they found a way out

who doesn't have problems.
some
more than others.
the mundane or complex.
some solvable, some a life time
of
feet stuck in the mud
with no way out.
who isn't under pressure
from
the past, the present,
or tomorrow. work,
a kid,
a parent, a spouse.
a dog
who sheds and just jumped
the fence.
who isn't under the gun,
unnerved,
wary,
feeling lonely, or lacking
in more fun.
who isn't stuck in
traffic, or wiping
coffee off their shirt,
or dealing with the turmoil
of the recent past.
nearly every person
I know,
almost everyone. who doesn't
have problems?
only the completely
mad and out of their minds.
locked in an asylum,
they found a way
out.

Heading Down Stream

for so long
the water was muddy,
murky,
full of dirt and sludge.
it leaked
in brown green swirls
of deceit and lies,
all pouring out
daily
from her rusted pipes,
her infected
mind.
old fish floated
dead on the surface.
nothing was clear
until I got
downstream
away from her.
suddenly the water
was cool
and kind, refreshing.
you could drink it again.
there was life inside,
below
the water line.
there was
the clarity of soul,
how quickly I drank
and took back myself,
something that I should
never have given,
for it
was always mine.

I like this ink

i like the way this ink
paints
a picture in my mind and on
the page.
how it flows,
and goes,
and writes itself out.
the pain, the love,
the heartbreak.
work and life.
sex and death.
dogs and cats, kids and food.
i write about the train
leaving
and the train arriving
over and over again.
i'm always there,
waiting, or waving farewell.
i'll keep at as long as i
can.
as long as there is time
and health, i'll pound
away at these
keys and write my story.
for better worse. and if you
don't like, please
go somewhere else to read.

i need spicy

i open the fridge door
and let out a long sigh,
i'm in my socks,
so i do the ballet spin
around the room,
going from cupboard to
cupboard.
hmmm, leaves my lips.
not a thing to eat.
sure,
there's eggs, and peanut
butter,
and frozen fish,
frozen chicken wings.
but i need something spicy.
something to make
my bald head sweat,
something hot and delicious
to get my heart a thumping.
i wonder what she's up
to right now, and if she
can deliver me something.

that much i know

I bend to a kiss.
to a hug,
to a kind word,
I bend and bow to
a good soul.
a good friend, a sweet
person
that I adore.
I give everything of me
to someone
I love
and is true,
and hold back
everything, when its over
and she's gone.
i'm selfish when it
comes to love,
that much
I know.

kindness

sometimes
all we need is a drink.
a sip
from a hand.
a drop of rain
falling into our open
mouths.
sometimes a little
bit of
kindness
is enough to see us
through
the dry times,
keep us quenched
when
a lush green
earth has
turned to sand.

finding a pearl

it's rare,
the pearl inside a shell.
perfect
and round,
clean and pinkish
white.
this kind of gem
is hard
to find. a miracle
of sorts
on this long
deserted beach,
but when you do
find her,
this shiny star,
lay it
in your hand,
put it where you can
see it everyday,
before you go to sleep
at night.
keep it, adore
her, but
don't hold too tight.

making love

it's not sex,
it's not a fling, a wild
ride.
it's not
an affair, it's not
lust or need, or a
desire that burns, or
a hot thirst,
that needs to be
quenched,
a longing deep inside.
it's
something different.
making love
when love is true,
when it's mutual and kind,
thoughtful
and open. when
there is nothing
in our minds to hide.
just us
together.
no pretend. no lies.
just love, side by side.

the waitress

the waitress
is young, it's her first
night on the job,
things get spilled,
forgotten,
forks and spoons
fall to the floor.
she brings the salad
out last,
the bread too.
gives us the wrong
drinks.
but it's her first
day on the job,
who hasn't been that
young, that new?
it's all okay.
it's just her turn,
a big tip will help
her through.

what about us?

we play a game
at the airport. guessing who
everyone is, or might be,
where they're going,
what they're up to, either
good or no good.
who's in love, who's breaking
up,
who is going to a place
where they won't return.
where they'll live happily
ever after
madly in love full of hope
and trust.
and she smiles and says,
I like that destination,
so, what about us?

more good

it's positive
thinking.
the thumb up, the good
spin,
the prayers,
the cheerful words,
a smile,
a joke,
a light touch or
kiss
when someone hurts.
we need more
of this.
of this kindness
and compassion, there is
enough evil in the world.
too much lying,
too much
betrayal and hatred
too much that's not right,
not fixed.
too much denial.
we need heartfelt
communication,
not silence,

help arrives

help arrives
when least expected.
out of the woodwork
they come
in droves.
those you once thought
lost, ancient history,
gone where old friends
go.
be here they are
at your door, with food,
with drink
with open arms and love,
kind thoughts and prayers,
happy that once again
you are who you are.

finding love

I knock
on the melon, onto
the green
and white striped side.
it's thick with spring
coming into summer.
I look
at the label
to see where
it was grown, where
it's come from.
I turn it in the stack
and knock again,
look at another
and wonder.
finally, I pick it
up, settling on it's
size and weight.
i put it into
the cart, still not
sure if it's going
to be sweet or not
when I get it home
and slice it apart.
we'll see. we always
do.

just slap me, please

she pulls me
aside and says hey.
enough.
just kiss me and be done
with this
dame, this babe,
this broad,
this catastrophe that you
crazily mistook for
love. so I do.
I kiss her, i
put my arm around her waist,
I listen and absorb
the wisdom of what she
says. just slap me,
throw a cold glass of
water into my face,
I tell her,
if I even begin
to go off the deep
end ever again.
I have the ice water
ready, she says.
no problem.

where the pictures go

they have a thousand
pictures, all framed, all dated
on the back.
1931 and forward
up until a year ago.
it's the family outing.
the graduation.
the wedding, the funeral.
the birth,
the party,
the farewell.
most are black and white.
some in koda chrome color.
each to a place
on a nail
on a wall carefully measured
some decades ago.
the lines of dust
and dirt
show where they go, where
they'll hang
until everyone is gone
from memory,
including those who held
the hammer.

unripe and green

it's the core wound.
the mother
father
influence or lack thereof
that does
the damage
at an early age.
the narcissism, the anger
or violence,
the obvious lack
of attention and love
that sets us
on a tumultuous path
of pain
and sorrow. unable
to secure
love when we find it,
or throw
it to the wind
when it appears safe
and sound
at our doorstep.
we are fighting the normalcy
of chaos our whole
lives.
seeking comfort in pleasure
or pain,
or both.
getting our fixes
to get through
another day of wanting
to be needed
and needing to be wanted.
we don't fall far from that
rotted tree,
with their brown
fruit,
inedible, or unripe
and green.

the house in order

all things are in order.
the house is clean.
the bills are paid.
the bed made.
the dog is walked.
the windows
have been wiped.
the dust is gone.
not a cobweb is found
anywhere in any room.
even the attic
where the memories
were stored
is spotless, not a box,
not a picture framed,
not an old rusted sword.
no trinkets, no nick knacks,
no photos or
rings. no shoes left behind,
no clothes on a hanger,
no strings attached
anymore.
all things
must pass.
the trash pick up
is on Monday.
there is little left
to haul to the curb,
no bitter reminders,
at last. a joy to behold.

let's go for a swim

the sky is not falling.
the end
is not near.
there is still time,
still
a few hours left on this planet
to have
fun again.
okay, maybe more than that.
glad you're here
to join in.
put on your bathing suit,
let's go for
a swim.

lie beside me

come here and lie beside me.
don't say a word.
lie close to me, let me feel
your skin,
your lips, your hair.
i almost lost you for another.
no words can describe
such a loss,
such a scare.
come here and lie beside me.
don't say a word.
we'll make love in
the morning, and linger,
listening to the trees
out side, now full, and
swimming with birds.

the empty space

I leave an empty
space
in the room. it's fine that way.
no need
to fill it with
another object.
art, a vase,
flowers or otherwise.
the empty space
is fine.
imagination
depends upon the empty
spaces
in our lives.
without them, our
brushes go unused, our
pens
go dry.

the line pulls them along

all day,
all night the chickens die.
strung
on cords
by their feet, their
red claws,
their bodies
white as cotton,
fat
for the slaughter,
bursting feathers in
tight cages.
nothing near human
in their black
eyes.
they are pulled along,
the music
of the machine, a string
orchestra
of maddening noise.
they are
shocked at first
with a bolt of electricity
then
their throats cut,
to get the blood out.
to drain them dry,
heads come
off,
feet.
then stripped clean
to the skin.

once you've seen
it,
you never again eat
a wing, or leg, a breast,
or thigh.

by the age of seven

they say
it begins at birth,
until the age of seven.
if you
aren't getting the right
amount of love
and care by then,
you're pretty much doomed
to live a chaotic
existence
until you get some serious
help to straighten
things out.
you're screwed by
the angry father,
the ambivalent mother.
weigh down by their narcissism.
the self worth is chewed
up and spit out
by then.
they do a number on you.
they beat you down,
and you in turn
will do the same to others
who want you
in their lives. unattached
and distant, cold
and aloof,
causing havoc wherever
you go.

