that new car smell

I remember
that new car smell.
that vinyl
scent of fresh from
the factory.
the clean windows
snazzy dials.
not a scratch to be found.
ah, that smell,
but it wore off at some
point.
the tires thinned
down, we spilled
things on the seats.
broke the handle.
the lights dimmed,
the battery died.
the oil burned
and leaked.
what happened?
too many miles,
too many hard drives
down one way
streets. too many
pot holes
and snow drifts.
detours and crashes.
maybe it's time for a new one.
a new ride.
something sleek
and swift, something
we can go the beach
with, or down a blue
highway to nowhere.
a car to get us
to wherever it is
we need to get to.
a car to finish the ride
with.

the flea market

the flea
market is open for business.
the cups
and glasses.
all lined in rows.
unpacked again
for the show.
old shoes and suits.
postcards, hand written.
the ink now smudged
after a hundred years
of handling.
vinyl records. a dentist's
chair.
whose lamps were
these.
what hand wore this ring
in love
or friendship. what story
is there behind
that dress,
yellow as a hummingbird
hung beside
the drab rest.
the tables serpentine
under the domed
roof. the vendors
tired from the day,
counting their coins,
their folding
money.
looking at their watches.
opening boxes
to pack once more
and go on their way.

this does

the father
loves his daughter.
holds her
as long as he can with
each short visit.
he whispers
to her his adoration.
the glow of both
brightens the room.
nearing the end
of life
it becomes clearer,
what matters most,
what doesn't.
this does.

more than the game

the boys
at court are old.
but still boys.
the white hair, the limps,
the bandages.
the braces on knees.
still young enough
though to run,
to dribble and shoot
to rib one another
about
life. each with their
own nick name.
all is fair game.
and the love we share
for one another
has little to do with
wins
or losses, or who
scores.
it's more than that.
much more.

put it to bed

my fingers are tired.
so I tuck each one into bed.
enough
of this.
enough typing for one day.
there's only
so much ink in the well.
and story has grown old,
grown sadly stale.

rose colored glasses

I see the valley
of rose
colored glasses.
it's getting fuller
by the hour.
I take mine off
and send them flying
into the broken
piles of metal frames
and lenses.
I get it now.
what wasn't seen is seen.
everything is as clear
as it should
be without those
tinted shades.

getting out

it's nice to get away.
to go
to some foreign port
where you don't know
the language. where
the people are strange,
where they cast their dark
eyes upon
you and flick ashes
in front of your path.
the houses
look different.
the tilt of red tiles,
the broken chimneys
and gates.
even the dogs that wander
the street
have a look about them.
the smell of food
cooking, what is it?
it could be anything.
what's in the wind.
how did the ocean become
that color of blue?
nothing is the same
as it was
from where you came.
you could live here
forever
and forget the past.
be done with all the things
you know.

the oil painting

the painting
at the museum
is less in person than
in a book.
so small.
so underwhelmed I am
in its presence.
once unknown
to my naked eyes,
I stand back
to take it in.
unseen so close it's
diminished
now in luster.
the promise of its
glory
unfulfilled.
are we not at times
to one another,
the same.

nearly every year

I disappear
into the soft fold of fog
along the water

of Huntley meadows.
i see the blue tips
of heron.
the thatched backs
of turtles,
afloat like metal
hats in slow parade
the red winged black birds.
deer, as still as the trees, aware.
across the boards I go.
my feet striking the wet
wood that creaks
with my weight.

i return in times of trouble,

nearly every year.

and now i'm back again.

six months since your last visit

the dentist
calls
leaves a message.
sends an e mail.
texts.
it's been six months
since your last
check up.
your last cleaning.
I relent,
and say okay, okay.
i'm coming.
I prepare myself
for the flossing beat
down.
the lecture
about brushing
and grinding, and
rinsing, and
all the other things
they want me
to do.
I check my bank account,
I guess I can
skip
rent this month.
I go.

i smell what's cooking

it's a mumbled response.
I hear it.
I write it down.
make a note of it.
there is static
on the line.
morse code is clicked
across the wire.
there are words
written in the sky.
I see
the headlines
on the front page.
I see what's written
in the sand.
I smell what's cooking,
but still,
still, I resist and
refuse to understand.

