live stock

my doctor takes a look
at what ails me.
tells me to look up.
so I do.
he takes my pulse.
my blood pressure.
weighs me.
there are no personal
questions.
I am live stock.
his white coat is crisp.
the one pen
a black stripe in his
pocket.
his hair is parted on
the side
and has the gleam of
water in the thick
part.
he stares into the screen
and reads
to me what he's seen.
I say nothing, then leave
with a sleeve
of papers.
he points to the door
and says be well.
pharmacy is on the ground
floor.

the chevy

I have a photo of my father's
59 turquoise
Chevrolet Impala.
four doors.
he's at it with a chamois
cloth.
a bucket beside wheel.
a hose
curled at his feet.
he's putting a shine on
the hood.
the doors are all open.
the radio may be on.
he looks happy.
his blue eyes smiling.
his curled brown hair,
nearly blonde in the sun.
he was happy, very happy.
maybe we all are when
unaware of what's to come.

left behind

the skin
of the snake is clear,
a translucent
image
showing you that it
was once here.
the stripes of it,
the checks,
the braid of its kind
imprinted
on the fine empty
spool,
the ghost of it now
left behind.
but where is it,
this snake,
not this
piece of art, this
cloak of life,
it's this question
that comes to mind.

salt and sugar

what's your addiction
my friend.
is it booze or nicotine,
coke
or heroin?
the green, the gold.
perhaps sugar
or salt gets you where
you need to be
when the hard times
hit,
or when it's time
to celebrate.
maybe it's shopping
for one more thing you
don't really need.
all of life is a trigger
to get one
a little bit higher,
to soothe the pain,
a dip
into the bag,
the spoon,
the internet with its
web
of sand, sinking you
further and further
into darkness.

beauty

his curled hand,
the short arm,
the limp, the bump,
the disfigurement is beauty
in someone's eye.
the missing
tooth,
the ear mangled.
fire scorched or
scarred,
the skin like parchment
on a wet page,
loose with age
the gravity
of it all bringing us
to our knees
in front of an
uncompromising mirror.
how fragile we all are,
misunderstanding
what any of it
means.

this circus

this circus.
this clown car full of clowns.
this big top
with elephants as large
as any
problem
on the table.
this smell of cigars
and straw.
the stench of life,
of loss,
of gain.
of unhappy happiness.
this circus come to town,

what part
have we in all of it,
to fly from a cannon,
wobble from a high wire,
to sit
like the hunger artist
in an iron cage?

surrender

the earth
gives way to wind.
to storms.
the trees
don't fight back, instead
they sway and fall
when it's their time.
the creek flows over,
with no
care as to where or why,
the rocks disperse
and break
into sand.
why not surrender
to all that is
and see which direction
your life
will find.

the right thing

small holes
sink even the largest of ships
if not shored up
patched
and made whole again.
seek out
those little dings,
those bends
and divots
in the hull
where water gets in.
get busy in doing
the right thing,
ship shape, or else.

solutions

never good
at long division. I keep
it simple.
keep
life as clean and as easy
as possible.
I don't want fractions
in the way.
I want answers to problems,
solutions
to equations.
I want
the lines drawn
clean and clear
against the paper.
don't give me words
like infinity,
or indefinite.
take Pi out of the
conversation,
write your answers
at the bottom.
there'll be a quiz
on Friday.

some days

some days,
some days in the city,
when above
ground
boils. when the trees sag
blue,
so long in summer.
some days,
when
the poor don't have the strength
anymore
to beg
at each and every corner,
when the windows
don't roll
down with a dollar or two,
some days,
even the dogs stay
in the shade, no longer
chasing
the car, the bike, a runner
in slow moving shoes.
some days,
the city is beat.
the buildings tall ache
with being tall,
the world is tired.
the sun too hot to look into.
some days,
we just stay home
beneath the fan, a cold drink
in hand. it's a time
when our ambitions
and desires all seem untrue.

sunday morning

the butter
melts slowly in the hot skillet.
we crack an egg,
then another.
we let
the steam rise
as our mouths water.
the toast arrives
brown
and ready for jam,
for butter.
we turn the eggs over.
salt, then pepper.
we let it dance
against the gleam
of white, of yellow
yolk.
we sit
and pray.
we look at one another
and agree
on the unsaid promises
we aim to keep, then eat.

make room

the house is so clean.
the dust
gone. the windows wiped
with newspaper
and vinegar.
each thing in its place,
the cob webs
knocked down
with a straw broom.
even the oven gleams.
how the flowers stand tall
in the vase
on this cold
afternoon.
let's take to doing nothing,
lie down
and listen to the birds
make love,
make room.