drama be gone

I hate drama.
queen or king, or prince
induced.
princess, be gone from my sight
you
whining baby.
don't speak, don't wallow
in self pity.
I don't want to hear another word
of your tormented
life.
your childhood, your
toxic
world, no relationship
or friend, or sibling, parent
or coworker is ever
quite right.
I hate drama.
please don't drag me into
this swirling vortex
of pain
and confusion,
this tornado, this rollercoaster
ride
where everything is a
Shakespearean tragedy full
darkness and night.
I can't sit and watch this
anymore, this play,
that never ends. I've heard
it all time and time again.
I almost know the lines
by heart.
please be gone with your drama.
I need a fresh
new idea. I need a positive
perspective, a clean new
start.

cold turkey

he tries to go cold turkey.
no smokes.
but he has no back up plan.
no gum
no patch, no inhaler,
no
method or plan
to escape
the addiction to nicotine.
there is no safety net
to catch him
when the nerves get jangled.
when anxiety hits.
instead he
walks out in the freezing
rain
to buy a pack
when the toxic habit overcomes
him.
he doesn't want to be in
this sick
relationship with cigarettes,
but it's what he knows,
what soothes him,
what makes him feel better
when the chips are down.
despite
the smell, the coughing,
the gagging,
the stink
and sickness that it
causes to his heart
and lung,
his soul. it's no unlike
bad love.
trust me. just quit.

more than enough

i see her in the yard
on her knees,
those weeds, those endless
weeds,
the clover.
she's into it,
with her gloves her rake
her bags
full of debris.
she likes to dig, to wash
and clean,
scrubbing the deck.
she makes
thing pretty, but
she doesn't have
to.
she's enough. more than
enough. flowers don't
have a chance
around her.

the hole inside

it's the tone.
the words,
the carefully,
laid out
sentences.
the control
of it all.
it's manipulation.
nothing has changed.
the heart of the problem
has not
been touched.
what lies deep within
is still there.
the dark hole has
not been filled
with anything new.
it's all window dressing
while the house
is in shambles.
while it teeters
on rotted beams,
a crumbled foundation.
I can feel it,
smell it, taste it.
scary,
it truly is.

listen to your mother

it's an old wound,
hardened, scabbed over.
it's been there for awhile.
I have a tendency to pick at
it,
like a child
not under the watchful eyes
of his mother.
there is no one there
to tell me to stop,
what are you doing, you're
going to make it bleed
again.
so time and time again,
I rub, and itch,
scratch at it until it
bleeds and starts all
over once more. but
I finally stop, and suddenly
I wake up once morning,
and it's gone.
listen to
your mother.

going slow

what I thought was blue
was less
blue, and more green.
what I thought was cooked
wasn't,
still raw and pink
in the cut.
the car I bought didn't do
it for me either,
too slow, to big,
or the clothes
I found
in the bottom drawer.
nothing fits.
I've made some bad choices
in my life.
some I regret, most I just
laugh about,
and try again,
this time around though
i'm going slow,
taking my time, and finding
what I really want,
who really wants me.

weather

the trees
swim in the early morning rain.
the breeze
picks up
the world and tosses
it around.
there is nothing we can
do about
the weather,
or much else for that matter,
we just have
to out into
it,
and be truthful
with our lives.

getting over it

my friend jimmy
broke up with his wife last month.
irreconcilable differences.
i run into him
down at the local pub,
crying in his beer.
they were married for almost
a year.
i loved her so much, he says.
loved her like
I've never loved another woman.
she was my life,
she was my wife.
i miss her so much, he tells me.
then i see him open his phone
and a picture appears,
who isn't his wife. some woman
in a red dress.
who's that i ask, as he
wipes away his tears
with a bar napkin, and blows
his nose.
oh that's betty, met her
the other night
on tinder.
she's coming here
later tonight, she's a school
teacher
from La plata.

the red sauce family

i dnn't really have a favorite
aunt
or uncle.
although there's a dozen of
them floating round
in jersey and philly.
lots of johnnies, and Lennies
and stephens, and
dolores.
Gloria, marie, lena.
Sophia.
it's the spaghetti side
of the family
tree. meatballs and red
sauce. extra cheese.
everyone has lost touch
since the parents have died.
the grandmothers,
long gone.
you find out now second
or third hand
when someone passes.
facebook, or an obit,
but there's no phone calls
anymore.
everyone's has lost touch,
despite there being so many
more ways now a days
to keep in touch.
oh well.

need air or die

sometimes
when I don't get enough air
into my
lungs
the world starts to go dark,
I feel faint,
and woozy,
I find a chair to sit down
in, get a glass
of water,
locate my rescue inhaler
and take a couple
of hard puffs.
sweat beads on my forehead,
and I think
about being found stretched
out on the floor,
ready to start pushing up
daisies.
no will, no combination
to the safe, no way for anyone
to get onto my
computer and find out
what I've been up to.
loose money lying around,
the milk on
the counter,
the doors unlocked and i'm
just gone.
oh well, it's not my problem
anymore.

released

having recently been
released from a mental institution
I stand outside
the iron gate and wave
to my doctors and fellow patients.
they smile
and wave back.
there's joe, who thinks he's jesus,
and jim
who believes he's
the king of England.
mary, the bride of Frankenstein,
and elaine, joan of arc.
it's a lovely bunch of nutcakes,
to which I was once
a part of.
why they think i'm better,
I have no clue,
maybe they need the bed, the space,
the shackles
that held me down.
I see the doctors in the their white
coats,
holding syringes, and electrodes,
long wires where
the electricity flowed,
their hammers and saws and scalpels,
bottles of fat pills,
books and books
describing how to heal.
they wave and wave as I wave
back and walk away.
free at last of so much crazy
stuff that go in my way.

the scrambled egg mind

I try to think
of new metaphors
related to food, that describe
certain
relationships that have
come and gone, or are new
and will stay
for longer than a night,
or day.
scrambled eggs
comes to mind, a scrambled
mind with a side
order of bacon.
or emotional lasagna.
layered and gooey with cheese.
bad for the heart.
cotton candy.
sweet and sticky
with no value.
then there's the fish gone
bad,
a flounder that sat
in the sun too long,
or the apple with the worm,
the hidden brown
dent on the side you never saw.
soup, cold and old
with a thick
brown froth
comes to mind, as does,
left over pizza
or a box of Chinese
noodles, stiffened and hard
by the cold air of
a fridge, and time.

The family room

they sit and ponder
around the table, there is cheese
and grapes.
crackers. slices of thick
stale pound cake,
cheap gin,
tonic water. nothing fancy
or elaborate,
paper plates and cups,
old chairs,
torn cushions,
the ac just barely on.
the stereo whispering
a song
by Sinatra, perry como.
the house has not changed in
thirty years,
the same thin drapes,
the rusted sheers.
there is the awkward silence,
the dryness
of the afternoon
settling in.
the unasked questions.
the elephant
in the room. it's deadly
this time of life,
to see your children so lost,
so late,
so full of sadness, so
stuck
in gloom. but hugs will
happen as each child departs,
kisses on the cheeks,
all is well, they'll reply,
everything is fine,
not to worry,
we'll see you again,
soon.

papers in the wind

some have the curse
of object
constancy,
keeping everything
ever touched
as if gold,
while others,
similar to me
need to scrub clean
the rooms,
to remove all items
related
to what's past.
it's just tin now.
rhinestones
made of glass.
I seek the big can,
the box,
the curb where all
things related
will be tossed away.
what's real is kept,
that stays in the heart,
the rest is fake,
debris,
papers in the wind,
trash.

one place to the next

a thought or two
surfaces,
it's a scent, a whiff
of something
in the air,
from the past, perfume
perhaps,
a flower
outside the window.
skin,
lips, her breath.
these thoughts are
like
thin dreams found
in daylight.
clinging for just
a moment,
in passing, in going
from one place
to the next.
funny how life clings
as it slowly
disappears, as it should,
to begin
what's next.

love can be like that

I find a twenty
dollar bill in the dryer
and think
how lucky.
how nice to find money
when least
expected, even though
it's been there
all along.
right there in front
of you.
love can be like
that.
in fact it is.

Ready to Go

she's a very good planner.
I love that
about her.
tickets
to a show, wolf trap,
to philly
for a concert,
to the beach before
it snows.
new York, of course,
in the fall
before
the winds and ice
come on.
a bed and breakfast
off the bay
with a window
to see the sky, the water,
the clouds
that sway.
a cruise in the spring
to venice,
or spain.
I like how she plans,
how she thinks ahead
towards fun.
i'm all in, i'm down
with that,
my bags are packed,
i'm ready to go. Let's
follow the sun.

