Friday, January 17, 2025

welcome Greenland

there's unlimited
ice
and fish,
haddock
and lobster,
whale blubber for oil.
God knows
what's under
the frozen tundra of
Greenland,
minerals and gold.
let's plant the flag
and go for it.
make it a new starter
home.
once the changing climate
kicks in
with warmer
weather,
it'll be just like Idaho.
i'm sold.

the three month no refund yoga class

i'm listening,
sort of, to my friend
Betty talk about her cat,
but i'm
half in and half out
of the conversation.
things
are on my mind.
i'm worried
and anxious
about so much.
money, old age,
the weather
and politics.
all the meditation
and yoga
i've been doing
since the new year started
seems not to be
working.
i've spent so many
hours
staring at candles
and opening up
my third eye,
and for what?
i'm still the mess i was
before i bought
this yoga mat and tights,
before i
swiped my credit card,
and signed up.

your Saturday clothes

it happens.
your Saturday clothes
become 
your Monday clothes.
the shorts
and tennis shoes, the t-shirts
and hats.
the blue
and black suits,
the ties
and dress shirts
and shoes
are in the closet,
waiting for what will
never come.
maybe
a funeral or wedding,
will allow
them once more
to see the sun.

more of an inside guy

i have thumbs,
but
neither is green.
plants
die
in my presence
bushes
curl up
and burn.
the trees lose
their leaves,
the roses
bend
and break, die.
the yard is dirt.
i'm more of an inside
guy.

a new face to live with

i wake up
as someone else.
i look into the mirror
and don't
recognize my face.
my eyes
are of a different color.
where is the blue?
my skin
is pale. younger.
whose ears are these.
whose
hair?
should i go back to bed
and start
over,
or live with it?
i've been tired of myself
for some time
now. perhaps,
this would be a good change.
no one will
know me.
all of my mistakes will be
erased.

Thursday, January 16, 2025

we just don't get along dagnabit

it's impossible
to love
every sibling, despite
the DNA
connection,
the blood, the parents,
being raised
in the same house,
eating the same
food,
and sometimes sharing
the same bed.
some of them
you don't like and they
don't like you.
and there's nothing you
can do about it.
it's strange,
but not unusual from
what i hear
on the street
and from a slew of
therapists.

lost and never found

i leave
my gloves on the bus,
brand new,
a leather pair
from Christmas.
my hat
is in the theater,
my wallet
is on the floor
at my doctor's office.
the umbrella
is in a cart
at the grocery store.
and now,
i can't find my car
without my
glasses,
left in a restroom
at a happy hour
bar.


i can beat that

he once
told me,
over drinks,
that for him
there was no
greater feeling of hopelessness
and depression
than when he was
lying
in a hard bed
in a roadside motel,
while a cold rain fell
in the gravel lot
outside.
he told me that he had
no job
prospects
ahead,
and that his doctor found
a shadow
on his x-rays,
near his heart.
i nodded, that's rough,
i said,
that's bad,
but you've never
met my last wife,
have you?

plowing the field

we need
our hands on something.
whether with
a hammer
or nail,
a pen
a brush,
an iron or broom,
we need to work.
we need a plow a field,
to throw a net to catch
things in,
a voice
to sing.
we need the dust on
our shoulders,
the fatigue of the day
when it ends.
we need to make
something
of ourselves,
to be needed and counted
for.
love comes
into play too.

too much information

it's all
politics now.
the weather, fires,
floods,
food,
and science,
genders
and money.
schools
and disease.
it's all a quagmire
of disinformation,
lies and 
erroneous beliefs.
there used
to be two papers
in town to read.
now
there's a thousand
voices screaming
their uneducated opinions
from the tops
of trees.

the senate confirmation hearings

so,
in leading our
nation's military,
do you promise that
you will
stop
beating your wife,
and getting drunk every night
in strip clubs?
and if you don't mind
could you remove
your shirt to show us your tattoos?
the senator
from California asks
breathlessly
while wiping the fog from her
glasses.
but, i've never...
so you refuse to answer
that question.
it's either yes or no.
and you refuse to take your shirt off?
is that right?
but....but...I never...
i'll take that as a refusal
to answer
the simple question
and mark it as a no.
lets move on.
when you were ten,
you once
pulled the pigtails of
the girl who sat in front
of you
in algebra class.
do you regret doing that,
and would you
like to apologize
to her right now?
she's here, in the courtroom.
we flew her in
from New Jersey.
what, who?   i'm sorry but...
sir, i'm asking you a simple
question,
would you like to apologize
to her.
yes or no.
but....i don't....
again.
it's a yes or no answer.
does the cat have your tongue, sir?
but....
fine. i'll mark that down as a no.
if aliens
from Mars landed on
our planet would you want to
put them into
interment camps
because of the color of their
green skin,
and have them
guarded by our military?
yes or no?
you rolling your eyes
at my questions,
and audible scoffs,
will be formally noted into
the Senate Hearing Record.
and i take your answer
to that last
question as a yes,
you would put the Martians
into camps.
and one last question,
if you are confirmed will you ban
all vaccines,
which would in fact
kill millions of people,
and take the fluoride
out of the water
allowing everyone's teeth to fall out
like chiclets from a box?
yes or no.
wait a second, that question is
for the next guy.
never mind.


her girlfriends

it's too late for me to cover
up my ears,
the words
have already entered
and sunk in.
she wants to tell
me the story,
the heartache
of being so endowed
from the top
down.
she tells me how strangers
have been whistling
at her
since she was a child.
she tells me
about her uncle
and his long gazes
as she ran around.
the schoolboys, the grown
men,
even the women
making comments
about her girlfriends.
it hasn't been all fun 
and games,
she tells me.
i gulp and look away
and tell her,
you know, i've never
even noticed them.

let's go for a ride

not unlike
a used car salesman,
sleek
and perfumed,
you
come to me
with the promise
of something shiny,
something
i can
drive long into the night.
a prize
for life.
you offer
me
the keys,
you fill up the tank,
and whisper
sweet nothings into
my ear.
sign here.
you tell me.
sign here.
let's go for a ride.

Wednesday, January 15, 2025

with the green sea behind you

it's an old
photo.
one where you look happy,
though
i know you weren't.
the green sea
is behind you.
there's a gull in the sky.
you shade
your eyes with your
long arm.
you'd rather be anywhere
else then here.
i sense that 
as i snap the picture,
you're miserable,
but you smile in spite of it,
you don't let on.

stick to your guns

be stubborn,
be hard,
be set in your ways.
be selfish,
but not cruel or mean,
be kind,
but don't let others
make you
sway
from what you believe.
don't waste
your time with dumb.
stick to your guns.

in praise of old windows

i can close
the new windows.
they are made
of vinyl
and metal, plastic.
surgically installed
by trained
technicians.
they are
no longer wood.
no air gets in, no air
gets out.
do i miss the wheezing
of the old
wooden ones,
yes, i do.
the cold breeze,
the broken latches,
the cracks,
the bullet holes from
hunters
in the woods.
i miss how they shook
in storms,
and iced over.
the older i get 
the more i prefer what's
old.

i have no answer to that

i send
him a note, telling him
that his
father has died.
peacefully
in his sleep,
at 95.
he writes
back.
i don't care.
i have no answer for that.
no reply.

chocolate cake and you

i've whittled down
my
vices
to a mere
few.
coffee being one,
sleeping in,
chocolate cake,
and you.

the martini days

i sit
and order a club soda,
with
lime.
it's my seat, my
place
at the bar where i used
to imbibe
on martinis.
clear
hard drinks,
with an olive on
the side.
the lights would
be low,
the music
soft
and sublime.
then a stranger would
appear,
someone searching,
like me,
someone i'd meet
for the first
and last time.

mums the word

mums the word
with politics now,
best not bring up
the cackling
one.
the zombie one,
the slick one
in LA.
why point fingers
anymore
at
any of it, or anyone.
the results are in.
common
sense has at last has won.
time to
get things done.

can we have some?

so how did he die?
disease, accident, foul play?
was he at peace,
was he in pain, what was
the exact cause,
was he alone,
was he in bed, or did
he fall to the floor
and hit
his head?
was he taken to the hospital
before his demise?
will there be a funeral,
a service
of some kind?
what did you do with all
of his belongings?
didn't he have a million
dollar life insurance
policy?
was there money
in the end?
real money?
can we have some?

getting even

i leave
the dog out overnight
and find
him on the front porch
frozen
stiff, with only his eyes
blinking.
he's not happy.
quickly i bring him in
and put
him in a
tub of hot water then
blow dry him,
full blast with the hottest
button.
when he's finally
back to normal,
he looks at
me, then bites my hand
so hard that blood pours
out.
i bandage it up, and nod
to him.
i understand.
i've learned
my lesson. we move on.