regret

regret
and sorrow
are cold stones,
sharp pebbles
in one's mouth
that you can't spit out.
all day they roll
around,
biting at your tongue,
scraping against
the bones
of your teeth.
they can't be swallowed,
they won't dissolve.
someone else has to come
along and say open
wide your heart,
let me take it out.

the old sun

silvered
we are. brightened with white
flecks.
the primary
colors have faded in
our hair,
our eyes.
our skin now a soft
palette of muted shades.
the bones
are shorter.
the gait not the gait
it once was,
less up the hill
than a year ago.
and the dog beside us.
his bark
now higher than before.
the blue
cast in his brown eyes
aglow in this
old sun. we walk.
we walk. we walk
through the places
where we used to run.

bring more

I borrow
a line or two from someone
I know.
I apply it to my life.
swallow it whole.
I tell them
thanks,
I needed that.
bring more when you
have some.
I can use all
that you got.

a world of trees

how sad
and forlorn the trees
are today.
the brittle arms
of grey,
the trunks
of raw umber.
how they lean towards
one another
for comfort.
but get none.
they are alone in
this world,
as we are,
despite so many
so near,
so dear.

the leaves have fallen

each door
is painted black.
a dull
black.
no shine, no gloss.
just the deadening
of no
color.
the street is lined
with houses.
each door
painted black.
no one goes in,
or leaves.
the doors are sealed,
locked tight.
it's autumn
in the city.
the leaves have fallen.

when morning comes

exhausted
tired.
beat. beyond words.
sagging
as I come up the hill,
up the street.
the empty pail
swinging on my arm.
the dust of the day
in my eyes,
a grey silt on my shoulders.
i'll open
the door, drink
a glass of cold
water from the tap,
search
for a bite
to eat. i'll stare out
the window
as the cold sun
falls over each slanted
roof.
i'll take off my boots,
lie down
and begin again
when morning comes.

not knowing

some things
remain a mystery.
fogged
in.
the facts unknown.
the events
unrecorded.
you'll never find
out what was said,
what went wrong.
you'll never
figure it out no
matter how wise
you are, how long
you live.
you'll struggle
to understand,
to know the truth,
never set free.

the bank robbery

I wouldn't do well in prison.
just to let you know. so please
don't make me
rob this bank with you.
let's do something else to get
money.
sell strawberries on the side
of the road.
but I guess we'd have to grow
them first.
or we could, sing and entertain
strangers who pass
us by on the street. filling
our hats with change.
but who can play a guitar,
or drums. not me, perhaps you.
okay, okay.
let's get a job then, a cubicle
for me, one for you.
we'll sit and grind out the years
until we have enough to quit
in say fifty years. sigh.
okay. alright already.
i'll drive the get away car,
you go into the bank and get
the money. here, I wrote the note
for you.

into the night

the clock
limps towards twelve.
we've been up all night, at it
again.
knee deep
in talk.
sunken into the long couch,
the silvered trees
in snow.
the moon lit stream
alive, and cold.
we could go on all night with
this conversation.
it's a winding
slip of water. it's what
we do best
going forward.
talking it out,
then arriving.

then let go

each child
a balloon about to set sail.
about
to be let go,
untethered by
the hand
that holds them.
cut the string,
let the string go.
they may return, they
might pop
and fall,
and never leave.
but fill them with air,
the life
and breath
of what we believe
we must do.
then let go.

the long party

the spill
of red wine on the white rug
is one thing.
the broken glass
in the sink.
the lit cigarette
still burning in the ashes,
the music still
on, the needle stuck
on the same
song, the same phrase
over and over again.
the house empty, but
the front door wide
open
where a strange cat
peers in.
some parties
keep on going and even
when they're over.

the calm

the calm
is sweet. nice.
the unworried day unfolds
before you.
what is,
is.
what isn't is yet
to be
so why discuss it now
in that
bright and nimble
mind
of yours.
relax in this moment.
nothing can
be done
about tomorrows.
lots can be done about
today.

the jitters

the jitters
come over you like ants
like bees,
like
an itch
that can't be put out.
nerves
jangling
like unbalanced chimes
in the porch wind.
the tingle of
feet and fingers
the ringing of ears.
that flock of blackbirds
in the field
in flight from fear.

the jitters

the jitters
come over you like ants
like bees,
like
an itch
that can't be put out.
nerves
jangling
like unbalanced chimes
in the porch wind.
the tingle of
feet and fingers
the ringing of ears.
that flock of blackbirds
in the field
in flight from fear.