The Happy Stone

you can take
this to the bank.

engrave it
in stone
where you can read
it
everyday
of your life.

when you know how
to be happy
you will no longer
tolerate those
who make you
unhappy.

you will move on.

dour and sour

some people have no sense
of humor.
they are dry
and dark, sour
and dour, shaking their
heads
at the slightest
of cracks,
of attempts at lightening
up the moment.
you can see it on their faces.
it's all about
work
and repetition.
duties
and trying not to sin.
god forbid
that a sarcastic
remark is made with
no harm intended,
no malicious thought
in mind.
they go through life
as if going to the gallows.
walking
the plank,
pacing the green mile
waiting for it all
to end.

the fish aren't biting

the fish aren't biting tonight.
but it's okay.
they need their rest too.
i'm tired
of swimming in this cold pool,
so I get it.
I see them in the clear
green water,
their silver shells in plaid
along the sides.
the
fluorescence of their
short lives.
I reel in the line, and lie back
on a stone
beside the river side.
it's a good night for this.
letting things be.
letting the water just
flow on bye.

to the drive in

I remember back in high
school
washing the car before
going out
on a date to the drive in
with my
sweetie.
let's call her lou la belle
for lack
of a better name.
i'd pick her up
and beep
the horn outside her house.
making her father shake
his head
and yell at her to be home
by midnight.
not likely.
then off we'd go.
chap stick in hand, a six
pack of beer
on ice.
three horror movies on
tap, the werewolf of London,
a vampire flick,
and the house on the haunted
hill, all
starring Vincent price.

Monsters under the bed

there a monsters,
both real and imagined. who hasn't
known one
or two, or three
or four.

who hasn't as a child
looked under
the bed or in the closet
before going
to sleep?

left the hall light on.

there are demons and dragons,
goblins
and witches
throughout our life.

some real, some imagined,

some you know,
some you wish
you had never met,
and others,
who are waiting in the shadows

for their turn
to wreak havoc,
and dread.

I'm All Yours

I go to my favorite doctor,

she says without hesitation,
take off your clothes.

she examines me
from the head
down
to my toes. she weighs me.

checks the reflexes by tapping
each knee.

cough she says.
bend over, blow your nose.
say ahh.

let me listen to your heart.
put my hand
in yours, lets see that pulse,

the blood pressure, too.

let's take some blood.
look into
those ears.

now kiss me, she says,
and take one
of these each day.
she hands me a bag of
sweet
sugar candies, heart shaped,

each one saying
i'm yours.

the true life

we hear
what we want to hear.
see what we want
to believe.
we selectively live
our lives,
half in shadow, half
in sunlight.
it's easier that way
at times,
to not question what's
right,
what's wrong.
I did it for so long.
we go a little deaf,
a little blind,
when two souls, become
entwined.
but at some point,
you
have to live that true
life
and move on.

A Card in the Mail

she sends you a card.
a sweet
card, something she's held
onto
for years.
there's a note inside.
it's poetic.
she waited for the moment
to drop
it in the mail.
it's heartfelt, genuine,
real.
I read the words
and wipe a tear away. i
savor
what she's written,
I feel the same.

some love, true love,
is meant to stay.

father Leo

i run into the local parish priest
at the 7-11. father Leo.
he's buying a six pack
of beer,
and a cartoon of lucky strikes.
hey, he says.
haven't seen you in
church for awhile, not you or
the wife.
oh, i tell him.
grabbing a newspaper and a
box of donuts.
things have changed. it didn't
work out.
oh, he says, sorry to hear that.
oh well. what can I say,
but hey, Thursday is bingo
night, why don't you come
on out. some singles will
be there, pot luck,
if you're ready
for that. he winks, and pats
me on the back. bless you my
son, he says.
keep your chin up.
see you in church.

The Neighbor Says Goodbye

the neighbor is moving,
she leaves a long note, two pages,
on my door.
I've seen her carrying boxes
into her house
for a week now.
she tells me where she is going
and why.
when and how, etc.
we've spoken over the decade maybe
twice, maybe
three times.
but now this letter comes through
the door with her
number written down.
she says she'll miss me, miss
living close by.
I scratch my head and think
about
what a good neighbor she was,
so private, so quiet and shy.
her garden in her yard,
so green.
I don't know quite what to say.
to say that i'll miss her isn't
true, so i'll just wait until
the truck comes, then i'll stand
on the porch and wave, saying
goodbye.

Her Life

she breathes, or cries.
I know
it.
I can feel it across the miles.
her children by
her side.
the wind
in her hair, the sun
in her eyes.
her life unravels
and spills at times,
patients, get well.
some die.
but she keeps it all together,
somehow. it's
beyond my understanding.
I can barely
get out the door, without
stubbing a toe,
and thinking the worst
has happened.

The flowers are out

I see the flowers
come up in the yard.
in bunches.
who put them there?
all colors
are welcome.
all scents are respected
and admired.
the bushes
are full,
the tree strong
again.
laughing green with
its leaves.
I look out the window
at this small square
of yard,
the squirrels at it,
the birds
on the wire.
the chair that i'll
sit in as the sky
cools,
with book, with drink,
with music.
come on over,
let's be kind to each
other.
let's watch the moon rise
into our eyes.

three days

i savor
the three day weekend.
the long
sleep.
the meals together. the kiss.
the tv.
the couch
we'll lie upon, the walks,
the talk.
the nothing of it
all.
good weather or bad,
makes no
difference.
three days of no work,
how can anyone
be sad.

The Old Fridge

she was a human
refrigerator
with a burned out light.
cold
as ice.
that hum though, could
be heard
throughout
the house.
the rattle of bones,
the wires,
the Freon leaking,
everything
on those wired
shelves spoiled.
the temperature
was never right.
there was melting at
times,
but the frost was
always there.
the rotting tomatoes
on the vine,
the oranges,
the dried fruit,
a brown pear.
dinner for two was
not a delight.

I think about another dog

i think about a dog.
getting one.
but the thought persists
for about three
seconds. i think back to
those cold wet days
with the last dog,
begging him to do his
business
under a bush in a foot
of snow.
the vet bill was never
less than 400 dollars.
each dead thing he rolled
in or ate
he ended up in the mayo
clinic for animals.
on iv's, in traction,
quarantined.
the nails, the teeth,
the fleas. the shedding.
the chewed up couch,
the chairs,
the accidents he'd leave.
i loved him and he loved
me. but it was a hard
life for the both of us.
leaving him alone
all day, sometimes at night.
him getting fat and
old, grey and long in
the tooth, not unlike
me. there was love, between
us, but the thought
of getting another,
please.

swinging from the gallows

I was a wet towel
for months on end.
you could wring me out,
soaked and heavy
with emotion,
the tears, the fear,
the anxiety,
the tension
and suspicion. I was
wound tight.
a ball of nerves.
walking on eggshells,
day in, day out,
spinning like a top
all night.
no matter where I was
I was lost.
in a daze, everything
was wrong, when so much
before, was right.
I was a dead man walking.
going up the stairs
to the gallows each day.
waiting with a rope
around my neck, waiting
for the trap door
to open, and for me
to swing
mercifully to an early
death.
but the governor called.
and i'm free, outside
the walls once
more.

come over and see

I fall asleep with a book
in my hands.
the tv on,
all the lights in the house
lit up,
the door unlocked.
it's a sweet sleep, deep
and luxurious on these
new Egyptian one hundred
per cent cotton sheets.
blue like the Carolina
sky.
it's a good nine hours.
not a toss or turn the entire
night.
the new bed is deep
and holds me like a glove.
you'll have to come over,
and see what I mean.

The Decision

there comes a point when
decisions need to be made.
when it's time
to decide on which way to go,
what to do
about so many things.

the rose colored glasses
are broken on the floor.
the dream has died.
to stay or go.
to jump or swim, to linger
in the malaise,

or be strong
and run towards the inevitable
end.
it takes courage, guts,
guile and wisdom, a life
saving break
to finally bring things
to a close.

it's
not an easy thing to do
at any age, but especially
now, to be brave and decide,
but
the option is worse, to
stay and ignore the pain,
the hurt, to pretend
and deny.

the ice box

in the old days
my mother would
stand on a kitchen
chair and take
a butter
knife to clean the ice
box.
to free the sides
of white
frost
gained in time.
inside of us, we too,
need
to be carved,
melted free
of pain
and sorrow
to find the love inside.
the warmth.
the heart. joy.