Tuesday, January 14, 2025

towards the waterfall

these stones
will always be here
on this trail.
too heavy to lift
or move.
smoothed by time
and rain,
the whip of cold.
so much
will pass.
even our bones will dry
and turn
to dust.
but not these stones.
they're forever here,
they haven't changed,
nor will they,
since i was born.

see you at 8 for dinner

i give
my lungs a few puffs
of
the inhaler
to catch my breath.
it's the cold
air,
the long hard walk
through
icy woods.
it's the wind,
it's who gave me birth.
it's the food
i ate,
my weight, my age.
but
i'm saved
for another day.
see you at 8 for dinner.

climbing the white tree

tired
of the big chair
in
the corner, i take off
my clothes,
my shoes
and go out into the cold
and climb
a white
leafless tree, heavy
with snow.
i don't know why,
but i feel
it necessary
to get out and do
so.
i need desperately
a different point of view.
i need to shake
things up,
bored
with yesterday
and today.
i need to change my
tomorrows.

layers of dust

as my finger
drags
through the dust on the black
shelf
i think
about
the housekeeper
and wonder
where she's been.
retired
perhaps?
or busy i suppose
with
the cleaning up
of holiday parties.
my mind drifts
as i make
a smiley face in the dust.
i create a whole
new world for her,
a better world
for me.
one that's dust free.

everything must go, come on in

as i clean
out my father's two bedroom
apartment,
by the pool,
with a dirt yard
and concrete
patio
out back
i pull a crowd of curious neighbors
into the darkening
rooms.
take anything you want,
i'd tell them.
everything must go.
cups and saucers,
silverware,
China laced in gold.
who wants a book on fly
fishing,
a book on
diabetes, or cancer.
who here needs a gallon
jug of baby oil,
tubs of hydrogen
peroxide,
or a subscription to Good
Housekeeping.
how about a leather coat
with an alligator
stitched on the back,
three American
flags, with poles.
come on in, don't be shy.
use that box over there, fill
it up.
anyone need a wreathe
for their door
at Christmas time,
how about a glass pumpkin
that lights up?
we've got hoes and shovels.
rakes and brooms.
in the ice box
we have ice cream. four
gallons.
four different kinds.
rocky road, pralines and cream,
strawberry
and mint chip
who wants an Hawaiin shirt,
or a surfboard,
never used?
step right up, step right up.
everything must go.

clipping coupons

i'd see
him at the table
cutting
coupons from the morning
paper.
like a skilled barber,
he'd carefully clip each one out
with his
dull
black scissors from
a sewing kit,
pilfered
from a relationship
gone wrong.
he had money, that
wasn't the point.
he was a child
of the great depression,
a penny
saved
was a penny earned,
or some such nonsense.
i'd drive
him to the commissary
with an envelope 
bulging with
coupons for Ivory soap,
Cheerios and Barbasol
shaving cream.
into the cart went
Oscar Myer's bologna,
and Quaker Oats.
Debbie Cakes,
and Swanson tv dinners.
once home, he'd show
me the receipt
and display his savings
of three dollars
and twenty-seven cents
for six bags
of groceries.

Monday, January 13, 2025

lie down beside me

come lie
down with me in the cold
bed,
the winter
white sheets.
lie down beside me
and do not
speak.
let me hold you
in my arms.
let me listen to you breathe.
in this way.
we'll fall in love
again.
i promise. please,
don't leave.

the endless sending of photographs

i've sent you
so many pictures of me and my
family.
year after year,
holiday
after holiday,
and yet
i don't see one photo
in a frame,
none taped to the refrigerator
door,
not a single photograph
do i see
anywhere
in your home.
are you trying to tell me,
to not to send
anymore?

don't say yes

i don't expect you
to agree
with me.
don't take my side.
take your
own side
and contradict what i say.
please
don't be a yes
person,
i'll lose respect for you,
as you would
for me
if i did the same.

the smelt are thriving

standing on the perch
of a burned out
black hill
with a thousand
homes in ashes
behind them,
beside the Pacific Ocean,
the mayor speaks,
then the governor makes
a speech.
they say together,
that
it's not their fault that
there was no
water in the reservoirs
or in the fire hydrants.
we'll look into this
oversight soon.
and yes, perhaps,
we never should
have cut
funding to the fire department
and have given
billions towards
the homeless,
or made such a drastic
expensive effort 
in saving the smelt,
but thankfully the smelt
are thriving.

a dozen x's and o's

they are handwritten
letters
from my grandmother to my father.
all stuffed inside
a yellow
cigar box.
the ink
from a heavy
cartridge pen
has spilled at certain points,
making black
dried pools
of ink
at the end of each line.
it's hard to read,
cursive and old school,
but it's full of gossip.
who's marrying who,
who drinks too much,
who doesn't have a job,
who's still
in the Navy.
she says she'll be up in 
the fall,
not knowing that she'll have
died before then.
she signs it with
love, your adoring momma,
and with a flourish of 
a dozen x's
and o's
beside it.

why is God punishing me like this?

she was hungover.
too much
white wine
in celebration of the big
game.
she's wasted from
the grape.
the bottles of 
fermented grapes
in fancy
bottles with names
like,
Chuck
or Josh.
she's holding an empty
bottle
as she lies there in
bed.
don't look at me she
says,
and turn the light
off.
what's all that noise?
it's the cat
walking on the carpet.
i tell her.
kill that cat please,
the noise
is killing me.
what day is this?
Monday, i tell her.
are you going to work today?
no,
i quit.
why is God punishing me,
like this?

press one and hold

if this is about your
invoice
press one
and hold, you are
thirty-seven minutes
away from talking
to an agent,
or in receiving further
instructions about 
the next prompt.
if it's about
your past due
account
press two,
if it concerns the renewal
of your
service, press three.
if you'd
like to stand on your
head
and wait for an hour,
press four.
if you're angry and
perturbed about
all of these prompts
and the inability
to talk to a human,
press five.
if you've lost the will
to live,
press six and hang up
and contact
a therapist.
one will be provided if
you press seven.
have a good day.