poem in the mail

I get a poem
in the mail.
it's from me to me.
written
a long time ago.
it's about us.
about you.
there is truth in it.
lies too.
it's the summation
of all fears.
i'll sit down and
rewrite it,
take a match to the old,
start anew.

the speed of light

the G force
of life. the wind in our
faces.
the pull back
of our shoulders
against the seat.
we are going faster
than we ever have before.
the speed of sound,
the speed
of light.
we are there before
we get there.
gone before we left.
who we are
is never known.
who we will be is undecided.

yours or mine

we divide the things
we own,
the rooms.
the bed.
we split the rent.
chop
the dog in half.
separate the child
in two.
we do long division
for the bank
account. my beef
her tofu.
take this, leave that.
who cares.
we say.
we are at not at a cross
roads
but a cliff
and a hard place.
is that your catcher
in the rye,
or mine?

house for rent

i'll see you when I see
you, he
tells her
his arms around her,
his lips anxious for a kiss.
but no. he gets into his car,
pulls away
for the last time.
takes a long last
look
at the house.
the stoop, the door.
the bedroom window
above. he
inhales, exhales.
lets the window roll up,
gives a wave to her
standing in the door,
then goes home
to someone who wonders
where he's been.

yours or mine

we divide the things
we own,
the rooms.
the bed.
we split the rent.
chop
the dog in half.
separate the child
in two.
we do long division
for the bank
account. my beef
her tofu.
take this, leave that.
who cares.
we say.
we are at not at a cross
roads
but a cliff
and a hard place.
is that your catcher
in the rye,
or mine?

the breakfast vision

she saw a religious figure
in her eggs
and he in his mound of warm
scrapple.
they stopped eating
and called the waitress over.
she said. hmmm. topping off
their cups with a steaming
pot of coffee. I sort of see
what you're saying.
was it st. paul, or Stephen.
was it moses
coming down from the mountain
with his stone tablets?
they took pictures with their
phones, putting down
their fork and knife.
a crowd gathered.
I see it one man said.
I don't see nothing another one
laughed.
they called in the parish
priest for a confirming voice,
pulled away from mass.
but he said no. sorry.
just eggs, just scrapple,
then grabbed a fork and took
a bite.

the impassioned day

it's the impassion
that clouds our day, makes
our feet
drag
instead of lift
and spring forward.
it's the heart
in second gear,
the pipes of blood
gone slow,
clogged and detoured
with old
issues, unswept fear.
the smile hides
beneath the shadows
of thought,
unable to make
an appearance.

the egg of us

the egg of us.
the embryo of love
and affection.
the shell
of us.
the nest.
the tree we rest in.
the sky
above, the rain we
need
to wet our beaks.
the egg of us.
time to break free
of all that holds
us in
and spread our wings
to fly.

the sinking ship

the ship lists
to one side.
it's going down, but
the captain won't let go.
he's on deck.
staring out
into the wide ocean,
wondering
how deep,
how cold.

brown bird

the fat brown bird
sitting on the snowy sill
is full of air.
puffed
two sizes larger than
he really is.
the iced field
whitened over,
hardly a meal out there.
just the tiny
clock work of bones
and feathers,
wondering
how and why
any of us got here.

the muck of life

the insanity
of it all is mud.
the mud of blood
of thought,
hip high,
of legs
heavy as lead.
the brain in a muddled
fog
of doubt
and worry.
we're in mud.
stuck
in the this endless
swamp
of wet trees
snake vines.
this muck
of indecision.
not a branch to grab.
not an arm or hand
within reach
to get us out.
we need to slug through
this mire,
and get to dry
land.
and soon.

the glass road

the donut spare
will get us there. to the next
town.
to the first gas
station on our side
of the road.
we go slow though.
we look at the long dry
desert
on either side,
the cactus soldier
cactus, standing
green on guard.
before us is
the black ribbon of road
shimmering
with specks of sand
gone glass.
but we have water,
we have
apples,
we have each other
in case the worst happens.

grey elephants

the elephants
in the room take up so much space.
there they sit.
enormous
and grey.
ponderous
in size and thought.
trunks and tails entwined,
buying time.
waiting, just waiting
patiently to have
their say.

late winter

we shovel,
we push the snow
to the side.
the wipers crank
hard
and against the window.
we're thinking
daisies though.
we're thinking long
summers strolls
along the boardwalk.
our skin
browned in the new
sun.
but for now,
we dig out, we bundle
up,
boot up.
sip on the hot cup
in our hand
and look upwards
into the soft flakes
of a late winters storm.