She Lies Awake

she lies awake
at night. there is
the ceiling,
the wall.
windows,
a door to the right.
the bed is hard.
the blankets
old and worn.
the air is heavy
with memory,
the curtains drawn.
sadness and sorrow
for all
that's gone wrong.
the numbers on the clock
are red.
the phone is there
beside her hand.
at last quiet. she reads
her books, puts
the picture to mark
her page.
a ring, a watch,
water on the night stand.
the night is long
and morning comes too soon
to start it
all again.

two sides

the bee
has two sides,
the sting
and the sweet.
one must
come with the other.
as in most
things
in this life.
there is dark,
there is light.
there
is the truth
then the lie.
which one we become
depends on so
much
from birth
until we die.

eat, eat, dont wait for me

I remember my
mother's lasagna. I can see
her now in the kitchen
with the red sauce bubbling,
splattering her
walls and stove.
her laminated list of phone
numbers by the phone.
the wide pasta,
the cheese, her generous
spooning
of ricotta, mozzarella.
the sausage
beside it, the meatballs.
the green
salad in her big wooden
bowl on the table.
I remember how her glasses
would steam up
from the boiling water,
beads of sweat
on her forehead. eat, eat,
she's say.
wiping her hands on her
apron. don't wait for me.
eat while it's hot.
go, sit down.

mother and daughter

as i paint the rooms
one by one,
i see through the small
open door
the old woman,
beside
her daughter. lying
in bed
at three in the afternoon.
both sound asleep
with the tv on.
arms around each other,
as they've always
done, since childhood.
one is ninety
the other forty seven
or more.
huddled together.
the daughter can't walk,
or hardly
speak, or feed herself anymore.
both are near the end
of this life,
but they love
one another,
mother and daughter.

gently, i gather myself,
my things,
and close the door.

some crazy love

I used to be addicted to
the hi-wire, balancing
high above
the street
in bare feet on the long
string of
steel.
with pole in hand,
wobbling, as I walk
step after step
towards the other side.
it was exhilarating,
the fear,
the adrenaline,
the possibility of death.
or of success.
it's hard to stop
once you begin. the dopamine
is running like
an open water
tap in your veins.
some crazy love can
be like that.

feathers

things are lighter.
the weight of it all, less
and less.
sometimes the day is lead,
while
others it's a feather,
that blows gently
in my hands,
and over my head.
how strong we are after
so much
lifting.
it's time to put the heavy
weight back
on the ground.
i need feathers now, a bed
full of feathers.
the key
is under the mat, come
on over and lift
with me.

the missed call

I miss the call.
the phone rings and rings while
i'm
in the shower.
I don't hear it
as I scrub and sing,
soaking
in the steam, the hot
water.
there is no message,
no voice mail,
nothing but an unknown
set of numbers.
I miss the call, but don't
care.
it's no one I want
to hear from.

how you get up

it's okay to stumble,
to trip
and fall, to lose your balance
and lose
part of your
logical mind. it's okay
to make a mistake,
have a weak
moment and misstep, who
hasn't,
who hasn't taken
a fall. taken a wrong
turn
and tumbled to the ground.
it's how you get up
that matters.

the long day

a wave
comes and knocks you over.
you pick yourself up
and go back
into it.
to where you can barely
stand.
another wave
arrives and pulls you
forward,
back again.
the salt is in your mouth,
your ears
are full,
the sun is a blur
in the wet sky.
it's a long day in the ocean,
without a hand
to hold,
without a life guard
in the chair.
it all keeps coming.
the water is rough,
the water is cold.

Hanging Lights

when the lights flicker,
and the hall switch turns
on the bathroom light, while
the bathroom light
lights up the dining room
chandelier, and the toaster
turns
on the blender, she calls
an electrician
to unravel the wires,
the start over and make
the right connections.
it's worth the bucks
i tell her, as she stands
there in her tool belt
holding a screw driver in
one hand and a fire
extinguisher in the other.

each to his own work

each to his own job
in life.
shuffling papers, or
nailing
boards, listening to
the sick
giving advice.
answering phones,
sweeping floor,
or baking bread.
each to his work
in the world.
having found a way
to make a living, to
survive.
some have joy, while
others it's a slow
ride, a painfully
long day that never ends.
tied to their phones
all night, into
the weekend.
how lucky are those
that savor the hours,
that have found a way
to live, to work
and find love.
it's rare, but oh so
wonderful life.

hot cup of joe

i need coffee to wake
me up
from a deep sleep, how
sweet
the dreams were.
how nice
and long the night was.
but i'm
groggy now. awake,
but
stumbling towards
the hot cup.
doctoring it up just
so, with cream
and sugar,
going up the stairs
to crank out, before
work,
another couple of
poems. then on the road
i go.

The Yard is Green

the yard
is green. the statue
leans in the grass.
the bird
bath of old stone
is filled
with a clear pool
of rain water.
the birds
are on the fence.
robins and finches,
woodpeckers
starlings and cardinals.
they look
and look, but things
have changed
what was once here,
is gone.
the don't stay long,
they spread their wings,
and go.

the binge is on

the Netflix binge
is on,
so much that grabs your
interest.
who knew?
got the popcorn,
the drinks,
the big couch in
the basement,
the lights are low.
we have all night,
give me the
remote. let's go.

Getting Clean

I decide to get healthy.
not just with food,
or exercise,
or sleep, or cleanliness,
but mentally as well.
a spiritual hosing down
is needed.
to drop the pretense of
being good and holy
and actually give it a
shot. Read the 12 steps,
the Warrior Prayer.
pray more, forgive more.
repent and accept others
as they are, not as who you
want them to be.
the world does not revolve
around you.
time to listen, to be in
the moment.
to be careful with your
words, your thoughts,
your actions. let go
of the anger, the guilt,
the wasted energy of
trying to change
what can't be changed.
time to get clean, to get
free of past habits,
past addictions to all
things that darken your
soul. time to live
outside the shadows.
no guilt, no shame, no
regrets anymore. start
now, and don't look back.

The Tide Comes In

the tide
comes in, so we move our chairs
back
into the sand.
the sun is behind us,
on the bay side.
it's a perfect day.
blue
and clear.
in the distance I can see
the freighters
plowing
slowly through the dark
green of
an even deeper water.
they are plum colored,
their flags
pushed open by the wind.
there are no crowds,
it's too early
in the season.
we have room, we have quiet.
we have books in our laps.
the water is cool
against our feet.
it's been a long time
coming,
getting away like this.
we have all week to do
nothing, but eat
and sleep, read,
make love. walk hand
in hand along the shore,
and watch the roll of a
gentle
sea.

be quiet

I think back
on the phone calls, the late night
visits,
the shrink,
the father or son
on the phone, old friends
and new friends
at the mercy of my tongue.
giving them
the details of my life,
the strife,
the pain, the agony of it all.
not seeking sympathy, but
just venting.
at times I wished i'd
never said a word,
for they too have their
own catastrophes
and issues that can't be
solved with hugs and talks,
books, and tears.
so you stop, and like smoke
From a dead fire you
let it all blow away
in a gentle wind.

the busy girl

the electricians come,
the painters,
the power washers, the dog
walker,
the maid,
the help
all arrive. she's a busy
girl in her white coat,
with her stethoscope,
so smart and kind.
overwhelmed at times, but
still finding
an hour or two, or nine
to throw my way
when the weekends come.

the pebbles

I stop
to empty the pebble
in my
shoe.
I sit on the curb,
untie the laces,
and knock
the heel against
the pavement.
there's more than one
pebble.
there's a few.
each day,
I do the same.
in time, i'll buy
a new pair
of shoes
and be done with this.

sign of the times

it's a nervous
tic,
a leg that won't stop
with a twitch,
a stammer,
a stutter, a trip,
a fall.
an eye that flutters.
the butterfly
trapped
inside.
we walk on eggshells,
have little or
no trust in others.
we doubt.
we doubt.
we doubt.
it's in all of us,
this
lack
of confidence
as we wretchedly
unwind. it comes
out of nowhere,
insecurity
and worry,
a sign of the times.

St. Bernadette's Small Chapel

the first time
I went to the small chapel
at
St. Bernadette's
was fifteen years ago.

on my knees I prayed.
asked for forgiveness,
spilled out all my sins,
my remorse,
my regrets.

the small church to the side
was quiet
and empty
except for me. it was
easy
to stay there for hours,
seeking
help, seeking direction,
as I cried.

I emptied my soul, came
clean.
became whole.

not long ago I went there
once more,
and did it all over
again.

almost fifteen years to
the day
since my last visit
to the small chapel
next door.

farewell and goodnight

don't hold anything
or anyone
too tight.
give them room to breathe.
love,
but love lightly,
let them be who they
are,
and if that isn't
what you hoped for,
say good bye,
it's a shame it
didn't work out,
say with a smile
and a wave,
farewell and good night.

The Lost Boy

i wonder
about the son.
a good fellow, gentle
and kind. but trapped in
an imaginary world,
thinking always that everything
will be fine.
his life is a small caged
world without change.
out of college eight years
with never a job,
never needing money,
everything has been given
to him.
the love has overflowed.
never having to search
for work, or half trying,
hoping against hope
for lighting to strike.
almost 30 now,
with grey in his hair,
so late to get started.
still tied to the apron strings
of an aged father,
and wounded mother
who has returned to the fold.
they have no courage, no
sense, or will to tell
him to go, to leave the nest
and fly. but they're
a family once more. and he's
smothered to a point
of paralysis.
all his friends have moved
on but he's
still stuck in childhood.
his toys of youth, his
adolescent books and movies,
not far
from hand. looking out
the same windows he did
when a child.
no romance, no girlfriend,
no wife.
nothing
beyond the gate, the winding
road, the paths that surround
the dark wooded house,
the prison
that has become his
own. he's oblivious to his
parents undoing, they're sins
are hidden still. everyone
shakes their head, friends,
the grandparents, but no one
knows what to say or do.
such a waste for someone so smart,
so talented. the days turn
into months,
then years. the seasons
keep coming.
keep coming.
there's no future, no
hope, no destiny
in sight. but when
the mother is asked,
or the father,
the answer is always the same,
everything is fine,
everything is alright.

game night

some games
you know. cards, and dice.
the roulette wheel,
gin rummy,
poker,
old maid
and war.
scrabble.
the game of life.
monopoly
and trivial pursuit.
you've played them all
at some point.
never caring
about the out come.
who wins
who loses, so what.
it's who you're with
when you
play.
the fun of it, the joy
of it.
the easy night
together
doing nothing but
saying
roll the dice,
I call,
i'm in, your turn.

blue lights out the window

I remember
my father laughing,
his blue eyes lit up
as he arrived home
at one a.m.
his heart good for the moment,
before the darkness
of too much
scotch took hold.
I remember
his hands pulling at my
mother's black hair,
the twist of her
arm
as it broke.
the glass on the floor.
her blood,
crimson and rich,
the scratch on his cheek,
unshaven
and cold. I remember
the strange words
they said to one
another, the knife
that cut the telephone
cord
after she called
for help.
the pounding at the door.
the blue lights
spinning out the windows,
once more.