the empty house

out of breath
I reach home, I've run for miles
to get here.
my arrival
goes unnoticed.
there is no one to greet
me. no bark from my dog.
he's not here.
the blinds are closed.
the doors tight.
the locks have been changed.
the mail box is empty.
I peer through the window.
the rooms are dark.
no lights are on.
the furniture is covered
with sheets.
the floors are full of dust.
I see no one.
as I stand there,
then go from window to
window.
the weather changes.
spring has turned into
fall.
I am in my shirt sleeves.
shorts.
I am not prepared for this.
I sit on the porch
and try to remember
the life
I had before this one.

the circus 1962

she was there.
her son too. Jackie
and John,
Caroline. small
and smartly dressed.
all three in the front
row
minus
her husband, who
was busy
with the country
and other things.
but there they were,
three rows in front
of us at the circus.
guarded by dark men
in dark suits.
I remember my mother
pointing to them,
and whispering. look,
it's Jackie and her
children.
how my mother loved the mythology
of Camelot.
the handsome prince,
his smile, his
grace.
his humor.

quickly this life
moves on.
from the sawdust
and clowns,
the elephants, the high
wire act.
I can see them still.
royalty among
the littles,
the smell of grease paint
and cigars,
the animals. the cotton
candy and hot dogs.
all the sites and sounds
that a circus come to town
can brew.

I wonder if my mother
remembers too, as she lies
curled in a dream
in a bed she'll
never get out of.

don't touch

the mother
puts the cookies into a large
glass
jar
on the counter.
don't touch she says.
they're warm
and delicious, but I
don't want you to have
one before dinner.
now please,
don't touch.
I've put them into
the far corner of the counter.
they're for later.
okay?
okay.
now i'll be outside on
the phone with your father.
she leaves.
the boy approaches
the counter, pulls
up a chair
and touches the lid
of the jar.
he wants what he cant
have so badly.
he can almost taste
the cookies.
she knows this and watches
him through the window
as he takes the lid off
and takes one.
bites into the soft
warm dough, freshly baked.
the lesson has begun.

the green

an inch of rain
falls
in the middle of the night.
the dogs
are quiet.
birds too.
I can hear the stream
now a small river
cascade against the rocks
outside the window.
I can feel
the wind whip through
the old windows.
bang the shutters.
tomorrow the yard
will be full of flowers.
the trees will
magically
go green.
each storm, each heavy
rain
brings us out
of darkness, then into
a new spring.

yesterdays news

I buy the paper
for some news. it's Tuesdays
edition, not todays,
Wednesday.
I don't return it.
bad news keeps.
it's still news so I sit
and read under
the arcade,
the rain is falling.
I watch a woman pushing
a stroller. her hands full.
I see her husband.
holding a bag, then kissing
her blushed cheek.
his arm goes around her
as he whispers into the thick
brush of her hair.
they are in love.
I turn away, go back
to the news. yesterdays
news.

then rise

the sweat on the window
rolls
down the etched pane
of glass,
the glass is fifty years
old.
not as old as I am.
fourteen years
have gone by.
I know who's been
to this window.
who has looked out onto
the same
woods.
has seen the same seasons
change
with time.
I wonder when it's my
turn. I touch
the tears of condensation.
then rise.

falling fast

I let go
and fall. what seemed
important
is no longer
important.
I've been wrong
all along.
I stare at the blood
on my hands.
the callouses.
the twisted grip
of my fingers still
in place.
I let go and fall.
I wonder
why was I holding on
so long.
I feel the air
in my ears, against
my back.
I am falling into
light
away from the darkness.
my heart beats
with anticipation,
and relief.
I let go and fall.
my hands unfurl
and fold
upon my chest. I am
smiling.
at last. falling
falling falling.
falling fast.