Sunday, January 12, 2025

the almost amended will

she took
care of the elderly men
in her
neighborhood,
and church,
bathing
and feeding each one,
changing
their clothes.
giving them pedicures
and manicures,
haircuts,
massaging their shoulders
and combing their
baby like hair.
and with each visit
she'd bring
them a sweet cake
from the market.
candy or ice-cream,
perhaps
from the bakery, an eclair.
she believed 
that with each old man,
there was a pot
of gold at the end of
the rainbow,
and there might have
been if she
had been smart enough
to move their trembling
hands with a pen
across the freshly
amended will.
but she didn't, so it's back
to church she goes,
back to square one.


in the land of Oz

i bought her a pair
of ruby red slippers,
bright red
shoes,
that glowed
and glimmered
even without a light on them.
they absolutely
sparkled.
but she didn't get it.
she couldn't read
the room.
i kept telling her
to put them on
and click the heels
together.
and repeat after me, 
there's no
place like home,
there's no place like
home.
but she wouldn't do it.
so, sadly,
she's still here,
she's in the other room,
talking on her phone.

three culinary experiences

i married the first
woman
for her
grilled cheese sandwiches
and tomato
soup,
but i forgave
her, she
was only nineteen.
the second one
the longest of all,
made beef
stew
and homemade biscuits,
prime rib
with au jus.
sadly she was sleeping
with my
son's karate
instructor, so
i had to let her go,
but the third one,
could only
open a can of tuna,
Charlie's
from the sea.
that was the shortest
one of all.
a very short 
catch and release.

all these tasty bugs

i don't know
why,
but my arms are flapping
at my side,
i'm eating
bugs
off the ground,
i'm pecking
at the tree,
chirping madly
as i run about with
twigs
and worms
in my mouth.
quickly i google
web md,
they believe that
the bird flu
may have infected me.

there's just ashes

there is no
funeral. no ceremony,
no celebration of life,
no eulogy,
no open
casket, no pictures or
music,
no mourners crying,
no banquet.
no long black
hearse winding its way
to the cemetery
in the cold rain.
no.
he never wanted that.
and he always
got his way. 
so nothing
has changed.
there's just ashes.


all those winter coats

what is there left
after a life well lived?
where's the will?
where's the picture box,
the dusty
albums of children,
before phones took over.
where's
the money jar?
the lock box, the bank
account statement?
what's in it for me?
who was favored, who
wasn't?
there's a lot of digging,
a lot of searching
in places you've never
been before,
there's so many pockets
so many pairs of pants 
and winter coats,
to empty.

the lids are stuck on some

the smell
test is everything when it comes
to cleaning out
the refrigerator.
can pickles go bad?
i see nothing growing on them,
no white
fuzz is apparent.
and what about ketchup.
is that
the forever condiment?
mustard too?
Paul Newman's
oil and vinaigrette?
Marie's blue cheese?
i go through them all,
each jar,
tossing the ones where
the lid refuses
to move.

making the crops come up

she's says
she's spiritual, but not
religious.
it's what most people say
these days,
when asked if they
believe in God,
or Jesus.
the resurrection, or
second coming.
they don't want to align
themselves
with a church or
one of a hundred
different varieties
interpretating
the Bible
to fit their own
personal needs or views.
we do indeed like to cherry
pick our beliefs.
some like to sit
and pray, or to kneel,
or to sing
and socialize, 
or to throw snakes around,
while
others like the mystery
of it all, with candles
and bells, grown
men in gowns, nuns
in black.
perched in the background.
some need a Pope,
some need Billy Graham,
while others,
are writing checks weekly
for Joel and his
prosperity clan,
hypnotized by the bug-eyed
man,
telling you to touch
the tv, and get out your
credit card.
plant your seeds here.
and watch how quickly 
the crops
will grow on your desolate
dry land.

when the world became clear

there is nothing there,
nothing
under the bed
or in the shadows,
no thing
hiding in the closet,
or down
the stairs, creeping
up, presenting fear.
it's just a feeling,
a strange
ominous feeling that
you've had since
birth, when you opened
your eyes and the world
became clear.

Saturday, January 11, 2025

the sheet cake

i like the look
of the yard.
the squared
sheet cake
of white icing
with freshly fallen
snow.
not a weed or bush
poking up.
i almost want
to go out and cut
a slice
or two.
bring it in for dessert
for me
and you.

searching for buried treasure

like pirates,
my father's harem,
in mourning, search
high
and low,
in the now
empty house.
digging
for hidden jewels,
the cash
box,
a checkbook,
or something.
into the attic they go
with lanterns,
and torches,
pulling
up the floorboards.
trying every rusted
key
on each heavy box
holding
dust and mold.
they lift
each picture on the wall,
searching
for that elusive
safe 
that held the gold.
but with no luck.

kumbaya

if only
we all had electric cars
with lithium
batteries,
and 
separated
the cans from the plastic
on Thursday.
if only
we had
used paper bags
and boxes
instead
of plastic,
saved
another whale, or smelt,
or didn't
burn an ounce
of fossil fuel
into the air.
if only
we had put
the cows down
in the field
eliminating their
polluting 
exhaust.
maybe then climate
warming
wouldn't have
occurred
causing so much mayhem.

the pink horizon

we sit
with our milkshake mustaches,
and smile.
we say
nothing.
sometimes love
requires that.
just the sweetness
of
the drink,
taken in by long white
straws.
the quiet of the diner,
the sun
settling down,
pink
on the horizon.

you can't stop what's coming

in
wind and fire,
you
do what you can with
a child,
hoping
for the best in his
or her
years to 
come when
a disaster arrives.
will they burn,
or survive,
do they know how
to run
to rebuild,
to
learn.
to find solace
beyond
the orange lit skies.
it's not easy
being child or father.

Friday, January 10, 2025

eating alone on a Saturday night

to eat
alone in a restaurant,
a fine
establishment
along the boulevard,
brings
eyes to your
table.
couples whisper and point,
you can almost
hear them
say,
poor guy.
look at him, all alone
on a Saturday night,
but it isn't true.
there's no heartburn,
or indigestion,
this time.

hanging on for dear life

the hotel
room
faces the winter ocean.
the empty
boardwalk,
the deserted dark beach.
only the strong
white
licks of waves
crashing
are heard
from up hear.
the wind
is punishing the half
mast flags,.
we're hanging on for
dear life,
from this nineteenth
floor
perch.
there's fear.

Oh, those nurses

there's a gun
missing
from the house.
who else has a key
to the front door
of the dearly departed
not yet cold.
some money and a checkbook
are missing,
assorted
jewelry
and credit cards.
a ring or two.
the wallet has never
been so light.
the gun was
a pearl handle
revolver,
from World War two,
once kept in the now
open lock box.
we've searched everywhere
for it,
but no luck,
we did find however,
under the sagging bed,
a box full
of eight track videos
circa nineteen-eighty-eight.
each covering
a variety of desires.
one in particular reads
on the label.
Oh, Those Nurses.

a little mystery

i can't turn
the lock with this rusted
key.
but why bother.
what's in there that hasn't
already
been seen?
let's leave some mystery
to the day.
and walk away.

Thursday, January 9, 2025

the old sailor

i understand
the need
that some have to have
the ashes
of the dead on their mantle.
but please,
no thanks.
a picture will do.
cast the old sailor
and his ashes,
into the ocean,
into the deep
and forgiving blue.

i don't expect the phone to ring

the heavy
silence
is creepy, disconcerting
to say
the least.
the quiet mouths
in shallow
grief
are nowhere to be
found.
the stillness
of
them, is strange.
i don't expect
the phone
to ring.

pack light and go

it will be a short
road trip,
just a day or two,
one night
away.
but still i don't know
what to bring.
a toothbrush,
a charger,
a change of clothes?
maybe a book
to read.
whether two days
or a week,
i pack light,
it's all the same.

her muddy crystal ball

the gypsy
down the road, 
the soothsayer,
the fortune teller
is going out
of business soon,
all fortunes
are one half off,
the banner says
across her door.
she's never been right
about a single thing
in my life,
but why not, one
more try.
the price is right.

before the sun rose

when i was
twelve
i'd be up by five in the morning
and out
the door,
bundled up
for the cold.
the newspapers
in bundles were already
waiting for me
on the corner.
it took an hour,
tossing
the batons of news
onto porches,
all through the neighborhood,
and then
i'd be back home.
back in bed.
still in my clothes,
savoring
another half hour of sleep,
before school,
before the sun rose.


one brown mouse

the movers, young
muscled men
with vacant eyes,
who have better
things to do,
arrive with their truck
take everything away.
each piece of furniture
one by one.
the beds,
the couch,
the desk.
the assortment of lamps.
a bookcase
or two.
a dresser.
and now in the empty
rooms
you sweep
and remove the cobwebs
from the corners,
finding
a brown mouse
with a broom,
who looks up to you,
confused.

the rise and fall

the
incline is such
that you
lean on to one another
for support.
arm in arm
you rise.
you may even reach
the top
with help,
but downhill
is different,
it's
easy to slide down
and roll
all by yourself
and hit
the bottom,
when there's no one
to help.