let the sunshine in

from nowhere
she resurfaces. the moon face
of my mother
speaking
towards a sister.
let the sunshine in, she says
from her deep bed
as the blinds are hatched open.
she hasn't spoken
in months, nearly a half
year, and now
this.
what's to make of it?
what mystery
there is in life, in dying,
in observing
the hand of God
on her.

the blue plate

it's horse country.
long fences
railed, stone houses
with trails of smoke
sleeved
out into the sky.
the hills roll with
tall grass, the blue ridge
mountains
in the near
distance.
the march wind is soft
as is the sun
on our faces
as we sit facing it.
the bench
cool against our legs.
we go through
it. we talk. we come out
of it, then continue
on
buying little, wanting
less,
settling on a small blue
plate
to set against the light
of our kitchen window
to remember
this day by.

we're so alike

a small
puddle of sunlight
coming through
the open door
on a sunday afternoon
is enough
for the old dog to bask
in.
he knows sunlight
when he
sees it and lies down.
three turns,
tail tucked tight,
snout under
folded arms
and he's gone,
we're so alike.

the itch

I see her scratch
an itch
on her leg. then her hand
moves to her
shoulder,
her neck.
her ear.
I hand her a bottle
of calamine lotion,
then she sits
over there,
while I sit over here.

let's go

her purse is large.
it overflows.
she puts a smaller purse
inside of that purse,
and a wallet inside
of that.
keys, phone, umbrella
are dropped inside as well.
she puts the strap
around her shoulder
and says lets go.
I slip a few dollars
into my
pocket, grab my keys
and we're off.

better days

my friend
who used to be a farmer
sits
now on the porch
and stares out at the barren
field
where nothing ever grows.
the earth
is brown.
the children
are gone, off to their own
lives.
the wife
is in the ground.
a stray dog wanders
down the road
away
from the house.
on the roof of a fallen barn,
a rooster crows.
what was once green
and lush
is history,
but there were better
days
he swears to that.

having doubts

i fear the worst.

my stomach tells me no.
don't do this.

my heart is confused.

i don't know her.
i already feel the anxiety.

she lies so easily.

the married boyfriend still
around.

the ex husband praying with his
priest friends
to bring her home
again.

wedding bells loom.
god help me.

being human

I write a letter of apology
to a dozen people.
all saying the same thing.
i'm sorry.
I deeply regret the way things
turned out
and for saying the things that
I did.
I know how badly
it must have hurt you to hear
the things I said.
i'm not sure what got into me.
I just broke
and it all came tumbling out.
i'm sorry. i'm human and weak
at times too.
signed me.

she gets flowers

she gets flowers
for her birthday. cards. gifts.
hand written notes
of undying affection.
all from
those who love her.
still do.
the old boyfriends.
the ex husband, children from
him, from her.
then there's me.
i'm in the mix too,
but at times it's hard, so
hard to compete, but I do.
I can run
and love with the best
of them.

the train is late

a baby
is crying in the other room.
I don't know whose it is,
but
it won't stop
crying. the women get up
to go see.
they want to help
settle the child.
feed or change him.
hold him or her in their
arms
and rock it to sleep.
a baby is crying in the other
room.
I turn the page
of the newspaper
then look at my watch.
the train is late.

skeletons

the skeletons
rattle in the hall closet.
those old
dry bones shimmy and shake
when the wind
blows,
or the house creaks.
what's done
is done. nothing you can do
about that.
ancient history,
hardly,
but still you want it gone,
tossed deep
into the past.
who hasn't made a mistake.
committed
some deed
in the throes of despair,
or desire?

me too

the joints are weak.
the glue
won't hold, the screws
wobble
out in small turns.
the table tilts.
it won't hold the weight
of what it's meant
to hold.
all things
in time, come undone
if not attended to.
me too.

a farewell kiss

it's the circle.
the round
about way we come back
from
cradle
to the grave.
a mother's first kiss.
the rise
of legs and tongue,
the striving
force of our blood
and bones
becoming what we are
to become,
then
less and less, until
this.
a farewell kiss.

i want it now

i want what i want
and i want it now. don't make
me stand in line.
don't make me
wait, don't delay my
satisfaction one second longer
than absolutely
necessary.
stop with the buffering.
how dare you put me
on hold, make me wait
like this.
give it to me now
dammit.
i'm American.

say what

I remember the time
my phone was tapped by someone
I was related to
by marriage.
I found the large plastic
bag of cassettes
hidden in the trunk of
the car, under the wheel well.
why or how it was done,
I have no clue.
I shook my head as I listened
to the scratchy
voices recorded and laughed.
to this day it's a mystery
why someone would want
to hear the babble
that comes out of my mouth
when on the phone.
I can hardly listen to myself
at times.