ironing

I see my mother
at the ironing board.
the baskets of clothes
at her feet.
I hear the steam
from the iron.
I see her slowly,
methodically
press the hot metal
down upon a shirt,
a blouse,
pants, making a crease.
she is quiet.
the children
are asleep in the small
rooms
above the floor.
the husband is at sea.
I see my mother ironing.
her mouth closed.
a pair of black framed
glasses
pressed against her nose.
she is never so still
and at peace
as she is now, ironing.
folding.
standing on a small
rug on the cold floor
in her bare feet.

the end of life

I see the end of my life.
I see my body
stretched out
in a white coffin.
the flowers are everywhere.
I can smell them
and know instantly what life
isn't, what life is.
I see people crying.
I see the hall is full
of mourners.
I wonder where they were
when I was alive.
I wonder about the suit
they have placed me in.
how my lifeless body
swims in the black fabric.
but it doesn't matter.
it's what I will wear
until I dissolve into
what I was before this life.
the bones I leave
will turn to chalk.
nothing into nothing.
my teeth. the cross
around my neck.
a ring on my hand
left as proof of love
once given.
I feel the absence
of worry.
the relief of no tomorrows.
my eyes are closed, but I see
and know everything.
I see the end of my life.
I see the beginning.

about tomorrow

some
moons sing
with color.
blossomed
in fall, or
the starch white
face
of rock
in sunlight.
we can't go there.
but we
are there.
we have always been
a part
of that thing
above us.
so far, so close.
so white
and pure
it makes you look
and wonder
what else is there
to know
about tomorrow.

it's about to rain

it's easy to see
when it's about to rain.
the leaves
turn towards the sky
in green
cups.
the wind rises.
paper on the street
circles
flies.
it's easy to see when
it's about to rain.
but true love
and honesty, that's a
whole other
thing.

so they say

I see the bones
of me
in the mirror.
the absence of food
has tightened
my face.
deepened the lines
as if I've been made
wiser.
which I haven't.
I seek refuge
in red wine.
in sleep.
in books about
another land,
a place
far from here,
across a calm sea.
everyone has a cross
to bear,
so they say.
so they say.

enough about me

I whine all
day about the trouble I've
seen.
who hasn't?
but it's all about me.
my woes,
my trials and tribulations.
I bring
the house down.
throw a wet blanket
on the party.
I spike the drinks
with my
gloom
and doom. too bad
for them
having to listen,
but so it goes.
I hate being this way,
but sometimes
i'm a child
lying in a crib
wanting
warm milk and a hug,
a slap on the back
to burp me.

quiet bird

a quiet brown
bird
without a chirp
lands
on the sill.
looks in at me
at this machine,
my fingers
quiet on the keyboard.
we stare
at one another.
him with wings,
me with hands.
both doing pretty
much the same
thing.
getting by,
making a nest.
digging
worms
to keep us alive.

it's only monday

we chain
ourselves to the white
house
fence in protest to the long
work week.
we want the three
day weekend
to be permanently
part of our lives.
we made our placards
on sunday afternoon
after
going to Michaels
for a sixty per cent
off sale
on markers
and construction paper.
but we aren't really
chained
to the ancient wrought
iron fence.
we have Velcro
wrist bands
that can easily be
removed
and large coffees with
scones.
we yell out our complaints
across the manicured
lawn.
three day weekend
we chant over and over
again.
others join in.
a throng of like minded
tourists
cheer us on.
this lasts about five
minutes
until we're tear gassed
and dragged away
getting a wood shampoo
by the cop's baton.
and it's only
Monday.

no land in sight

in the ocean
I swim.
one arm after the other.
I kick my legs
and feel the cold
water burn
within me.
the sun is above
where it's always been,
the ocean is everywhere.
once blue,
a sweet azure
holding the wisp
of white clouds,
I look at it differently
now. I see it as
something that can swallow
me whole.
take the air
from my lungs, dissolve
the skin off
my bones.
I swim.
but I don't know where
i'm going.
I just know that I am
as alone now
as I've ever been in
my life.
tethered
to nothing, to no one.
no boat,
no raft,
no land in sight.