The Wishing Well

i almost drowned
in what
i thought was love.
what i thought was safe
water, a wishing well.
i threw so many
coins in, then jumped
in myself. but it
was a dank well.
murky
and cold. an endless
deep
cauldron of pain
and sorrow.
i went under swallowing
the lies.
i climbed
the walls,
grasped at the slippery
sides of old
stones, yelled for help,
for someone to throw
me a rope.
i had no way out,
no ladder, no hope.
then a hand
came over and took mine,
she said, i think you
need help and
she pulled
me up, she pulled me out.

taking the high road

there are so many roads.
the low
road,
the high road,
the road not travelled,
the worn
and beaten road,
full of mud
and stones.
you've known each road,
been on them,
or not taken
them.
you regret the low
roads,
having been stuck on
them for so long,
telling the horse to
pull
your wagon, get up,
let's go.
but you stay there.
they are treacherous
roads
with false
turns, detours,
ditches and bent signs.
you stay way too long.
it's time
for a different way,
to get out of this muck,
this hell.
you're better than this.
it's time to find
the clearing,
to leave all of this behind,
time to
take the high road
to begin the journey home.

all that i know

i put a few eggs
into the pot, then turn up
the heat.
they boil.
the water bubbles and steams.
it doesn't take
long, but soon they're ready.
hard boiled eggs
ready to be peeled,
their hard jackets removed.
ready to be eaten
once cold, i set them
in their holds, one
beside the other, then
into the ice box they go.
later when i arrive
back home, i'll have one,
salted and sit by an
open window and remember
all the things that i know.

A Change in Scenery

the river crests and rolls
over onto the banks, the trees
fattened with
water
bend and break, fall
hard and fast
over the stream.
it's a quiet but massive
change
in scenery. I can see it all
from my upper
window, looking out.
how quickly
the world rearranges itself,
for better or for worse.
resist not what the universe
shows you, let it all
go into the direction it
needs to go. relax.
the let the water
take you where
you need to go, let it flow.
let it flow.

who's that?

the neighbors
want to know what's going
on,
but they don't say
a word. the little girl
still waves and says
hello neighbor,
but never points
or asks, just who
is that?
they look at the new car
parking
in the old spot, but
just smile and say hello.
they go on about their
life,
as I do mine.
things change, the world
moves on.
no need to explain,
time never stops.

The Pros and Cons

i make a list
as to where
to move, or work,
or who to be with
when the love is shaky,
when there are so many
red flags in front of you.

i write the good
on one side, the bad on
the other. the pros
and cons of whatever it
is i'm deciding upon.

a balance sheet.
sometimes it starts out
all good, all rosy and sweet,
but in time it's heavy
on the con side,
all of it written in
dark black ink.

once you find out what
is unknown,
when the curtain is pulled
back,
the masks come off,
the list changes.

gets torn.
you can no longer tolerate
so much bad behavior,
there's not enough good
to overcome it.

the positives have disappeared.
the joy is gone,
so you start over
on a clean sheet of paper.
you start a new list
with a new love.

you realize that you have
to listen to the list.
it doesn't lie, it never
has
and never will.
pros and cons. it tells
you all you need to know.
write it down
and tape it to your heart.

Getting Out of Dodge

Barcelona is beautiful
she says,
staring at the brochure.
let's go there, but then again,
there's Santorini,
and Naples,
Rome and Paris.
okay. I say. pick a month
and we'll go.
we'll jet over
and sail from port to port.
we'll see the world,
eat, drink, make love
until the money runs low.
life is so short, so brief,
so open to so much fun
and joy. what are we
doing here? let's finally
get out of dodge,
grab your suitcase,
let's run.

the shell

it's empty now.
the shell of who you were.
clean
and smooth,
beach ready to lie
in the warm sand,
to get washed again
and again
by summers emerald
waves.
it's empty now,
this shell of me,
but not for long,
feelings, given time,
do change.

unparenting

each year
as the paint peels,
as the rust appears
I think
differently of parents,
of who they were,
what was gained
or lost,
how shackled they were
by their own
upbringing, locked
in fear,
trapped by doubt.
who's to blame for us.
who's fault is it
that we too are so
screwed up.
it takes a lifetime
it seems, to undo
what they've done
to us.

saving for a sunny day

I count out the coins,
the loose
presidents, worn and crumbled
in pant
pockets
and drawers,
stuffed away between
the cushions of the couch.
it's not a lot, but
enough.
I put it all
in the cookie jar,
saving it for a rainy
day.
or better yet
a sunny day, where we can
go to the beach,
swim in the deep blue,
or just lie there
and catch some rays.

there is light

we don't understand
so much
of what goes on. but we
try,
oh how we try to figure
out the world,
and the people in it.
we do not go gently
into that good night,
we do not lie down
and take
what's coming to us.
for better or worse.
we yell, we whimper
and cry, we
fight. we put our
hands upon the wheel
as if now
we can steer ourselves
onto the right path
of our life. to get clear
of this storm.
we wrongly try
to straighten out
what never should
have been.
we want
to change our direction,
to make
all things right,
when they already are.
let go, look ahead,
you're almost there, look
at the clouds breaking.
at the rain ending.
there, over the next hill,
there is light.
let go of the wheel.

How the Night Ends

i go through
the rooms, turning out the lights.
i lock the door.
put the dishes
away.
the food,
the drinks, put a cork
into the bottle.
put
the glasses
in the sink.
i open a window to let
the air
in, then go upstairs.
i take a look out the window
to find the moon,
it's there
inside the trees.
silver and white, round
as hope,
carved like stone across
the black sky.
this is how
the night ends, and how
the next
day begins.

The Last Walk

we walk
and walk, we say little
down this shaded path.
what needed to be
said,
has been said
over and over
again.
it's too late for
that.
the damage has been
done.
so we walk in silence.
two hearts
apart
never merging, never
to be close,
or in love
again. we're two,
forever,
not one.

Dead Silence

no words are spoken.
no
sound

no echo. no ringing
of the phone,
no click

no
beep or buzz
or tone.

no apologies forthcoming,
no falling
on a sword.

no words fall out
from kind lips.
nothing said
says

everything.
it reminds you
of what was,

the deadly quiet of
it all.

the silence
confirms what you've
always known.

she was gone long
before
she was gone.

Red Meat and Broccoli

I see the neighbor
putting
what looks like a half
of steer
on his grill outside.
the smoke of it
sears the air.
he has his apron
on that says,
master chef.
he's wearing a tall
white hat
and gloves.
his wife is sitting with
the smallest child,
she's eating
broccoli, a long stalk,
raw
and green, as long
as her hand.
but they don't fight or
argue.
he's red meat
and she's lean cuisine,
and veggies.
they get along so well.
hardly ever do I hear
one unkind word or sound.

another day, then fun

it's a day of doctors
and garages,
driving.
blood drawn, skin scrapped,
the heart
listened to.
appointments, the bank,
the cleaners,
the grocery store.
inspections and estimates.
calls
and emails, texts
galore.
colors and dates, times
and schedules
to be made.
it's a whirlwind of
movement, from dawn
to dusk. but it's fine.
busy
is good, things are getting
done.
another day,
then one more, then fun.

Out the Other Side

someone stops you on the street,
a person you haven't seen
in ages,
she asks you
how's it going? what's up with
your life?

she stares at your hand,
ringless,
but says nothing.
a few months ago, you would have
told her, you would have
dragged her into a coffee
shop and gone on and on
about what's happened
over the last year.

you would have bared your
soul in gruesome detail,
looking for sympathy, or

empathy, or
some sort of human emotion
expressing sorrow for
your plight.

but now
you just smile and say that
everything is good, all is well,
the world, at last, is right.

i'm happy for you, she says.
hugging me, and kissing me
on the cheek. i'm
so glad you escaped that
nightmare and woke up
to the reality of what it was.

i'm overjoyed that you came
out the other side.

Runner's High

you see them running.
heads bent,
some with a limp, an ache
or pain,
but there they go,
onto the streets,
or treadmill,
everyday,
in the morning, at night,
shoes
tied tight.
bone thin,
faces drawn like prisoners
starved
in some concentration
camp.
the runners go and go.
they've been bitten
by the bug.
they need their fix
to feel right.
five miles, or ten,
even one at times will do.
through the slush and rain,
the snow and ice.
they need to run.
it's an addiction now.
a need
to burn away that apple
eaten,
the piece of toast.
a bowl of rice.
it's their only way
of dealing with food
and life.

problem solved

the math of her
is
finite.
there is no abstract
anymore,
no
unknown x or y.
everything is exact.
prime numbers.
quadratic equations
solved
on a big board.
each secret now known.
I have all
the answers now.
all the answers i'll
ever need.
the mystery of her
is no more.
the problem is solved.