the round table

I over hear
the soothsayers
at the table out in front
of the coffee shop.
a round table
of wise men
in addidas pants
and shorts. women
in sweats,
children in strollers.
the world wobbles
with
war
with poverty and pain,
I hear one man say.
hunger.
disease
and pestilence.
who isn't unhappy
is about to be, he says.
give it time.
let the pendulum swing.
your turn
is coming. he sips his
coffee,
adjusts his sunglasses
and smiles. have a nice
day he says
as someone gets up to leave.
see you tomorrow.

tea and toast

if I lived to be eighty
the age
my grandmother was when she
succumbed
to lung cancer,
I could close my eyes
and still
remember her voice,
gravel pitched,
the smell of her perfume,
hear the rattle of
the newspaper in her
hand, her nails
hardened by gelatin,
the tea cup, the toast
spread with butter
crunched down by her
lip sticked
teeth.
damn those kennedys
she say, fist to the table,
on a daily basis.
all of them, crooks,
got their money
bootlegging.
and now look them.

i'll give you a kiss

i'll give you a kiss
she says,
but then you'll want another
and another.
where will this lead,
down what path are we going
with this kissing.
this affection
on this sunday afternoon
before church.
is that your hand on
my knee.
I hope so, she says.
kiss me some more,
I have so many to give,
don't ever leave.

there is that

it smells like
California.
century boulevard.
the coast. the vineyards.
the false
sense of what a blue
sky will do to you.
the warm
air in our eastern lungs.
putting down our
winter coats
to bask in the sun
a beacon of false hope,
of possibilities.
all lies.
but all desirable,
as we bite the orange
of the valley.
take that rose
for example.
the point of a thorn,
and the blood on your thumb.
in all beauty
there is that.

say what you want

say what you want
about these old buildings
about to crumble.
the liquor store,
with its open sign,
lit for
the early morning
drive through.
each rise of sun,
needing
a fix to begin that
day.
say what you want about
the old bowling alley,
its arched roof,
as if to tell a story,
now a thrift shop
of sorts for what others
no longer needed.
say what you want about
the house
we lived in.
the duplex with its flat
roof,
the brick of then,
roughed red
bleeding its color each
time it rained.
a single bathroom with a bad
lock,
the casement window
we crawled out of
and onto
the tin roof when the house
got hot.
say what you want about
the life we lived,
the church food, the absent
father, the new baby always new,
the front stoop we grew
up on,
then left, no longer unwise,
no longer kids.

third base

the neighbor, mrs butler
and her husband, pearl,
had an old
Volvo, yellow, rusted, with one
flat tire that sat
in front of our row houses
on Dorchester street
in the 1960s.
we used the passenger door
as third base.
by the end of the summer
there were dents
in the door from where our
elbows and hands
collided with the metal,
or a ball got thrown.
in time the car was moved,
or towed, so we found
a lid from a cardboard box
to lay down be our third
base. but it was never
the same, nor has any summer
since then.

she knows what i'm thinking

she knows
what i'm thinking, what
i'm doing.
where i'm going.
she can feel me ten miles
away,
or in the basement,
what i'm up to.
where I am,
who i'm with.
she's impossibly
clairvoyant.
I can hardly say a word
or finish
a sentence, without
her knowing
what's to come out
and off my lips.
I can't hide a thing,
nor do I want to.

sunday morning

they parents come
for brunch. to the beautiful
red and pink
table
set so well. the flowers,
the flutes
of crystal filled
with champagne and juice.
the napkins folded
just so.
we make
French toast
and quiche.
bacon, potatoes
and bread.
the father, his coat
and hat still on, ready to leave,
looks at the design
of fruit
circled on the plate
and whispers,
I don't want to disturb it.
it's beautiful,
so he plucks a blueberry
off the top
and smiles.
his wife, her mother
beside him,
a sweater around her thin
shoulders, sips
on a mimosa, delicately
eating what's on her plate.
she's happy, she's says
in French, happy
that her
child is happy.
telling me to love her,
to which I say, of course.
of course,
I do.

tomorrow is tuesday

with too much
time
on hand. they wander
the internet.
they make new friends,
who aren't friends at all,
but why not.
the circle the the stores.
the fields.
the long paths around
the neighborhood.
they're on the phone.
baking.
looking out the window
for something
that needs
to be done.
they sigh. it's the sigh
of life
near over
and what's become
of the years.
tomorrow is Tuesday,
they think.
Tuesday.