the light

I can see the light
of day
outside the narrow
window
of my cell.
I see the placard
of blue,
of grey.
the essence of clouds.
I can smell
what blooms beyond
the walls,
of this
barbed cage.
I can almost taste
the lips
of a loved one, feel
her warm arms
around me,
her sweet voice
telling me your safe now,
everything,
everything is okay.

i don't know

I sweat
and swallow
into the night.
cringe
at the light,
lay low
and be quiet.
words
are silver,
unpolished but
holding
what needs to be
said,
to be made
right.
not now though.
maybe later.
maybe never.
I don't know.

some days you need a friend

some days you need
a friend.
an objective friend
with a moral compass,
a faith,
a person of truth to
go to.
you need an ear
to spill what ails
you.
someone to bare your
soul to
to share your fears
and hurts.
someone to wipe your tears
away, or let
you cry in pain.
a person who will listen
with compassion
and love,
then tell
you whether you are
right or wrong.
give you advice
and steer you towards
the right path for
the rest of your life.
some days you need a friend.
call soon.

bring water

the air
is tightly woven
hot
above the flat sand.
the heat
shimmers.
cacti
reach out to the
white blue
sky.
prickly
and cold
in their green suits,
fat.
single vultures,
black
stripes of hunger
float
over the dead.
we shoo them away
with our hands.
not us,
not yet.

an angel appears

an angel appears
out of nowhere. she or he,
it's hard to tell
with angels,
sits down beside me.
what's the matter he says.
I see his wings,
white as white can be
folded behind him.
his hand is gentle
on my shoulder.
the other hand takes mine.
what's wrong, he says.
tell me why are you suffering
so?
but you know, I tell him.
you know or you wouldn't
be here.
so true, he says. so true.
close your eyes.
now breathe. quiet your thoughts.
now listen to these
words I've been sent to tell
you.
trust in the God
that made you.
all of this darkness,
all of this sorrow
and anxiety,
all of this worry will pass.
trust me. your suffering
is to bring you
to your knees,
and when you're ready
to let go
of all these things
and surrender to me,
happiness and contentment
will arrive,
they're closer than you
ever could believe.

the suggestion box

the suggestion box
is full
of little notes I've written
over the course
time.
do this, try that,
or maybe it would be a good
idea if you
didn't do that.
or perhaps we can do something
different
for a change.
mostly the notes
are directed towards
myself or a significant
other.
small adjustments trying
to get to the same place.
they haven't changed
much over 50 years.
each
one written in the same
vein.
wanting trust and love,
building
a quiet nest of peace
and harmony
to grow old in,
to stay young in.

ghosts

the ghosts
of loves past
rattle their chains
in the attic.
I can hear
the floor boards creak.
the sighs,
the groans,
the pages of time
being ripped,
boxes full of yesterdays
being thrown.
I can hear
the wind seer through
the creases
of old windows
bent frames,
tiles broken free
from nails and wood.
we too are ghosts,
alive
and here,
but unseen.

benign neoplasm

in the near dark
of the examination room
he says,
you'll feel a pinch.
I see the long slender
needle in his hand.
his goggles on,
the white coat and plastic
gloves
upon him.
my chin is pressed
into a cup
my forehead pressed against
the cushioned cage
before me.
grip the handles he says.
turn your head to the right,
but look up to the left.
your left.
the needle goes in,
then again. piercing the small
nodule.
a third time, it's more
than a pinch.
several words come out of
my mouth, words
that once required soap
at the hand of my mother
to wash them out.
once more he says,
then a pair of long nose
needle pliers
begins to squeeze the benign
neoplasm free
of whatever debris lies
within.
tears stream down my face.
my hands are red from gripping
the handlebars
of this machine.
twenty minutes later
I'm in shock from the pain.
the nerve that runs
across my face, from eye
to ear trembles.
a trickle of blood finds it's
way upon my lips.
that's it he says. not
so bad, was it?

mercy

this farm,
this field, these cows
and chickens
plump with eggs.
these
goats.
these horses.
the cattle thick
with feed.
pigs.
this barn full
of wheat.
the silo overflowing.
the rusted rooster
still red
in the wind
on the peak.
the lush sweet
land
blessed with rain.
we're good,
we're thankful,
but without it
we bring all sins
to the table
real or imagined,
we throw dust onto
our backs
and beg for mercy.