Wednesday, January 8, 2025

let me die in my bed

let me
die in my bed
surrounded by loved ones,
or at least
the ones
that didn't feign love,
or affection.
a dog
or cat would be nice
too.
curled beside me.
maybe turn the tv off.
enough of that.
cold water,
please,
with ice,
a soft pillow and a warm
blanket
up to my chin.
and if you could be a dear.
read to me.
a poem,
a story.
something to let me
hear
your voice, before
the light
ends.

the lock box under the bed

we all
have secrets. some minor,
some
mild,
some
eyebrow
raising making you
stand back
and say,
oh my.
but definitely
agree that
there's a lock box
or two,
or three
in everyone's
closet,
yet to be found.

Thomas the cat

was he
capable of true love,
unconditional
love?
yes.
and was he able to grieve
when it was time
to grieve?
yes again.
i saw
it all in the cat
he owned,
the cat
that owned him.
the love was there
and when it
died
he grieved terribly
at it's parting,
lost in a tearful
bitter end.

the short and sweet obit

the obit,
sparse and concise
as
the fresh snow
fallen,
now ice,
gives
the birth date,
and death.
the name.
no need to go into detail
here about
the wives
and children,
the relationships,
his work
and play.
how do you sum up
a life
in a few lines?
nothing says it all,
or comes close
defining all that has
occurred between
the start
and finish line.

please go on, i'm just going to nap a bit

when what you're
saying
turns into nonsense,
a babbling brook
of words
and random thoughts,
opinions,
half baked that
i don't agree with,
you'll see me
doze off
as i sit here,
not smiling, not
frowning,
just numb
and half asleep
in my
overstuffed chair.

you can see how busy i am

the to do
calendar is empty.
although i've managed a few
new circles
of brown
from the coffee cup
on its pages.
so it does look like i'm
quite busy
over here,
hurried
and rushed with so
much to do.
image is everything
these days.

Tuesday, January 7, 2025

the ambivalent mourners

bitter
by the past. 
it's a difficult time
with
funerals.
siblings, and friends.
who comes
to show
respect?
who appears out of
the woodwork
decades
lost in their own lives
having never
reached out.
who
remembers the good,
who's
in tears.
no grief is the same,
but
ambivalence
to death
is.

one less rabbit in the garden

there was a garden
beside
the air conditioner unit,
next to the hose,
and the electric
meter
box.
a small square of soil
where
he planted tomatoes
and peppers,
lettuce.
i'd find him there
in the spring,
knees in the wet
dirt,
deep in thought.
and despite the wire fence
the rabbits
by mid-summer
found a way in.
a fat brown and three
little friends.
we never asked him
where
the meat came from
when he made paella.
we knew.

and just like that

a few
bins and boxes should do it
for the papers
and personal items.
a dozen
large
black trash bags,
some Lysol
and
scrub pads.
some spot carpet
cleaner
and a few
strong men to carry
out the big
furniture
to a dump bound truck.
there's your life for
you.
here and gone.
just
like that.
and the oil painting
of a ship
on the wall, does anyone
want it?

the carrier pigeons

the family grape
vine
is fun
to follow, one whispered
word into
one ear,
travels
fast across the miles,
faster
than any
wire,
or telegraph,
text,
or phone call.
carrier pigeons have
never had
nothing on
this family.

the slight of hand

we are easily
fooled by the slight of the hand,
the card
trick,
by the smile
and sweet words
from
a magician's mouth.
we are careless
with our
love and admiration,
oblivious so often
from the entire
act.

but then what?

i should
run out and buy something.
eat something.
do something
to make me
feel better.
maybe i'll scrub the house
clean
until there's not
a speck
of dirt or guilt
or sorrow to be found.
but then what?

wishful thinking

the ice
will melt, harsh words
will
be forgotten.
new snow
will cover the troubles
that
have come
and gone.
grudges held
onto
will
slip away.
it will be spring again,
won't it?

the uneventful end

not every life
is noble,
crowned or blessed
with
gold
or stature.
for most there is no
plan,
no road
to success. 
no fame is ever reached.
it's just
surviving, taking
and giving
love
when it appears.
trying
your best and often
failing,
until the
uneventful end.

Monday, January 6, 2025

the enormous enchilada

is it guilt
turning my stomach, 
keeping
me awake
into the late
night hours,
or the guacamole
and peppers
i ate
with my 
enormous enchilada?
maybe both.
it usually it is.

flying cold chickens

i stare
at the cold chicken on the shelf
in the harsh
light
of my artic fridge.
last nights meal.
the fat
jelled around
the carcass.
how far could i throw
this bird
into the woods
out the back door
and over
the fence
for the fox
to feast?
thirty yards is my
best guess.

it's hard to leave

it's hard
to quit the job,
or love
gone sour,
even
if you despise the work
you do,
the people you work
with,
the person asleep
beside you.
it's home.
it's where you go
each
day to make your crust
of bed,
to sleep and eat.
it's hard
to let go.
it's better if they do it
to you.

everything beautiful

as i trim
the stem of this long
rose,
and find
the thorn
embedded
in my skin, the blood
trickling
crimson,
i wonder,
can it be true
that with
everything beautiful
comes pain?

what would silence mean?

so much
noise
i make with the twist
of knobs,
the push
of buttons.
i fill the air with sound.
the empty
rooms with noise,
for what would
silence mean?
i'd rather
not think about that
now.

idle hands

what to do
with these idle hands,
these
wandering eyes.
what words
will fall
from my snowy brain.
will i go
dark or light today?
i'll start
with curds and whey,
the sharp knife
i'll save
for later in the day.

Sunday, January 5, 2025

your silent joy

your
cat like smirk,
and half
Madonna smile
at my
troubles, tells me all
i need to know
about you.
the silence of your joy
is disturbing,
it delivers the chance
of love
a deadly
blow.

untying her knots

she cursed
like a sailor
and tied knots like a sailor.
so many
nights she left
me,
gnawing
at the ropes
trying to get free
once more.

when you're far or near

i put
my hand in the fire.
that's what
i do
when i call
or visit you.
i haven't learned my
lesson
and probably
never will,
pain or pleasure,
i seem
to want both
when you're
far
or near.

waiting for joy to fall

i see
a red cheeked kid
standing
out on
the sidewalk,
his mouth is open to the sky.
he's waiting,
waiting
for joy
to fall down
in the form
of snow.
what's better than a snowy
Monday
to a child
who hasn't done
his homework.

we're here for you

we've made
too much food, please come
over.
we've built a fire
to keep you warm,
we have the best chair
waiting.
there's plenty to drink.
no need to be of good
cheer, if you're sad
we'll wipe
your tears away,
please,
bring your troubles
with you.
we're here,
no need to knock, or bring
anything,
just you.
just you.
just you. we're here
for you.
come on over, come in.

keeping up with the neighbors

it's strange
to see
chickens in the yard
next
door.
the rooster crowing
at the crack
of dawn.
i see him
collecting eggs
in the morning
from the hen
house.
i can top that.
i get a cow, but
now what?
a stool and a bucket?
gentle squeezing?
i think
not.

scotch on the rocks

it's an old
ice
tray,
circa 1958,
handed down
by my
father.
the one
he used when drinking
to forget
what he couldn't
forget.
it's the metal kind that
you have
to pull the handle back
with all your
strength
and might
before the cubes come
tumbling out.
sometimes you
can't let
go of things, being
the sensitive man
you are.