same old

we're on our way,
they say, from the car. we
should be there
soon. the wife is coming.
it will be fun.
we're staying for a few days.
let's
get together, do lunch,
do dinner, shoot the breeze
like in the old days.
let's catch up
and reminisce. figure out
the future of our parents.
see you soon, they say,
we're not too far away.
then you both hang up.
three days go by.
not a word.
not a call. nothing but
the dead silence
of air between us and
the bridge they crossed.
we're going back,
they say when you finally
get them on the phone.
we're driving, so we can't
talk too much. but
sorry we missed you. see
you next time, my brother.
next time. it'll be fun.

forward

how the woods
wind
into the deeper part
of darkness.
the dollops
of light.
the path worn.
the stream
cold and grey beside
us.
how fast our feet
press on, our
hands
intertwined
as we gallop
through
the fallen trees
and leaves.
the stones, forward
into
the future of our
lives.

the first kiss

the first time you see the ocean
you
cant believe your eyes.
the sights
the sound, the smell of it.
the grit of sand.
the expanse of clouds
and blue sky.
the sweeping stripes of gulls,
the boats
crawling slowly along
the blue
curve of earth.
the shell held up to your
ear,
echoing the roar
of waves
into your soul forever.
the first kiss is like that
too.
unforgettable.

the long night

there's a long
argument
that goes well into the night.
drinking is involved.
like
two boxers
we go at it.
knowing when to duck,
to bob
and weave, when to
strike.
but we know each other
so well.
our strengths and weakness.
it's hard to win,
but we know how to hurt
each other.
punching the right
word
in when we get an opening.
we grind it out,
round after round
until the last bell rings,
and the judges
show their cards.
a draw again.

who they realy are

some families
and friends,
in time
just don't get along.
don't communicate
well.
they come
and go.
no words. no hey.
no
letter in the mail.
no call.
we're here, we're
gone.
see you next time.
once you're no longer
of use
to them,
you find out who
they really are.

changes

the trees dance
in the wind,
budded green. fourteen
years
of watching them
from this window, alone.
the old leaves
still on the ground lift
in a swirl.
the stream, silver
along the rocks
ripples cold.
another season is almost
done.
another about to begin.
but things are different
now,
more to come.

heads like coconuts

I tell the caretaker
of my mom
at the senior home, that if she
sees my sisters, the both
of them, to take their
heads and clunk them together
for me.
like coconuts, I tell her.
I demonstrate how that would
happen by using my
own hands and taking
invisible coconuts
and knocking them together.
she laughs.
we both laugh, then I give
her a twenty for
another case of Ensure
that she'll feed my mom with
through a bird eye dropper.
I love them both, but sometimes,
sometimes,
to the moon,
alice.

violin music

my friend,
who is only happy
when he's unhappy
has stopped talking
about his myriad
of problems.
he just puts the violin
between
his chin and shoulder
and plays.
he's done complaining
about work, his wife,
about his age,
life in general.
it's just the sweet
melancholy sounds
of the strings now, and
that pretty much sums it up.

1963

put your head under
the desk
the teacher said
standing in front of the class
with a gas mask on.
when you
hear the sirens
in a few minutes we will
release you
and send you all running
home. we are about to be under
a nuclear attack.
you may hear a loud explosion
and see a giant mushroom
cloud
in the near distance.
try not to look at the white
blast, as it may
affect your vision.
if you run fast enough though,
perhaps you'll make it home
in time to see your
parents and siblings,
your pets one
last time.
but for now, keep your
heads under the wooden
desks and no talking.
don't forget to do your homework
too, if nothing
happens.
there'll be a quiz
on fractions tomorrow.

erase and delete

we try and forget.
try
and smooth over the rough
spots
of our
memory.
the bad things, the awful
said
things, the dismissive
looks, all the wrongs
that we did.
we want to be good.
we want to be free from
all the evil
we've done,
to start fresh again.
to erase the big board
with a sponge,
delete our
permanent records
in the office
with a big black
pen.

what you should do

you ache
from what ails you.
lack
of sleep,
food,
water.
you wander the earth
at times
going through
the motions.
no oar,
no rudder, the sail
torn.
the maps you've used
your whole life
are no longer
useful.
the land has changed.
water has risen.
people turn you
in one direction
or another,
and push.
they say, go there.
go in that
direction. this is what
you should do,
they say.
so you do.

i can't get in

I can't get in
at times.
the door
is closed.
each window
down, the locks
turned.
there is no way
to find out what's
in her mind.
in her heart.
she's shut the blinds.
pulled the curtains
closed.
turned off
all the lights.
she's in there, but
she's gone for now
and I can't get in.