Broken

I remember finding her
curled up
in a ball
in the dark den,
lights off,
the door closed,
her crying, arms wrapped
around her
trembling starved body,
shaking.
moaning, wordless
and cold.
her eyes were hollowed
out and red.
black mascara streaking
down.
she pulled and pulled
at her hair.
I asked her what's wrong,
what's the matter
now?
and she said, nothing.
just nothing.
I can't tell you,
you'll use it
against me,
somehow.
I just want to leave,
she said,
check out
and never return.
not from here, but from
everywhere.
to no longer
be around.
this was the beginning,
of the end.
I had no idea what any
of this meant.
of who she was, or what
this was about.
I still don't and never will.
she's gone. long gone,
and
out of this house.

fasting

I've been fasting
for over an hour
now.
i'm not sure how
much longer I can
hold out before I pull
over for a donut
somewhere.
but the doc says, I can't
have any food
in me before they take my blood.
but I think just one chocolate
glazed donut
and a cup
of coffee would do no
harm.
I feel faint, and weak.
I start to black out,
but I keep driving.
i'm sweating,
salivating as I pass I hop
and denny's,
7-11.
this may be the longest
I've ever gone without
a piece of bacon,
or a fried egg,
or cinnamon toast.

taking blood

she says, it won't hurt.
it won't hurt a bit.
roll up your sleeve, we just need
some blood
for the lab.
I trust her.
she's wearing a white lab
coat
and red lipstick.
I look at her shoes,
red high heels.
she winks and says, okay, don't
look
and in goes the needle.
I hardly feel a pinch
as she drains me of my blood
vial by vial. I hardly miss
it.
I may be in
love.

the other side

it's a gift.
a blessing in disguise.
suffering is.
the universe, God, is
telling you, all is well.
everything
will be fine.
just walk through these
coals on fire
for a little longer.
soon, trust me,
very soon,
you'll know what
needs to be known
and you'll be safe once
more on the other side.

transparency

i repaint the big closet
in the guest room.

it was too dark and musty,
full of secrets

and trash from another
life,

everything that was once in there
is long gone.

boxed and carried away.
i go with a glossy white,

a nice sheen
to the walls and shelves,

the ceiling,
the rail. two coats.

i even change the light,
a hundred watts,

to make it even brighter.

nothing gets hidden in there
anymore, ever.

no doors are closed.
no doors are locked.

transparency

If I Had Listened

if I had listened
to the voice inside my
head.
if had
leaned in
and looked deeply
into her eyes.
if I had
taken her pulse,
searched
her soul for what
was true,
what was a lie,
none of this would
have happened.
but I wanted the impossible.
I wanted
true love.
unconditional,
I wanted the world
and her
in it. all of her,
not a small piece
on a small plate
with a small fork.
I wanted her to be
this person that I dreamed
about
as a child.
the one.
if I had listened,
none of this would have
happened.
I would not have come
undone.

Running the Yellow Light

even early on
there was doubt.
there was
the caution yellow
blinking
in my mind, my heart.
but I ignored
what I knew
was untrue and
paid the price.
I ran the light
as it turned red
and soon crashed
and burned
in the darkness of
a cold black
night.

The Quiet Room

how quiet
these rooms are.
how sweet
the silence is.
how warm the bed
is,
the lights
low,
a good book to read.
how nice
to be free,
to be happy once
more,
to have things
to look forward
to,
not sadness,
not coldness,
not war.

finding home

it's a strange world
we're in.
stranger by the day,
by the hour.
what is isn't, what's real
is not real.
we're living in a
surreal time,
abstract is the norm.
no one is who
you thought they were,
everything you once
believed to be true,
has come undone.
the violence is overwhelming.
the boisterous
and bullies are
winning out.
the liars are
in control.
doubt and deception
is our weather
for the day.
it's a carnival of noises
and muddled colors
and all the rides
are disappointments.
time to get off and go
find a flat land,
of green grass
and a home. to be
with the one you love,
quiet
and peaceful
at last arriving at
home sweet home.

white flag in hand

for months I listened
to her.
to him.
to them.
I read, I scrolled,
I wrote like a mad man
putting it all down
in diary form.
I fought the truth,
a year of it.
digging out from this hole
I dug.
this bunker
I burrowed into.
I listened. I put
my ear to the floor,
a cup
to the wall.
I heard the words, but
it took a long
time to believe them
and go.
she welcomed me at
the door,
as I came out with
the sun in
my eyes, white flag in hand.
about time, she said.
you almost lost me
if it lasted
a single second more.

No Coincidence

it was almost like
having the flu,
for a year. a bad cough,
indigestion,
heart burn, the jitters.
aches and pains,
a fever, anxiety,
and sadness. it was
all encompassing.
the chills, the shakes,
the sleepless nights.
the loss of weight,
that vacant look in
my eyes. tremors,
the tongue dry.
the body cold from
being untouched for
so long.
the constant worry over
what was true, what
was a lie.
it was the worst
flu I've ever had
or ever will, then
suddenly one day,
it was gone, just like
that, and so
was she. hardly a
coincidence.

what lies beyond

in three months you'll be
fine,
the therapist says,
you can almost see the clearing
in the woods now,
she says.
you're almost there.
keep going, keep walking.
in fact,
skip and sing along
the way.
it's not exactly a yellow
brick road,
but so what,
you know there
is no emerald city,
no wizard, no witches
or flying monkey, but what
lies beyond
is even better, it's called
reality.

lake fishing

the fish
aren't biting, so we go
to the other
side of the lake.
no luck there either.
we use
different bait.
switching from blood worms
to lures,
to pieces
of chicken or steak.
we don't really
know what we're doing,
but we throw the line
out as far as we
can,
we use bobbers and
lead weights,
we're quiet
then loud, we almost
fall asleep
sitting on the hard
rocks waiting for a stupid
fish to strike.
then she says to me,
doesn't safeway sell fish?
you're right, I tell her.
let's go.

off the grid

it's electricity,
the current that lights the lights
that keeps
the buzz
on the screens,
the phones
ringing. where would
we be
off the grid, in the dark,
worse off,
or better,
with a candle burning
with which to
read.

night ghosts

sometimes
the ghosts appear. they rattle
their chains,
coming up the stairs,
they bump
into things, I hear
the creak
of the floor as their
weight
goes down, heel by heel.
but there is no fear,
they are powerless now,
just vague memories,
none of them
make me lose a minute
of sleep.
there is just a grin, a smile,
a wave,
and the words,
good night all you dears.

skipping stones

you clap your hands together,
and exhale.
you wish them well.
all of them.
each and every one of them.
no need to go through
the list
and give names.
slowly they fade from your eyes,
a long
line fading into the fog,
into the shadowy
soothing light. in time,
all memories will smooth
themselves out,
become stones
and stories
that you can
hold in your hand
and skim across the pond,
letting them
gently splash
against the water,
then
sink forever, out of sight.

more behind us

the year is unwinding itself
so quickly,
nearly half gone.
the confetti of new years
is still
on the floor, in our hair.
we no longer
inch towards tomorrow,
we are at a full gallop
now.
the wind in our grey hair,
our knees
ache,
our bones are brittle.
our eyes unclear.
we have fought the good fight.
there is more behind
us now,
and what lies ahead,
though less,
is never clear.

trust yourself

do not betray
yourself. do not stray
where you shouldn't go.
listen
to that voice
inside your head.
believe it when it says
to say
no.
trust your inner
soul, it knows without
a doubt,
who should leave,
who should stay,
who should be in
your life.

all things

the long
rain, is fine, a shadowed
fog,
a mist filling the sunday
with a sleepy
kind of wine.
we linger and lounge,
we speak
softly of tomorrow,
of the future,
of happy times.
the rain is our friend,
our blanket
to stay in, to be close,
knowing that with faith
and true love,
all things work for the
better, given time.

the awakening

I sort through
some old boxes stuffed
way back in the closet.
dusty,
unmarked. for years
they've gone untouched.
I open one
and start digging through
the memories.
touching the touchstones
of those years.
some sweet,
some bitter,
some unknown, forgotten
souls
that have come and gone.
how easily I dispose
of sentimental things,
once I have the epiphany,
the cruel awakening
that so much of life
is never what it seems.

more to come

it's a busy bar.
loud
techno music, it's dark,
friendly lighting one
might say.
weak drinks
and fried foods.
it's a young crowd,
a carded crowd,
very little
silver or grey
in the hair.
we may be the oldest
ones here.
but that's okay,
we've had our day,
our years,
but there are more
to come.
you can bet on that,
no doubt.