a place to grow old in

a simple life
would be nice.
a dog, a house
with a small reasonable yard.
birds
in the tree.
a fence
to keep love in.
a fence to keep trouble out.
a fireplace,
a couch.
music
from the corner.
chilled wine in hand,
a wall of books
to read
and a calendar
full of years
to grow old in.

dry land

a cold front
moves in. moves out.
what to wear
each day has become a mystery.
a stretch
of sun,
of eighty degrees
isn't
happening.
boots, coats, hats,
scarves.
the grey wet
of spring goes on
as we
row forward,
two oars in the water,
our shoulders
bent
in pulling us to
blue skies and dry
land.

our plans

the waters rise.
the rough
wind raked sleeve
surges,
goes forward,
down.
down towards the river
the bay
the great
ocean
before us.
the water fills
the world
where it can,
as we do
with our uncharted
lives.
our plans.

true life

the wood pecker
black
and white.
some red in a small
dash
of color
upon his breast
and neck
alights on the fence
beyond the window.
busy with his
survival,
unaware of my eyes
upon him. in
his skittish nature,
going from
board to board,
a seed
or bug
in sight. how we
busy ourselves
with the work before us,
distanced
in short
from
our inside, true life.

friends fade

slowly
your friends leave
you.
they fade
into the past,
between the pages
of year books,
old haunts,
vague connections
from
long ago.
it's hard to even know
as the numbers
go down,
who's to come

and who goes.

the photo

the camera
doesn't tell all. it just
captures
the smile
in the moment when
someone says
are you ready,
then clicks the button.
but what
lies below
the gloss of an image
is to most of us
unknown.
the history of things
so often
untrue.
a mirage
for future eyes and
hands to hold.

the red ball

the church at St. Thomas More
still
stands.
there it is in red
brick
off south capital street
on the ravine,
the walk way to Maryland.
sturdy
and still, dirty
from the years since
built.
the stain glass
still holding the light.
the indigo and blood red.
the emeralds
and yellow.
the washing is inside.
the souls
of lovers married,
bodies
taken to graves not far.
the confessional
packed so tight with spent
and forgiven sin.
I remember the black top,
the nuns
in black. outside with folded
arms,
their crosses in hand, crosses
around
their necks.
and the red ball. it was
all about that.
how it flew through those
cold spring
afternoons,
each red faced boy or girl,
upon it with hard shoes,
kicking kicking,
with so much
of our lives
before us.

the nesting

the songs
of birds outside,
the racket of wings.
the scratch
of existence into the sides
of trees.
the fallen seeds,
the insects
frenetic
in their small world
found burrowed beneath
dried leaves.
how they sing and sing,
without
regard to what's to come,
the shortness of
their lives
unknown, unnecessary.
the nesting of spring.
it's just now.
this moment
this joy of today
in being alive.

baked love

it's a fine
balance
of ingredients that makes
the cake
rise,
the soufflé
go,
the dessert be
sweet but
not too so
that one cannot
finish
or eat. love is
that mix
of tried and true
recipes,
old
worn and torn pages
in yesterdays book.
but in all things
it comes down
to the lick
of a spoon,
the taste of it
to know when it's done,
when it's
ready, or needs to be
tossed away,
and started again, taken
out too soon.

the burning

there is a fire
in the north woods. we
can see it burn from here.
so far away.
we are safe, we hope,
from the flames.
it's not our house,
our land,
that burns.
we watch as the smoke
rises,
the flames
paint the sky in ribbons
of yellow,
spikes of red.
we hear the scream of engines.
the sirens
bellow down
the canyon road.
we pray for the best
for them.
we can only watch so long,
in quiet,
before we go inside.

a higher power

when all else
is done.
when all the words are said.
when anger
has had its day.
suspicion,
jealousy. all those
dark emotions that rattle
around within,
after every drop of
angst
and mistrust has been
wrung out of the wet
sheet you've
become. then there's
a chance
to move forward
and let a higher power
take hold.