between us

there are shades
of color
of words spoken.
of thoughts
that slide like clouds
between the sun
and earth,
then off the lips.
blue
and bluer. white.
the greys
mixed in.
just words though.
just words
that have nothing to do
with love
or loyalty.
that's a fixed star
between
us.

on the road

we adjust our
seats
for the long drive
across
country.
we may be lost, but
we don't care.
the visor goes down.
the window
is slightly open
to let in the march air.
we turn on
the radio.
open water.
she dozes as I drive.
a book in her lap.
her head rests against
my shoulder.
I look at her,
the good soul that she is,
her hand upon my knee
and wonder where
I was before.

bones

these old
jealous bones come
out to prick
your skin
on occasion,
that fierce green
fear
arrives
with a bang.
a gun shot of angst
to the heart
and brain.
they were packed
away
so long. but
enough with these
dark dry
bones.
back into the sack
and into the cold
damp basement they go,
or better
yet
a roaring all consuming
fire.

everyone gets a turn

how unkind
the world can be.
how mad
and mean
the eyes and mouth.
the strangle
of emotion
caught
in a freeze frame
on each
face
that misses the train,
or slips
and tears a knee.
who hasn't
been betrayed?
how unkind
this world is that we
live upon.
thinking
that we may be better
than another,
be free from pain or
sorrow, and escape
all that's wrong.

let me know

I could lick
ice
cream all summer with you.
if you'd
like.
our feet in the creek
behind
the house.
the trees full
and green.
our troubles behind
us.
I could lick
ice
cream all summer with
you.
if you'd like.
let me know.

embrace the flame

the candle
goes down in the slow
melt of a
yellow flame.
the plate it stands
upon
is cool,
a puddle of dried
wax upon it.
only so many
matches to go,
so little
candle left
to be burned.
so
let's light the wick,
embrace the flame,
go slow.

at eighty nine

when her
eyes open to see me
standing
there.
there is the slight
flicker
of recognition
before the lids go down.
her lips
are dry.
her hands wrapped in cloth,
the blankets
found,
wrapped tight up
to her neck.
her silver hair,
the pins,
the band,
an angelic crown.
she's in some dream,
I hope.
she's young, she's holding
her child
up to sun
or moon. she's free from
where she is,
trapped
inside this grey strange
room.

not just words

some words fall out
of my mouth
or get written through these
curled hands
that surprise me
as well her.
untethered by
reason,
they are careless balloons
sent aloft.
I cringe
at the thought of causing
anyone
pain, whether friend or
stranger.
at times I slip,
and the sound
of my voice
is heard,
the ink hardly dry,
as to what I've written,
or said.

the lake of love

the lake
of love we
swim in
is deep
and wide. it's
a risk
to take your hand
and go under.
to open our
eyes
in the glassy depths
of green
and blue
and
see what's what,
what each
dive
together will bring
up.
something old.
something new.

now when

I remember my knee
on her
linoleum floor.
touching the cold soft
tile,
the words
tumbling from my mouth.
my heart
aglow
and trembling
with percussion.
I remember saying what
I said,
and waiting for that
split
second for an answer.
then rising and saying.
okay.
now when.

time for a change

things change.
move.
adjust.
even the clouds overhead
can't help
but change their shape.
we can't sit still for
long,
eighteen years
was enough.
time to move on,
get a real life,
grow up.

what's coming

the birds
won't be quiet. you
can't get them
to settle down
no matter how much
bread you
toss out the window.
we're trying to sleep
in here you yell out.
but no.
they fill the tree,
excited
about what's coming.
flapping their
wings,
chirping. ever
on the alert for
bugs
and worms
for breakfast.

a long days run

I circle
the bed like a tired
dog
who's been out on a run.
a long
run through the woods
before dark.
chasing shadows among
the silvered trees.
I scratch
at the pillows.
douse the light,
nuzzle into the blanket,
give one
last howl at the moon,
then curl
against your warm
body. so nice at last,
to be home
with you.

the fallen tree

we see the priest out
in his black
vestment and collar.
the wind
in his silver
hair. his Irish eyes
wet with
cold.
his fleshy cheeks red.
he points up at
the power lines, twisted
and sagging
from a fallen tree.
three days
without electricity
he says.
we've been in darkness
too long,
but it's almost time.
Easter too is not far off.

wisdom teeth

there must
be a large can of teeth
at
the dentist's office.
how the wisdom teeth
once removed
keep filling it up.
not to mention the compassion
teeth.
the serenity molars,
the kindness
incisors,
the canine teeth for
finding
and knowing
what truth is.
at times it seems we
are in a toothless
world.