Saturday, January 4, 2025

the cars i left behind

there was the car
that i left on the side of the road,
out of gas.
the car
that when it rained
the trunk
would fill with water.
the car
that wouldn't start,
the one
that the wheels shook
when
i drove it on the highway,
the car
that leaked gas,
the one i couldn't get the smell
out of.
there was the car
that was stolen,
the one that had the window
cracked.
the car with torn seats,
a broken mirror,
the one with the headlights
pointing left.
the car i drove
to the drive-in theater.
the car i lost my virginity in.
the car i dragged empty beer cans
behind
after the first wedding.
the cars with flat tires.
the car i washed and waxed
every Saturday.
the car i fixed.
the car i couldn't fix.
the car i have now 
that i can't figure out
what all the buttons
are for.

who wants that?

who wants
the old
girlfriend to still be pretty?
no one
that i know.
we want
to see them limping
down
the street, bedraggled
and poor,
blemished
and weak.
we don't want them
more blonde
than before,
healthy as a horse,
we prefer 
not to witness them
riding
in a Lamborghini,
waving
and laughing,
from the passenger seat.

all of your Joe's and Mary's

of course
the world
will end.
and all that we hold dear
and true
to our
hearts will disappear
with it,
but why worry.
that's a long way off?
right?
so eat
drink and kiss
with gratitude all
of your
Joe's and
Mary's.

just one night

as i sink
into the east river
with a
cement block tied to my
ankle.
i think back
on my life,
especially the last
twenty-four hours
with a girl
named Lucinda.
she wasn't lying
about her
mob connections,
or her brother
Joey.
and as i slip down
into the cold murky
water,
i see the city waking
up
to a pink sunset.
i wave goodbye
to Lucinda
while she waves back 
from the pier.

the white field

the field
is white with last nights snow.
there are white
mountains
beyond it.
i start.
one foot before
the next.
i sink to my knees.
will there be an end to it?
will
i know it when i
get there?
it doesn't matter.
nothing matters.
it's the walk
that counts.
but less so than yesterday.

you look familiar, do i know you?

i bumped
into her coming out of the shower,
soaking wet,
her hair
matted
on her head,
her make up washed
away,
her glasses on,
and a towel
wrapped around her
bones
and flesh
where a shiny black
dress
once hung.
oh, excuse me, i said.
do i know you?
not yet,
she said.
almost, but not yet.

one more for the road

being inebriated,
was sort of cool, being tipsy,
and wobbly
in the late
night
hours with
happy hour turning into
one a.m.
at the blink
of an eye.
one more for the road?
one last
dance or kiss,
or song to sing
before the lights go
up
and the place closes.
how we survived those
years,
i'll never know.

the word on the street

we'll survive.
we always do, right?
we'll
get past this.
whether cold or heat.
flood
or drought.
we'll find
a way to keep going,
but take my
hand,
the word on the street
is that it's
easier with two.

Friday, January 3, 2025

when meeting out of context

i see my
dentist coming out of the coffee shop.
she's dressed to nines,
all decked out
on my
last dime.
i wave
and say hello, but she
doesn't recognize me, so i open
my mouth
as wide as i can
and mumble,
letting drool
roll down my chin,
and then she says, oh, yes,
hello there,
three crowns,
a bridge and four fillings.
how are you?

the new car salesman

i think back
to every car or truck
i've ever
purchased
and think if there
was one,
just one,
a single transaction where
it all went
as planned,
with no underhanded
shenanigans.
no lying, no cheating,
no extra charges.
i count zero.
when i've driven away
in the new
vehicle,
i've always felt
that i've been taken,
but vowing to myself,
never again.

our original weight

we grow
into our clothes.
we need room in our
shoes,
our shirts
and pants.
we're growing up and out,
in all directions.
and then
that stops
at some point,
and we go the other way,
heading back towards
our original
weight.

the early morning stretch

as i lie
on the kitchen floor, doing
my early
morning stretching,
while waiting
for the coffee to boil,
i hear a series
of serious cracks in my
back
and shoulder.
breathe, i tell myself.
just breathe. but
my knees sound like crickets
and my
neck
refuses to turn from side
to side like
it used to.
it doesn't help when the cat
and dog
come by,
one on my spine and the other
licking my
face
growling for a snack.

lost in the funhouse

of course
drama
is more fun, it's more exciting,
to have
a crazy person
in your life.
crazy in the head,
crazy in bed,
as they say.
why not have
the ups and downs,
the walking on eggshells,
the rollercoaster
ride
of instability,
the fun house of
a mental disorder.
you never
know who they'll be today,
and neither do
they.

the old key in the shed

i hear you
in the kitchen, cracking eggs
into a skillet.
i smell
the bacon
and coffee.
there's music too.
the window is open,
birds
are chirping,
and the blender
is making
juice.
who are you?
do i know you?
did i leave the door unlocked
again,
or did you find
the old key
i left hanging in the shed?

a short visit maybe

in which
age, which era of time
would
you be happier in.
the dark
ages,
the renaissance,
the fifties,
when the world was black
and white,
the roaring
twenties perhaps,
or maybe when
dinosaurs roamed
the earth
biting legs.
would you look good
in a white
wig like GW,
or in a top hat,
like Abe.
could you be a minstrel
or a court
jester
in ole England
with the guillotine
and saucy maids, or
maybe an Egyptian
with a Siamese cat
back
in the Cleopatra days.

this pill will solve everything

if you can't sleep,
they have a pill,
just swipe your card.
fat,
no problem, here's
a needle
stick it in,
stick it anywhere.
unwell,
step right up,
sign
here and there,
take two in the morning
two at night.
nervous
and anxious,
come over here and stare
up into the light.
bend over
and say ahhh.
going bald,
unsightly skin,
the jimmy leg,
drink this, rub it on,
we can help you,
we can fix anything.
we are your friend.


Thursday, January 2, 2025

the mid-life crisis

i keep
thinking that this must be
what
a middle age
crisis feels like.
the angst
and uncertainty,
the feeling
that it's all slipping
away too fast,
but if i do the math,
that would mean
i would have to live
to be a hundred and forty,
which would
put me into
a biblical category.
although
Moses did sit behind me
in Geometry.

suspicion

when
she used to search
my pockets,
my coats,
my desk drawers for
clues,
for money?
for what i was never
quite
sure of,
i'd leave her notes
to find.
not here,
i'd say,
or here either,
keep looking, then
i'd draw
a smiley face and tell
her, keep
searching, sweetheart,
maybe next
time.

check this off my list

i make
my bed a few minutes 
before
going to bed.
i put on
clean sheets
and fluff
the pillows
just so,
and then
the careful final
fold.
i feel
good about this.
it was on my
long list of things
to do.
and now at last
one of them has
been accomplished.

a religious quest

i see a woman
standing
outside in the cold grass.
she's been
there all day,
and now the sun has set.
she's alone
and facing my window.
she glows like the statue
of Mary,
my mother
had on her dresser.
i raise my hand to her,
but there
is no response,
no wave
in return.
she's motionless
in the wind.
only her red hair
moves side to side
she reminds me of no
one,
she reminds me
of everyone.
she removes her dress
so that i can
see her pale
body.
the curve of her breasts,
the length
of her legs.
it's what all women do
when they want
love, i suppose,
when they want forever
to occur,
but this is just a guess.

it's easier now

it's easier now
to let go of slights from
long
ago,
to forget
the injuries acquired
in love
and game.
it's easier now to be
wise,
to be kind,
to accept the now,
to welcome
each tomorrow
without
blame.
if only that flight of stairs,
i'm about to
climb,
were the same.

a night at the Bijou

we settle
into our seats at the movie
theater.
it's forty dollars
later, but we're
excited to be out
and about
to the big screen show.
we have
pop corn
and soda
in hand as we awkwardly
remove
our coats and hats,
our scarves
and get settled in.
we're on the aisle seats,
the number nine
seat and
number ten. row G.
the place goes dim
as the previews
begin
and then more people arrive.
excuse me,
excuse me they say, pardon
us,
as they squeeze by.
we have to stand up,
and do it
all over again
then again.
someone begins to cough
and talk on
their phone.
a woman in the middle has
to suddenly go to
the bathroom.
a pregnant
woman
is having bigger issues
as she holds her belly
and climbs
over the rows,
the man behind me has
enormous boots
that keep kicking my chair.
i notice
that it smell like ammonia
and cabbage
in here. then
someone from the balcony
screams fire.
next time i think we'll wait
for Netflix.