red roses

it's not
like you to fall like that.
to faint
away
and land in the rose bushes.
picking out
thorns.
wiping off the blood
that tears
upon your skin.
red roses at that.
the flower
of love.

tomorrow is a long ways away

tomorrow
is a long ways away.
today.
is
always here.
yesterday
is beyond saving.
where do we start.
where do we
begin
again.
where do we
draw that line upon
the dirt
and let
the next life start.

so many birds

so many birds.
of so many colors.
so many wings and beaks,
claws,
so many nests and eggs.
so many
thing afloat in the sky.
so much we learn
and know about so many things
upon this earth,
but at times so little
do we know
about our own
or other's lives.

before dusk

there was time,
when I had time, and tools,
and a better back.
and I was more limber,
there was a time
that I would open the hood
of my car
and begin to fix whatever
it was that needed
fixing.
oil pump.
water pump. shocks.
points and plugs.
filters and tires.
small stuff, but things
that I could do
on a Saturday
under a tree,
in the hot summer shade
with a drink in hand,
as the radio played.
trying to get
the car on the road
before dusk.

the fear

a fox appears
from the woods, daylight
receding in
a grey wash, before the rain
begins.
he slides on soft
feet to where the stone
walls is,
peering
over.
his coat a burnished
blonde.
the fear in him
equals the fear
in me.
rightful caution.
what's out there?
what can get us, is
there anything real
that we see?

the fence

the broken fence
leaning
in the wind,
almost over,
flat against the ground.
the posts loose
in the soft
dirt.
the way in is
the way out.
what wasn't seen
is obvious now.

around we go

the carousel
moves slowly around.
the grind of
rusted edges screeching
below
our feet.
the strange plastic
horses
with smiles, with eerie
melted frowns.
once white or black
they're muted now by age
and sun. broken stirrups
that flap.
the music
is warped,
a kaleidoscope
of sound.
the keeper holds his
hand
on a greased bar,
to stop and start our ride.
a knot of keys looped
through his
blackened jeans.
around we go. around we go.
around, never knowing
where it might
stop,
where it might end.

smudges

the blue ink
smudges
on the note.
my finger pushes against
the words,
the name,
the date.
I erase yesterday
with a simple
swipe
of a wet thumb.
though know that
life is never easy
that way.

the old sailor

my father
in his garden on old knees
with his
thick hands
tending to wobbled fences,
beans
and weeds.
his shoulders browned
by the sun.
his hair
as white as milk.
how lovely
and sweet this old sailor
has become.

just tired of war

I retreat
behind the lines of fire.
i'm not a coward
just tired
of war.
tired of these bullets
these cannons
these
swords.
I tunnel down into
the soft trench of earth
lying
in other's blood,
of those who died before
me.
I see the crimson
steam of their
lives
rise into the fog
of morning.
I fall back,
no longer answering
the bugles call.
i'm not a coward,
just tired of war.

seconds are hours

the night is long.
how slow
the hours move on this stranded
raft.
what clock
is this
that has no feelings
for time,
no movement forward.
no end
to these weary hours
that crawl
across my troubled mind.

the yellow bird

I see the fence.
the stone wall.
the guards. the guard dogs.
I see the rifle
in the tower. the glassy
gleam of the scope.
I can almost feel
the barbed wire in my hands.
I see the cold tray of food
being slid into my cell.
I turn on the hard
bed I sleep upon.
I ache with
the emptiness of
no human touch,
or kind word.
I see the sky. t
he squared patch
of sweet blue.
I see the small
yellow bird on my
barred sill.
I am happy for the bird,
for his wings
and life in the air.
I smell the flowers in
bloom beyond the walls.
I hear the splash of a
stream full of melted
snow.
I imagine all that is
beyond where I am,
all that could be good,
then start digging.

away from it all

come with me
to this other land.
to this other place
we can get to.
you know it.
we both know it.
let's buy a one way
ticket.
pack light.
leave every care
or worry behind.
the muck of life.
let's get warm
get wet in the surf.
let's eat
what the earth
brings to us.
let's be in love
far far away
from it all.