violet

my daughter violet
is
a gem.
a little flower
blooming.
she's bright and full
of herself.
her mother's
child.
saying carefully what
needs
to be said,
and little more.
her wry smile. her
brown
soft eyes.
the gold of her hair.
my daughter
violet
is in my imagination,
but she's
out there,
somewhere.

back on earth

back on earth
I
get to work.
the usual.
coffee, shower. clothes.
one shoe
at a time.
I dip my
head out the front
door for a weather
check
then find
the right coat to wear.
the lights
go off.
I smell the light
whiff of
perfume
in the air
lingering in the space
where she stood
ten minutes ago. i
inhale, then go.

last flight

her death
at midnight in seattle
startles
me awake
at four a.m.
eastern time.
I hear
her in the house,
coming up the stairs
in her way.
shaking
me awake to say farewell,
the next life
awaits. this is my last
flight.
see you when you get
there.
bye bye.

ignorance is bliss

ignorance
is sublime bliss,
not to know what you
want to know,
but do.
better to let things lie,
let things
rest where they are,
whether in
the open or hidden
in some desk
or drawer.
land needs boundaries
as do lives.
each to their own
country
to live in.
yours and mine.

we can do this

I shake off the dust
of yesterday.

all those yesterdays
lying behind me.

stamp my boots onto
the cold ground,

tighten my belt.
button the coat to my neck.

I feel the unshaven
bristle against my chin,

squint into the sun
and look at where I've been,

where I don't want to go again.

I take her hand
and move on. we can do this.

everything

it's not what
to confess as you stand
in line
in church, it's more about
if there's
enough time,
and how exactly do you word
your digressions
in a palpable
forgivable form.
you want to go in and just
say the word
everything
through the dark screen
into a waiting priest's
ear.
what penance do you have
for everything?

come home

a day off is a good thing.
to lie
around
in your books, in your wide
bed.
the wind
alive in the trees
beyond the fence.
the cars
all gone.
the house warm.
the coffee
hot in your hand.
it's nine a.m. but
already you're
waiting
for her to get home.

at the diner

he's a large man
sitting at the diner.
red suspenders hold
up his high waisted pants.
he's placed a napkin
into the collar of his shirt.
it's a blue color.
pale
and soft like his eyes.
the plates
surround him at the table.
pancakes
with butter and syrup.
eggs over easy.
bacon, sausage, toast.
purple packs of jam.
his hands
touch a knife and fork,
then he sighs.
he can't decide
which way to go.
he sips his coffee.
slipping his
finger into the small
circle of the white
cup. he stares out the window
at the morning traffic
rushing by.
they know him well.
call him by name.
they approach him with
their hands
on their aproned hips
and ask if everything
is okay.
he nods. it's fine, he says
smiling as best he can.
it's all good.
just some trouble
at home.

amiss

something is amiss
you can
feel it in your bones.
the tingling
of a spider
crawling
up your spine,
the startled
jump
at three a.m.
something is awry.
there is a door
open
somewhere.
a window
ajar, a black bird
about to fly.

her music

as she sits
beside
the piano.
she closes her eyes
and puts
her hands upon the keys.
she begins
to play.
she begins to cry.
it's her own love
story
that makes her weep,
makes her
sigh.

a different road

the bum
in the park is not
a bum.
not a bum at all,
but homeless
by choice.
he has discarded
the ways of others,
of us.
snubbing his nose
at the mundane tasks
of work
and love,
children and marriage.
he has found
his own way
more to his liking,
for better or worse.
with no clock to punch,
the trees
and shrubs
suit him well as each
sun rises above
his small
secluded camp
below the highway.
no one there to tell him
to take
the trash out dear,
go walk the dog
wear a different tie,
don't
forget your lunch pail.

ironing

when I iron
a shirt. a pair of pants
i think
of my mother standing
beside
a filled basket
of clothes.
I see her glasses
at the end of her nose.
the steam
button pressed with
her thumb.
the weight of the iron
running
back and forth
against a white sheet.
I can almost hear
her sing,
hear her hum.

water life

there's
a light on in the room
where
she used
to live.
but she's not there
anymore.
someone else
is in there now.
how quickly
things change.
how beds disappear.
cupboards
become bare.
boxes get filled
and emptied.
life being water,
finding its
own level of comfort.

maybe tomorrow

I find the largest
rock
I can pick
up and throw it
towards
the water.
it barely makes
the edge of sand
and gravel,
hardly a splash.
the ducks
don't even look up
from
the bread they're
eating, tossed
in by an old man
with a plastic bag.
I need to hear
the splash, so I look
for another rock,
but there isn't any.
it would make my day
to ruffle
some feathers,
ripple the lake,
cause a disturbance
of some sort.
maybe tomorrow.