is there a note explaining why?

we go in
with boxes, enormous
plastic
bins.
the end has arrived.
what books
do we take?
what clothes, what rings
or watches.
those pictures
on the wall?
who wants them?
there's milk in the ice
box.
do we pour it out?
there's a sandwich
on the counter.
stiffened 
with time.
someone turn the oven
off
and open a window.
see if you can find
a note
explaining why.

don't make me beg for it

it's cold very cold.
the engine
won't turn over.
the car won't start,
i keep cranking it,
pumping the pedal,
talking sweetly
to it, whispering into
her ear.
come on baby, come on,
turn over.
here we go, Betty.
don't make me beg
for it.
but there's no juice
in the battery.
yes, i call her Betty.
i've named the car after
my ex-wife,
because they are so
much alike
on a cold frosty day.

the soft warm summer land

i believed
that if i ran across that yellow
field
that i
would be somewhere else,
hidden
from the world.
i just needed to let
go of
my mother's hand,
and run.
run through
the high grass,
the oats, the rye,
the soft
warm bed
of summer land.

not done with them yet

we often
raise
the dead with words.
praising them
beyond
measure,
remembering
those good times,
or we
bury
them even deeper
with a dark
shoveled memory
here
or there.
we're not quite done
with them
yet.
we remember strangely
what they
said,
what they did,
for better or worse.

i can't escape you

i go
into the empty room,
and you
are there.
i climb
the stairs,
i pull the ladder down
from that attic,
i go
into poorly lit
room
below the roof,
and you are there too.
i try
the cellar,
but i see you in the
damp
corner
beside the stacks,
the boxes
of old news.
i have to leave the house
to escape you,
but then, 
there in the sunlight,
beside me,
i see your shadow.

we've hardly swept the confetti

another
day,
another bomb,
another
bullet
another news cycle
of tragedy.
a new
year,
a new fear.
we've hardly swept
up
the confetti
and away we go again.
business as
usual.
there's no
stopping
evil,
no stopping
the demons.

boys class math while the girls played volleyball

what was
the value of x,
this y, this z,
this
ab squared.
what were these
numbers
and letters
between the equal
sign, for what purpose
did we divide
and then multiply.
and dear lord
what about Pi?
what was
the square
roots of our young
and 
questioning
lives?
poor Mr. Reber at
the chalkboard,
trying so
hard to teach our
girl distracted
minds,
while they lunged
at the volleyball
outside.

Wednesday, January 1, 2025

an early morning portrait of you

i can't help but think of Picasso
or Matisse
when i see
the curve of you
in the morning,
your long leg hanging out
from the pink
sheets.
the twist of you,
one arm
unseen, your pale body
in slumber,
the morning light and
bright
clock with
red
blinking numbers.
and when the cat appears
to curl
beside you, it's face
becoming yours.
it's finished.

here's a shovel, start digging

i can be
kind,
or cruel, impatient,
loving
and rude.
i've got it all in me.
name
a sin,
name a trouble.
you won't have to dig
far
to find the worst
of me,
the dirt floor,
the rubble.
but i think
there's a diamond
in there too.
and if you stick around
long enough,
and dig hard, 
maybe you'll see
a little of that shine
coming through.

before i lie down

before i lie down,
i need to tell you
something,
i need to tell you
that i won't
sleep well tonight.
i can feel
the ocean in me,
a quiet storm.
it's not one thing
or another.
there's nothing i can
pin it on.
i just know, that sleep
will be hard
to come by,
that's all you need to know,
now kiss me
goodnight
and close your eyes.

no matter where you've been

no
matter where you go,
or where
you've been,
the wonder of the trip,
and all you've
seen,
you can't wait
to get home.
it's not a castle, or
a penthouse suite,
a mansion
on the hill.
it's not the taj mahal,
it's just
your humble abode,
a place
where your love and you
can sleep
in peace.
safe and warm.

i'm not angry anymore

i take it back,
all of
those things i said about you,
and more.
i take them
back.
i'm not
angry with you
anymore,
but
don't get the wrong idea.
this isn't
an invitation
to return,
it's not forgiveness
either,
i'm just tired of hating
you,
i can't carry
that toxic weight anymore.

leave those boots alone

i don't want to talk about
my boots,
the old muddy
pair
in the closet.
the brown ones
that i can't seem
to throw away.
i don't want to remember
those times.
just leave them
in there
with the dirt all dried,
who needs
to go there?
i'm way past them now.
i'm in a different
life.

write me something

write me
something. go on.
put into
words
how you feel, write
me a song,
a poem.
something i can hold
on to
when it's cold
and raining,
when there's no
fire
to feel.
tell me, go on,
be the poet you claim to be.
write me something.
here's a pen.
be kind and
write something for me.

she never said it with words

this ain't love,
she told me, it's convenience.
i'll be moving
along
in no time.
just as soon as the next
train
arrives.
but she never said this
with words,
no, that would
be unkind,
instead,
she said it with her kisses,
or lack thereof,

so far from spring

i could see
that he was wearing his
January
face.
the long frown,
the whitened
brow,
the ice
and frost of winter
upon him.
so far spring from we are,
he whispered.
i don't believe that i shall
ever see it
again.

the early morning triage

i take my early
morning
triage
of pains
as i slide out of bed.
which knee hurts worse.
the back,
the neck,
the arm, the stiffness
of feet
and fingers.
which one shall i treat
first
with a wrap,
or pill,
an ointment for
my chest.
or shall i just turn
the shower
on cold, full blast?
and be
done with them all
in thirty minutes
or less?

a taste for the new

i no
longer have a favorite color.
it used
to be blue or some
shade of blue,
indigo
would often do
when asked,
my closet is full
of blue,
but now
i'm friends with green
and red,
even yellow
or brown will strike
my fancy.
each day is different now,
my tastes
in many things have changed,
i guess

i know that you know

i know you know
that i know
that you
know that i'm on to you.
but let's
not talk about that,
okay?
let's move on,
and pretend that all
is well.
let's march through
the darkness of
another day.

there are ghosts

there are ghosts.
i have
put
my arm into the sleeve
of cold air
and pulled it out,
as the dog
stood barking madly,
with upraised
hair.
i have felt the presence
of the other
side.
and sometimes i see
it in your
shadow,
following me,
but wordless,
stride for stride.

which wink is that?

is there
something in your eye,
smoke,
or the sting of
an onion,
or medicine?
or are you winking
at me,
at last
in the mood
for fun?

but the year is young

i go back
on three of my five
new years resolutions
by nine am
on January first.
i eat
a donut,
i text Betty,
and i drink three cups
of coffee
spiked
with Kalua.
two more resolutions
to go,
but the year is young.

orange chicken and rice

i stare
into the abyss of the ice
box.
frozen pea
and eggs,
ketchup
and mustard.
an onion on its last
legs.
i think
it's Chinese tonight
dear,
shall we get dressed
and go out?
no? too cold?
okay,
let me call ahead
for delivery.
orange chicken and rice?
yes?
and two egg rolls?

let's pretend it never happened

by the way,
what happened last night,
didn't happen,
or at least let's pretend
that it didn't.
let's call
it not a mistake, but an 
unfortunate
turn of events.
let's blame it on new
years eve,
on champagne and
celebration.
let's blame it on loneliness
and the mistletoe
hanging over
the door frame,
or us being the last
two standing,
as the crowd drifted
away.
and by the way what should
i do with the things
you left behind.
your purse, your shoes,
your handbag,
your negligee.

i can fix this, trust me

perhaps
i can glue this broken thing
back
together.
i can fit the pieces
like
a puzzle
into what it was before,
minus
the cracks
and shards
that are lying on
the floor.
i can repair the damage
of us.
truly i can.
trust me.
no need for you to walk
out the door.