diving for pearls

I find the deepest pool
of water
to dive into.
there I will go and sort
out
my life.
decide on what is wrong,
what is right.
in the dark blue
depths
of a quarry.
i'll let my body slide
down
inside the envelope
of icy water
and find my true self
once more.
with each struggle of no
air or light,
i'll come alive
and rise again.

start again

when there is nothing
left to do
when the words have all
been said,
the emotions expressed,
when the weariness has
set in,
do nothing.
let go.
let go and start again.

hands together

take this roast,
for example, how it
takes me
back to childhood. to my
mother's table,
her hand ladling
the soup, the potatoes.
setting out the bread
and butter,
pouring milk from a glass
jar.
how the warm scent
of meat rises, thick
in memory.
the oven heating the house.
the celery and onions.
the salt shaker next
to the pepper.
our boned arms on the table,
anxious to begin,
our hands together
for prayer.

why go there

there was life
on mars
once. I was there.
I was in a café having
coffee.
reading a newspaper.
the ground was red
and it was hard
to breathe.
the dust was tremendous.
but it was no
different than here.
no different at all.
people lived
and died, they fell
in love and had children.
they had full lives.
just like here.
so why go there.

the silvered night

a small moon
is out tonight.
see how she shines.
the station lit by
the watchman's light.
see the trains.
the glisten of track.
see the man
in his seat
at the window,
alone,
looking out into
a silvered night.
hear the owl
in the trees.
the clack of wheels.
the rumble
of steel.
a small moon is out,
showing everything,
revealing nothing.
see how she shines.

angels

once. not once upon a time,
for it's true.
I felt
the heat of God within me.
the flame
of Christ.
a forceful spirit
that swept me into another
realm of light.
the warm glow
coming from within.
it spread inside my body,
through my heart
until
tears flowed.
I was not touched.
no hands
were laid upon me.
but three strangers came
out of the rain to say
to me the same thing.
bless you they said.
in the street, in the shop,
in the car.
one after another, all within
minutes of one
another. angels, who's to know.
I look back upon it
and have no explanation,
except
that I was willing.
I was surrendered to this
world
in perfect grief.
i'm willing once again.

the missing piece

the puzzle
has a missing a piece.
it can't be finished.
we look
everywhere for it.
under the table,
in the cuffs of our pants.
down our sleeves.
we move other pieces in,
but they don't fit,
but perhaps
there is an empty
spot in all of us,
waiting to be filled
with just
the right piece,
the perfect match
to complete one's life.

he's arrived

he loved the game
of golf.
the long green fields
trimmed just so.
the eighteen holes of bliss.
no matter
the slice
or swing, or sand trap.
he played
all day and talked about it
all night.
I see him
still, banging his cleats
against
the sidewalk,
his face bronzed with sun.
his shoulders wide.
his large hands
swinging a putter once
more before
going home.
he's arrived.

the tall oak trees

in the end.
she heard voices. saw things.
had conversations
with invisible
souls
long gone.
she was rattled and confused,
the clothes
hung on her bones.
her once blue eyes now grey,
sunken in.
she lived
behind the store
in a patch of woods
and would come out at
times
to hold a sign beside
the road. a red hat.
I knew her when. who
hasn't
known her or him,
now
wandering in the shadows
of tall oak
trees.

to wait. be brave

this puddle
I step into, holds me.
the long shadow of me.
I see in its
shallow mirror
my grey
face, my slender limbs.
my mouth is dry.
my stomach empty.
I am alone
and quiet.
the weight of rain
pulls
me deeper into my
soaked shoes.
my bones ache with cold.
there are no words
to say.
there is no one to
turn to. no tender heart
to take my hand,
telling me
to wait. be brave.

sleep come upon me

in my dream
my wings,
my arms begin to move,
upwards and down,
a wide winged owl taking
measure.
I start to run
slowly across the field.
then faster.
after a short distance
I am in the air,
taking flight.
I begin to soar.
soon i am in the clouds.
I remember this feeling
from childhood
when I ran with my wagon
throwing newspapers
onto the porches
and lawns of neighbors.
breathing in the chilled
morning air. embracing
the stars, the violet stripes
of a new day.
I am free in flight,
free from the weight
and gravity of a world
that holds us down.