forever my dear

it's another day.
mother's day, father's day,
kid sister
day,
grandmother's day,
a cousin twice removed
day.
it's valentine's day.
easter,
Christmas,
arbor day.
it's ex wives day,
estranged lover's day.
old boyfriend
day.
acquaintance day.
it's another day.
another dozen roses,
another hallmark
card.
another trinket with
a bow on it.
new years,
the fourth of july,
flag day.
it's the boss day,
the secretary day.
the in laws,
the out laws,
the son's
the daughters
the day of the long
departed.
there are a lot of days
in the year.
pick one,
send me a flower,
a card, an email, but
truthfully all I want
is a whisper in my
ear saying,
I love you, I love
you forever, my dear.

so much alike

we can't decide
on which way to go,
what to eat,
or drink,
whether to walk or drive.
what to wear.
we're indecisive about
nearly everything
under the sun.
so much,
up in the air. but
that's why we get
along so well,
we're so much
alike,
nothing's wrong,
and anything's right.

dixie

there was this bartender
named
dixie
in a club down town
back in the eighties,
a place
called Bojangles,
on m street.
you walked down a spiral
stairway,
entering from the sidewalk.
dixie
would always have a cold
beer,
your beer,
cap off sitting
sweating on the bar
the second you came in.
she had short blonde hair,
blue eyes.
corn fed
and raised in iowa
or Nebraska,
someplace under
the big skies.
she knew your name,
said hey, how you doing,
then she was gone
and some guy named jimmy
came along.
a rough, heavy guy
with earrings and a new
York accent. unshaven
and rude.
we never got along.
what happened to dixie, I
asked him one Friday night
and he said who the hell
is dixie, how would
I know.
it was all about dixie.
those long summer nghts
with my pals, drinking,
dancing,
looking for love.
even now I think about her,
missing her,
the day, the times we
were in, single and free,
driving home under
a rising sun.

the ice cream cone

i see the cops
chasing
someone on foot down
the street
as i sit on the bench
licking an ice cream
cone. the man seems
to be smiling
having a good time
with it all.
it's a nice day.
blue skies,
the sun is warm
beyond the trees.
the man is running
around the benches,
the trees,
zig zagging as the cops
get tired, stopping
to rest,
hands upon their knees,
weary from
the chase.
he's getting away,
which makes
me happy in a strange
sort of way.
we all need to get
away with things once
in a while.
I love mint chip
ice cream,
but I went for rocky
road this time,
one scoop on a sugar
cone. I continue licking.

simple things

it's hard to live
without some things.
creature comforts for the most
part.
like a good bed,
a good meal,
coffee
in the morning.
sunrise, sunset.
the woods,
the lake,
the ocean. it's difficult
to negotiate
the day
without simple things
to ground us,
books and movies,
poetry.
to hear the words
I love you,
and to feel
a warm embrace.

she gambles

she likes to gamble.
throw her money down on the black
jack table,
and say hit me.
she winks when she says that,
looking at me with
those brown eyes, twinkling.
she knows her cards.
counts them out,
keeps track, and knows
the odds.
but she knows when to quit
too,
when to walk away, and say
enough, i'm done.
she packs up and gets out
of there.
so glad though, that she
didn't do that with me.

things are good

I can't wait to retire,
he tells me,
as we sit up at the Chinese
restaurant
eating bad food
but washing it down
with strong drinks.
i'm sick of working he
says.
i'm just bored with life,
you know.
I might leave my wife
too.
I need a change.
we don't really like
each other
anymore anyway.
the kids are killing me
with their tuitions.
they don't listen.
maybe i'll lose some weight,
dye my hair.
get a girlfriend on the side.
shut up.
I tell him.
your wife loves you,
and you adore her,
what I wouldn't pay
to have your life.
you love your work.
you even like cutting your grass
on the weekends
and painting the shutters.
you say this stuff every time
we get together.
he laughs, yeah, yeah,
it's the rum in these drinks.
makes me think i'm
thirty again. I guess
I do have it pretty good,
don't I?
damn right.
we'll I should get going.
see you in church on
sunday?
yup.

let's go for a walk

I ask the dog
if he wants to go for a walk.
he says yes.
sure,
why not, I've been stuck inside
all day
while you're out
doing god knows what,
driving around having a good
old time
with your pals and your
girlfriend,
sure, let's go for a walk.
how much time do you
have, ten minutes, are you
going to pull on my collar
and yell at me to pee,
thanks,
thanks for nothing.
but here, i'll bark, i'll
wag my tail,
does that make you feel
better, take
some of the guilt away?
sure, let's go for a walk.

down at the shelter

she works at the shelter,
the carpenter's
shelter
on the outskirts
of town. She volunteers
despite her
busy life. It's
where the mall used to be,
before the mall
became extinct.
it's where sear's sold
tires,
where penny's sold dresses
and shoes, but now
there's beds,
bunks, cots and tents,
hot food
in the long line
for those who can eat,
or want to.
the bearded, the bedeviled,
the toothless.
pregnant and tattooed,
some escaping the past,
some escaping
the future.
it's a circus
of the bewildered,
the luckless,
the miscast.
it's frightening to think
that all of us
are a left turn
away from being right there
with them.

first world problems

finally the maids
are coming. so i clean up
the house
to get it ready. i hide
all my jewelry, which is one
ring i got from a cracker
jack box when i was twelve.
i still have it
in a drawer next to
some cat's eyes marbles.
it's a skull and
cross bone ring, bone white
with black eyes.
i hide the bowl of change.
at least three dollars
in there and a Victoria
Secret catalogue i just got
in the mail.
i set out the clean sheets
for the bed,
and leave a box of donuts
and a check
on the counter.
key is under the mat.
make it pretty, i tell
them, sorry, so sorry
about the mess. these are
first world problems,
no doubt.

the new smart phone

at some point i'll
figure out
how to connect my new smart
phone
to my assortment of
speakers
about the house.
i'm in dire need of music.\
you tube is of no help.
the old one worked
just fine.
but I need a twelve
year old
in the neighborhood
to help me with this.
I post signs along the way,
on telephone
poles and trees.
will pay
for music and technology.
name your price.

summer wine

the summer
is before you.
a calendar full
of warm days
to be enjoyed
and savored.
it's the summer wine
of your autumn.
time to move
forward
in new love,
in new arms,
under the kind
embrace of
a golden sun.

A three day weekend

it's a fine
inn, along the bay.
a get away. water and sun.
a small town that we can
walk through,
eat and shop in.
we'll wear our summer clothes,
pack light.
we'll sleep in,
sleep late,
we'll dance and kiss
the time away,
we'll read,
we'll laugh, we'll do
nothing
for a few days,
nothing but hold each
other tight.
not a word, not a whisper
about the past,
today is all
that matters and then
the night.

i'll be out back

finally finished with the purging
and burning
of all things
connected to the past,
renovating each room
she touched.
I sit back and relax.
fix a drink,
put some tunes on, al green,
teddy,
marvin,
and whatever else melts my
butter.
I give
my friend
a call and tell her,
the door's unlocked,
i'll be in the yard,
stretched out in the hammock
come on in, there's
chardonnay
on the counter, pour yourself
a glass,
come down the steps,
join me out back.

surviving the melt down

she says to me
over the phone, boy,
I've been reading your stuff
lately.
holy moly.
it's like a Shakespearean
tragedy.
what the hell
happened.
it's all there, I tell
her in black and white.
think of Hiroshima,
or Nagasaki
or three mile island.
think Chernobyl
times ten.
it was pretty much an
ugly sixteen months melt
down
with the core
gone bad,
but the problem is gone.
the reactor is back
online.
up and running.
all is well now.
no use lingering
in the past. we won't
make that mistake again.

I have been one of them

I pray
for the sick, the ill.
the handicapped,
the lost and lonely souls
who
toss and turn
in their cold beds at night,
wishing upon
stars, hands clasped together
in prayer for
salvation to come along,
for i have been one of
them.

I pray for the homeless,
the deaf
and blind,
the broken hearted
and mentally
ill, the hungry,
the betrayed, the poor,
for I have been one of them.

I pray that some light will
be put upon the weak,
the lost,
the disturbed,
and unloved,
that with a miracle
somehow there will be
a light, a moment
of shine,
an answer to where they
are. I pray for them,
for anyone left behind,
for I
have been one of them.

woven as one

it's hard to write
about a tree, or a stone,
a hill,
or cloud,
the rain, or snow
without the words
somehow forming into
a poem about you,
or me,
or her, or
them,
everyone long gone.
all is tied together,
woven into one.
nothing
ever is completely
undone.
we are tethered to
the past,
to the souls that have
crossed our
paths, those we have
laughed or cried with,
those we called
friends, or who
have slept in our beds,
and made love to,
those we have
kissed or cursed
and said farewell to.
the dead included.
no one is ever too far
away, too gone.

time for a party

it's time for a party.
the party you never had.
the list is made.
the drinks
bought, the food
ready to go.
the house clean,
the music on.
parking is arranged.
it's long over due,
having a bash,
a get together
with so many friends.
let it go on
all night.
let there be dancing,
and laughter.
no more tears, or
sadness,
that's all been
swept away for good.
let the celebration
begin.
let's start
over, make things right.

the update

your facebook
friends all want to know what's
up.
where'd she go?
what happened, we see that you've
updated your
personal information.
spill, give us the dirt.
but I say nah,
i'm done with that story.
i'll spare you the
gruesome details.
let's just say it didn't
work out and it was time
to move on.
but I did post some pictures
of a cake
I baked.
I've gotten thirty
six likes in just an hour.

bring on the greens

she says, we need to get
you on a plant based diet.
i'm eating baby back spare ribs
at the moment.
there's barbeque sauce
all over my face
and on my shirt.
okay, I tell her,
sipping on a glass
of cold milk.
I like lettuce I tell her.
I really do, in a nice
big salad.
romaine, iceberg.
all good. all good.
after this last meaty
bone, i'm done with meat
for awhile.
i'm getting clean,
bring on the greens.