Tuesday, December 31, 2024

why go anywhere else?

the pigeons
are
fat in this city, and so
are we
wobbling from
store to store,
swiping cards,
buying things
we don't need.
the pigeons never
fly south
or north, like we do,
they're
here for good,
centuries of them
in their
grey jackets,
hobbling on yellow claws.
they're everywhere
you look.
they live
where the rich
live,
the poor, every
neighborhood has pigeons,
on every statue,
on every ledge of every
building,
they adorn.
they know
they have it good here.
they hardly flinch
a feather
when you walk by them,
their beaks
gnawing on a bagel
just thrown.

baked beans over an open fire

when you
start out with nothing,
it's hard to let go
of that
state of mind.
for the rest of your life
you are stuck
on zero
no matter how much wealth
you've accumulated
over time.
a million,
two million, a billion,
it doesn't matter.
you always feel like you're
one day away
from living in a tent
behind the liquor
store and cooking beans
over an open fire
with some dude named
Jake the snake.

there's one born every minute

before we were
married
she studied my tax statements
and 401 k
and
my blue chip
stock investments,
she took note of
my real estate possessions,
cars, etc.
she couldn't
keep her
hands off of me
while she strode around
in her sheer
negligee.
she wore me out.
but the day
after the wedding,
with the ink
barely dry on the decree,
i tried to hold
her close
and nibble at her neck,
to which she said,
we just did it yesterday,
we're kind of clingy
now,
aren't we?

the party next door

i see the beer
truck
and the deli delivery van
arrive
out front.
deliveries are being made
to the house
next door.
a DJ
appears with his
sound equipment.
i suspect
a new years eve party
going on tonight.
i check my
mailbox, my phone,
but nothing,
no invite.
i never should have reported
them
for their barking
dog.
it's okay, though.
i have a hat,
and a cowbell
and Betty coming over
with some
eggnog.


could you close that door, i can hear her screaming


of course it's a miracle,
a wonderous
thing to behold, but
i never wanted to film
the birth of my child,
or be in the room,
like so many do
when the biscuit come
out of the oven.
i got out of there
while they held my
wife down,
screaming bloody murder,
cursing the day
i was born.
i put my phone away.
i found the waiting
room, with the other
exhausted and nervous
husbands to be my
place to wait it out.
i tapped my foot incessantly
and bit my nails
while reading
the sports page
and sipping a cup of coffee
from the hall
machine.

home for the night

i remember
my father smoking in his
big chair.
filling the room with
blue smoke.
a cigarette,
a cigar, or perhaps his pipe.
i can hear
him tap tap tapping
it against
the ashtray,
filling it with a strange
wood cherry
tobacco.
pressing it tight.
holding the flame
above
the cup
as he lit it.
we didn't seem to mind.
at least he was
home
for the night.


before the year ends

so much
to do
before the year ends.
so
much
mending of fences,
of
distant friends.
i strap
on my tool bag
of empathy
and 
regret and get to it,
the clock
is ticking,
yet again.

Monday, December 30, 2024

chasing the last leaf fallen

for an hour,
i hear
the roar, the thunderous
continual
roar
and think that maybe
a jumbo
jet
or helicopter
is hovering over the cul de sac.
so i look
out the window
and there i see a man
with a leaf
blower
on his back,
chasing the last leaf
fallen
towards his burlap
bag.

no secret ingredients here

how can
you not like someone that
has a secret
recipe,
a secret sauce,
or set of seasonings
that they can't
reveal.
it's the twinkle in the eye
that
makes you
smile.
them ribbing you,
you being
just a salt and pepper
guy.

the cold cup

distracted,
i let the cup of coffee go cold.
i've
been too busy
with
this machine,
this book
that never ends,
these words as they unfold.
but there's
more to pour,
always more.

the carrot stick girl

she was
a carrot stick kind of girl.
a rabbit
of sorts
with her lettuce
and kale,
her
probiotic juice,
her barely
getting by in her
sugarless
world.
sometimes i'd hold
her up
when the wind
blew,
tie her
to my belt,
as i ate my double
burger
from Five Guys.

no trumpets will fill the air

for many,
for most, there is no grand
announcement
of passing.
no church bell rings,
no trumpets
fill the air,
no banners are unfurled.
for most,
it's the cleaning
lady
that finds us
at the table,
next to a cold bowl
of cereal.
maybe a despondent dog
curled
by the window
in our empty chair.

let's drink, let's eat

show
no frugal hand
in this
feast.
bring to the table
more
than you can afford,
the finest wines,
the fruits
and vegetables
that are hard to find
with winter
on us,
bring me
the largest
beast.
let's show
them
how much we care
and love them.
come
the new year
will start all over
again.
but for now let's drink,
let's eat.

please, tell me more

when i hear 
your countless troubles,
as we walk,
i forget about my own,
so please
go on,
the sun has yet to set
and we have miles
to go
before we're home.

Sunday, December 29, 2024

more happy faces arrive

i could paper my walls 
with the pictures you send
of your family.
the mawkish
scrawl
of hallmark cards.
with each
holiday more arrive.
faces i don't know,
from
old to small.
from birth till death,
i have them
all, even pets.
i have no guess
what to do
with the boxes
that holds them.

what is remembered

the evil one does 
is remembered,
it's cut
into stone,
while the good we
do
is written in sand,
though it outweighs
the later,
it is soon
washed away
and forgotten.

the google search

i am guilty.
i waste my time
on simple
things,
on
careless forays into
places
i don't belong.
these fingers often take
me there,
into dark
forests
full of searches,
unwise,
poisoned ivy,
thorny
bramble and twine.
why
do i bother with your
whereabouts,
when
i should be concerned
with mine?

melancholy

such a lovely
word,
melancholy is.
a pensive
state of mind, a blanket
of gloom
and clouds.
not a hint
of sun,
as rain falls and the
wind blows
loud.
savor
the light darkness
of your soul.
it will make joy
that much
better
when the skies
unfold.

neither joy or sorrow

worry not,
for these
are not tears of sorrow,
or of wretched
grief,
or for that matter
joy, no,
they are tears
that have
arrived via
the knife
and round onion
on the hardwood
board
that i lean upon
and slice.

lovingly sweet

do i tell
her about how that color
does
not suit
her nature,
does she tell me that i snore
loudly
when i sleep.
do i
eat what she cooks
despite
my not liking the taste,
does she
disagree with me
about
the books i
read,
the politics to which
i lean?
or do we go on as usual,
happily
content.
lovingly sweet?

at least that's the plan

we are
born green, salad
green,
hardly
tossed.
we know so little
of the world
we've
been dropped into.
oblivious of
what
joy,
what pain awaits.
each
day a lesson,
each
love, or hate,
each new year
we are less
and less green
and more
wise,
more mature. at least
that's
the plan.

the rising of bread

as the bread
rises
in the hot oven,
i stare
into the window where
it bakes.
i am often
looking into windows
trying
to be patient
for what's to come next,
but i can hardly
wait.

too many choices

like so much
in your
life,
you window shop
for
toys
and things,
for places to live,
for clothes
and shoes,
for even
love.
you click here
and there,
you swipe.
it's too much work.
there are too many
choices
for this one life.

Saturday, December 28, 2024

what wind blew you here?

what wind
blew you here? my love.
what
convenience of catastrophes
set your
sails
to this land,
where i am?
what vows were broken,
or unmade
to have you stand
before me
with all that charm
and beauty?

you will be tonight

i was adored once
too,
she tells me
in the dying light.
i was beautiful when i was
young,
adored and loved.
we all were,
i tell her.
and you will be
tonight.

deciding what to do next

a troubled
mind
needs to walk.
a long walk in the cold
barren
woods
until you reach the lake,
that pool
of grey sky.
it's there,
in the bloom of your
breath
from walking
hard,
that you will you realize
what
to do next.