the onion in hand

the sweet onion
when peeled, comes off
in layers.
the sheet
of skin
stripped by your hand.
over and over
you continue
until there is nothing
left to hold,
no pit,
no center.
no understanding
of what you were told.

the train is off the tracks

too fast,
the train is off
the tracks.
the whistle silent.
the steam
and gristle of the stack
seeps
what's left of embers,
black coal.
the passengers are strewn
across the cinder,
the engineer is dead.
the sky is an awakening blue.
birds
are still flying.
I pick myself up, dust
myself off, grab a bag
and go on,
this is what I do.

the tilted stones

the ground was too hard
and cold
to dig, so they placed her body
with the others
in a bricked mausoleum
on site, beside the tilted
aged stones,
grey, iced white.
an iron fence around it all.
in time. by april it was her
turn
to go under. to be taken
to where
the ones of same blood
were taken before her.
the name etched deep and clean
in the stone.
the mason's chisel
efficient in his thick hands.
the date of arrival
and departure made clear.

like Amelia

silence.
the quiet of night.
the bitter
sigh
of lost winds.
the flap of wings.
the infrequency of touch
with home base.
of love,
and small talk.
the chatter of the air waves.
off the radar,
the scope,
the world map
of who we are.
flying solo like
Amelia,
never to be found
again.

through the glass darkly

of good cheer,
he laughs at your plight.
quotes Dylan Thomas,
do not go gently
he says in an Irish brogue.
he gives me a hearty slap.
he's a friend you don't
need
at the moment.
what could he possibly know
about love,
about death
about the wounded soul,
the broken heart.
so full of good cheer
he means well. he pours
another drink for himself.
one for me.
how different you
are from the world, I think,
staring deeply
into the glass darkly.
how different, indeed.

on the same page

instant
gratification. like a child.
we want
pain to stop.
for hunger to be filled.
for
our tiredness
to end.
we want the rain to cease,
tomorrow
to begin.
how little patience
we have
with ourselves and others.
wishing all
of us were in the same book,
on the same page.

under my skin

this other
thing. this other pebble
in my shoe.
sharp against a toe.
this thread
unraveling,
the lost button,
a belt that won't
hold. this space
unfound
for the car.
this burn in my eyes.
this thorn in my side.
this
cut on my finger.
the long line,
a rain without
a coat.
the lamp gone dark.

the long walk

this flat desert
we walk on.
waterless, under a flat
blue
wall of sky.
no green to be found.
no bird afloat,
no soul
dancing on this sanded
ground.
what we think we
see, or know, is not there.
what was behind us is gone.
what lies ahead
we turn into an oasis
of life.
of hope and love.
we keep at it,
walk forward
knowing that at some point,
it will be true.

what can't be seen

we find
a penny. we wish upon it.
tossing it
into the bricked well.
we listen to the splash.
we look
up and cross ourselves.
we pray for pain
and sorrow to go away.
so much
of what we do and hope
for depends
on what can't be seen,
or heard.

what i hear

I hear the branch
etch
against the glass.
I hear
pins drop. I hear
the last
car arriving in the lot.
a door close.
a fox in the woods.
small drips of water
against the chrome drain.
I hear the light tap
of my pillow
as my hand pushes down.
the closing of a book.
a sigh.
a tear slide against
a weary cheek.
the light switch turned off.
I hear
what one rarely hears,
it's all that comes
into my ears.

let the world go

how bright
the light is when one let's
go of
worry.
of concern for what
one can't control.
how sweet the birds
sound,
the wind chimes.
how friendly the world
becomes
when you've surrendered
and let
the world spin as it is,
letting go.

the weight

bent
over with an early
season of
old age.
the satchel
is heavy with secrets.
lies.
we look left
then right,
under the bed.
the hedges outside,
hidden from
light. who knows what
we know.
few even care.
the bitter taste
of regret
for mistakes made
are difficult to wash away.
deception and dishonesty
are served
cold and hard
throughout his life.