Walking on Eggshells

she's a chameleon,
a snake,
that sheds her skin
each day.
who should I be now,
she says with a smile,
what role shall I play?

i'll mirror you,
be what you want me to be,
tell me what you need,
sweet and kind,
gentle and sexy, okay,
well,
at least for awhile,
but later I have to return
to my evil
dark side.

in another
life, she'd be on stage,
in the movies,
a star of the silver
screen,
but for now,
she lets you
try to figure her out,
keeping you on eggshells,
changing her mind,
her heart on every little
thing,

giddy up

it's time to giddyup
and get out of this lost land.
this land
of snakes and poisoned wells.
what happened to the land
of milk and honey
that she promised you.
nowhere to be found, so it's
time to saddle up,
put the stirrups on,
the old hat,
the chaps, the boots,
hop aboard, and travel on.
giddyup little doggies,
giddyup.

the big bath

it's time for another
flood.
a big washing of the earth.
it seems over due
for a cleansing.
there is so much evil
walking around making
life miserable for us.
time
to get the bleach out,
the detergent, to build
another ark
and take aboard
the view good souls still
left on this earth.
let the rains come,
let the earth fill up
once more with water.
time for the world to take
a bath and get
clean once more.
it's might be the only way
to save it,
either that or a nuclear
war.

go man, go

it's not unusual for
those trapped to not want
to leave
their jailer,
their guards.
the prisoners of war,
scared to exit
the horrors of the camp
when
liberated,
the beaten wife, abused,
bruised by
the husband, and him
too, lied to
and duped for so long,
thoroughly used, betrayed.
but unable to say enough,
to walk out, to set
himself free when
no longer chained.
it's not unusual
for many to stay put
in their state of misery,
but once in a while,
a light goes on
and you do climb that fence,
tunnel under the wall,
you snip the wires and go,
You go man go.

the doctor is in

she can fix anything.
she'll open up the back of an
old tv
and pull out some wires and tubes,
put a screw driver
in there, and voila,
it's working again.
need a new headlight in your
car, she's got
that too.
hang a chandelier, no
problem.
the toaster oven, the
microwave,
the washing machine none
of them have a chance when
she's got her tool belt on.
not to mention
all of her patients
that she puts her stethoscope
to. taking their blood,
making them say ahhh,
checking their cholesterol
or giving a shot for the flu.
there's hardly a thing
wrong with you that she
can't figure out and
improve.
broken heart. no problem,
she's got that too.

how are things?

the dentist is a nag.
but a sweet one.
brushing is fine, she says,
it's the disinterest in
flossing
that we need to discuss.
maybe we should do
some x rays,
get the blue light out
and check for
cancer.
open wide, I need to
put some cardboard
boxes in under
your tongue.
spit, rinse. so how are
things?

A country mile

Saying farewell is
Hard
But staying too
Long
at the fair
with anyone
You dont love
Or who doesn't
Love you
Is worse,
worse than even
being alone,
worse
by a country
Mile.

how things work out

funny
how things work out
in the end.
but we struggle and cry
out
like babies in a crib,
whining in the dark.
always wanting what we think
is best for us.
i'm hungry,
I'm thirsty, i'm
scared,
I need a change.
sing me a lullabye.
then all of that ends,
and you
come out the other
side alive, better for it,
stronger from the suffering,
mended,
able to be in love,
once again.

thank you, my dear

each day is easy now.
I float on my back under a pristine
sky,
blue as blue
can be.
I am in the Saragossa sea.
no need
to kick
those legs,
to throw
arm over arm
trying to get to shore.
no need to signal mayday
anymore.
the dark skies have
disappeared,
it's clear sailing now
from here on out.
thank you
thank you, thank you
my dear.

she waited

she waited.
she listened to me
throughout
the long hard year.
gave me advice.
she waited by the phone,
walking
the lake,
thinking that my
troubles would never
end.
that i'd never be free
again.
the seasons went
from summer into fall,
into ice.
but she stood by me.
she dried my tears,
held me tight.
she waited.
waited for us to begin
a new life.

Let's Take a Nap

let's take a nap,
I tell her,
as we read the sunday
paper
together on the long couch.
it's a grey rainy day,
just chilly enough
to stay put and lounge
around
with coffee and tea.
a nap? she says,
and winks.
I know what you mean by
napping,
but okay
but first let me put
these dishes in the sink,
lock the door,
then i'll meet you upstairs
after changing into
something black,
a pair of heels
and put some lipstick on.

driving home in the rain

you drive home
in the early morning
rain, put some music on.
you linger
in the right
lane as you travel down
the long
winding
road towards home.
it was a good night.
you're tired, but happy,
content
in this fresh new world.
you welcome the rain,
the hours and the day
before you.
there is no longer any
need
for tears, to be sad,
to wonder, to explain.

A Waste of Time

when I look back
at the insanity of it all.
at the madness
of who she was,
knowing deep inside that
it would never work in
a thousand years, tolerating
lies
and betrayal
for a whole year,
I cringe and sigh.

when someone is truly
mentally ill, you realize
what a waste of time
it is trying to heal
them, to make them see
the light, any light, but still
you foolishly try.

it's an impossible task.
there is nothing you can do,
but leave
and let her fight her own
demons by herself
or with another, someone
on an equally sick level.

when I look back at my
addiction
to someone who wasn't even
real. I wonder now,
why would I even want to be
with a person like that?
so cruel and unkind.
I can't believe
myself. what I went through.
how I survived.

to bend and not break

we bend, we bend.
but
we don't break. we have
something
inside of us
beyond measure,
call it
self preservation,
dignity,
faith.
the world will
disappoint you, the
people you fall in love
with will
fail you,
but you'll bend
and not break.
in fact,
you'll become stronger,
more true to yourself,
more wise and sure
to never again,
make the same mistake.

the blessings to come

sometimes we
need the sour to appreciate
the sweet,
we need the pain to feel
the blessings
of health.
we need the struggle of
poverty
to understand and be
grateful for even the smallest
amount of wealth.
suffering,
in small or great doses,
leads
to wisdom and the growth
of self.
the loss of love,
in time
brings joy and hope when
the next one appears,
better than ever, more
true, more real.
take the seed buried
in the soil.
with rain and sun,
with care, and God's hand,
it will prevail.

One True Love

you make a list of
past lovers, a very
short list of
true loves, flings
and others,
romances and friendships
formed
and closed.

you think hard on
all the souls
that have come
and gone in your
life. people that you
believed in,
and loved, that you
thought were right,
but were in the end,
completely wrong.

it's not a long list,
when it comes to
the real thing,
so few
in the crowd, for
them or you.
it's not about intimacy,
the bed,
sex.
it's connecting
on a deeper level,
one of honesty and trust.

to love
and be beloved,
that list is small,
it just takes one
though to be done,
to say enough, she's
enough, no need to fill
your heart with
a new stranger,
and another false start.

someone's dead

the phone rings at two thirty
in the morning.
you let it keep
ringing until it stops.
you assume that someone
is dead.
someone you know and may
be close to
has died and someone else
is calling you
to give you the bad news.
you go through a list of
possible people
that may have died one way
or the other, or
taken, sadly their fate,
into their own hands.
you lie there in the dark
and try to go
back to sleep, but the thought
of someone close
to you dying won't let you.
so you get up,
you have no choice.
you go downstairs to the
kitchen where your phone is,
on the counter being
charged, and open it up.
no one is dead.
but there's a discount
on hotel rooms at the beach,
fifty per cent off.
you find a pad of paper
and make a note of that.

a talk with the son

I call my son to discuss
things, our current
state of affairs, both
his and mine.
he's older now, he gets it,
he understands.
he works hard and has a life
of his own,
out from the shadows
of his mother and father,
his childhood friends.
he's compassionate
and thoughtful.
he's at that age where we
can talk,
not just son to father,
but also
man to man.
he gives me sound advice,
he echoes words
I've shared with him
through his troubled times,
his long dark
nights.
he's a gem.
he's a wonder. he's
everything I wanted him
to become.
he is unique,
wise and caring.
he's like no other.
he's my son.

his new girl friend

my father
sits next to his new girl friend
on the couch,
close,
holding her hand.
he's ninety one
she's eighty three.
he's got the love bug.
you can see it in his eyes.
I cringe.
who hasn't been there,
but what can you do.
it has to play out.
for better or worse.
I have no advice to give
him, but be careful.
the heart is a tender
place
at every age
and can be easily
be ripped apart.