I miss the rabbit ears and three channels

VA communications sales tax,
VA state sales tax,
E-911 tax,
VA public rights of way use fee,
Verizon surcharges and fees
local license tax surcharge
VA gross receipts tax surcharge
federal universal service fee
PEG grant fees
regulatory recovery fee-federal
FiOS broadcast fee
regional sports network fee
FDV administrative charge
3 FiOS tv connections
3 set top boxes
your bundle price
and at last
your subtotal and total due.
Verizon is the devil.


let us bow our heads and pray

i know it's against
my better
judgement, but i'm a fool for love.
fourth time
is the charm,
i heard
someone say once,
or was that the third time?
but i don't get on
my bended knee
this time,
because they hurt from 50
years of playing
basketball
on a concrete slab.
i text her instead
and send her
a picture of the ring,
an old
beer can tab
i recovered from the trash.
but she says no,
i appreciate the offer,
but no.
what are you nuts?
to which i sigh and say,
at last
someone has given me
the right answer.
now let us bow our heads
and pray.

i never should have banked it all on red

before i officially retire,
after
an unfortunate trip to Las Vegas,
when i put
my entire 401k on red,
i pour
out the change from
the change
bowl.
i lift the mattress for
the cash
i've hidden
under the far corner.
i go to the safe
and take out the rainy
day money.
i separate the cushions
of the couch
and chair,
then go down to the washing
machine and dryer
to find what
other coins might be there.
i empty
the pockets of all my pants
and shirts,
coats.
i stack them up
on the counter,
and look at my life's savings,
i think i can do this,
if i don't eat
anymore and go live
in the woods
with the fox and bear.

finding the opposite of me

about once
a year,
she tells me about her new love.
how she's moved
on from me.
we're in the friend zone now,
she says.
she goes into great details
about how
much money
he makes,
how large his house is,
his fancy
cars
and swimming pool.
she tells me where he's
taking
her next week
on a cruise.
i'm happy for her.
i truly am.
after me, she now knows
what true love
can be.
i'm glad to have helped
her out,
giving her a comparison.

Friday, December 27, 2024

club soda and lime

i milk the drink
until the ice
melts and waters it
down
to nothing but
the taste
of lime.
i could drink three of
these
in an hour
in the old days,
the glory days, as they
say,
but just one
now
is all it takes, 
i can't wait to get home
where
bed awaits

when the Godly mask slips

she's a fine
woman,
a pillar of the community.
a stellar
role model to the younger
generation.
she goes to church
four times
a week,
ladles soup at the shelter.
her children
are gold,
her grandchildren too.
she preaches
the good word and
exudes love wherever
she goes.
every other word that comes
out of her mouth,
is praise the Lord.
so it's shocking
when she tells me what act
she'll perform on
my father's grave
when he dies.

train hits man on tracks

the man,
hit by a train
heading north, hardly
had a chance,
since he
refused to step
aside
and get out of the way.
he could hear
the whistle blowing,
hear the rumble
of the wheels
against the steel
tracks, but no.
he kept walking just
the same.
he spent
his whole life
being careful,
avoiding
falls,
and cuts, bruises,
scrapes
and burns, and now
this,
engine number five
running
him over.

is it true, or just you

watch
enough news and podcasts
and
YouTube
videos
and soon
everyone looks like
a nefarious
character,
up to no good,
walking around
the lot,
making you the prey
before
the attack.
is it true?
or just you?

i'm on my way, make room

as the snow
deepens
and the pot boils
on the stove,
i see you curling deeper
and deeper
into the couch,
wrapped
in holiday 
sleeping clothes.
i'll be there soon,
as soon
as the water
boils
and i carry to you your
cup of tea
and plate
of Christmas cookies.
hold that thought,
my dear,
i'm on my way.
make room.

picking Jake up at 7-11

it was a few years ago
when
i drove
Jake to the hospital because
he was spitting up
blood.
lung cancer that was spreading
like a wildfire.
he died a year
later,
on Christmas day.
i visited him
that Christmas eve
and brought him a pack
of cigarettes
and a pint of 
Southern comfort,
his favorite.
he asked
me if i had any winter
work
coming up.
he'd be out of there in no
time.
just as soon as they took
the bandages
off that were
wrapped around his head
because of the brain
operation.
i told him, sure.
of course.
i'll pick you up at the 7-11
around eight.
the day after new years.
don't be late.

the ticking watch

to say my uncle
Joe
was cheap, or frugal,
or tight
with his money would
be an understatement.
he washed
his car only when 
it rained,
read by candlelight
and hand
washed his clothes
in the sink.
on his death
bed, with only
an hour left to live
he negotiated a price
for the watch he was
wearing, and sold it
to me. cash only.

so much to do, so little time

as i lie
in bed, staring up at the fan.
i think
about buying
a new fan.
how old
is this fan?
it's dirty.
and then my thoughts
drift to other
things.
i hope that
there's not
a nuclear holocaust
this year.
there's so much i need
to do
around this house.

sending out holiday kisses

i text Sally,
but i meant to text Diane,
i send
her a kiss
emoji.
which makes her husband
angry.
i say
whoops,
sorry, wrong person.
so i try again,
this time
it's Maureen,
an ex
who's blocked me.
after a few more tries,
i send out kisses to
Lilly,
Marge and Francine,
with no reply
back,
i give up.
i need to clean out
my phone again.
apparently, everyone 
has moved on,
but me.

watching the ball drop alone

i keep waiting
for my invitations to the new years
eve parties.
i check my
mailbox, my laptop,
my phone.
nothing.
not a word,
no rsvp notes.
no texts,
no calls.
what's going on
with my dwindling circle
of friends?
have i fallen out of favor
with everyone?

my holy baby steps

i drop off a few
cans
of beans,
and assorted vegetables
at the church
drop off
box.
sweet corn and peas.
i feel good about myself.
not saintly,
but
it puts a spring in
my holy step.
and then
i see the cookies and
baked
cakes,
the pies
being carried in by others.
flowers
and frozen turkeys.
it makes me sad.
maybe i'm not as good
as i think i am.


those years are done

everyone
is home this week.
the schools are closed,
the worker bees
that usually leave at five
a.m.
are here.
i see their cars,
their trucks, their teenage
children
are playing
music
next door.
i used to see them on their
tricycles
out front,
when they were young,
the day after Christmas,
i'd wave,
they'd laugh and smile,
cheeks red
and happy in the winter
sun.
but
these days, things have
changed,
if i'm lucky,
i might get a nod,
or grunt.
but little eye contact.
those years are done.

a thread of wood

it takes
an embedded splinter,
a thread
of wood
below the skin
to awaken
you
to this world.
the red
swell of infection.
the bite
of life
gone wrong.
how fragile we are
even when
we meant no harm
with this nail,
this hammer.

Thursday, December 26, 2024

the NYT blurb said it will change your life

i either hate
the book
right away after reading the first
dozen lines
or so,
or like it
and press on.
love
comes at the end,
if i make it that far.
no matter what the blurbs
say,
no matter how much
attention
the author has received,
or the book
praised,
i have to take a bite
and then decide whether
to eat
and chew the entire thing.
if a movie is already
in production
about it, then
i'm done before i start.

heads or tails

the coin
that's flipping in the air,
has been
up there for a very
long time.
maybe fifty years
or so.
when it finally comes
down,
maybe i'll make
a decision on what to
really do
with my life.

it's not a straight line to us

of course
there are smart animals,
elephants
and dogs,
chimps
and dolphins.
they know you by
sight.
they know their names,
some can count,
or sing,
some can find
their way
home
from a thousand miles
away,
they have instincts.
but if you tell your cat
or dog,
or pet gorilla
that the second
Tuesday
of next month,
you're going out for 
ice-cream,
they won't know what your
talking about.
so let's not get too carried
away
with this similar
DNA chain.