come inside

it's hot.
it's the desert.
no wind.
no relief.
the sand burns your feet.
the pavement,
the black top
swirls with heat.
the world is melting.
the sun has moved
closer to the earth.
can we survive
this onslaught
of temperature rising,
sure we can, come
over here,
put some ice
in the glass, i'll
pour you
a drink,
get under the fan,
come inside, let's
burrow in the basement
where
the ac will make us
shiver with
glee.

two scoops

is it too early for ice cream?
I say no.
it's never too early
for a double scoop
on a sugar cone from
the ice cream
store.
rocky road, mint chip,
maybe pralines and cream
this time around.
or French vanilla.
coffee bean.
it's going to be a hot
one out there. mid nineties
without a cloud in the sky.
you deserve it. in fact
you deserve a gallon
and to sit under a tree
in the shade
with a big spoon.

thread count

I don't know how it happened,
but I have too many
bath towels, hand towels,
wash towels,
too many sheets, mostly blue,
or pale blue,
or white, or peach.
an occasional set of pink
towels is
folded on the shelf as well.
don't ask.
I can't go through a store
without touching
sheets and towels, feeling
for softness, for texture
and thickness, color, looking
for one just right.
setting the mood
for a long sleepy night.
hotel sheets, thread counts.
at some point I need to
purge, make room for newer
and better, as I do with
all things in my life after
a point of no return occurs.

the night concert

we'll bring a picnic
she says,
blankets and chairs,
drinks and food.
we'll sit on the wide
circle of grass
beyond the stage and listen
to the music we
grew up with.
she has tickets for two.
running on empty.
Jackson Brown at Wolftrap.
we'll let the sun go down
upon us
on this warm summer
day.
let the stars come out,
let us sing softly to ourselves
as the music plays.
we'll pray for no rain.

nothing gets lost

nothing gets lost,
all is saved and savored
boxed
and bagged,
carted off to some attic
in your mind,
or stored behind
some cellar door.
each word uttered, each curse
delivered,
each laugh, each kiss,
each time you made love and fell
asleep in each other's
arms,
each joke, each tear bottled
you will forever hold.
nothing gets lost,
or forgotten.
nothing gets thrown away,
when we move, when we leave,
it goes with us,
even into the next life.

meditation

breathe, she says.
sit
and be still.
relax, take a deep breath,
hold it,
hold it,
then exhale.
let it all out, clear
your lungs,
your soul,
your heart and mind
of fear,
of doubt.
let the darkness
turn into light.
do it again, slower
now.
let go. let go of
everything.
breathe in, breathe
out.
you are not alone, you
are loved.
you are one
with all that's good,
all
that is above.

The Full Cup

the cup
is full. not half, not
a quarter
but full to the top.
in fact
it flows over.

there is so much to
be thankful
for. to be grateful
for.
there are so many blessing
in your life.

it's a long list.
I see it more clearly now
than ever.
now that i'm out of the fog,
out of the darkness,
not just
for the moment,
but forever.

in the early morning

a lone deer
stands in the woods
along the bike path.
silent and still,
he watches me as I ride
by.
unmoving.
not knowing which direction
to go,
a feeling I well know.
the trees are full
around the stream.
it's just me and him
on this early morning spin.
he watches
as I disappear around
the turn,
crossing the steel bridge,
into the rise
of pavement,
towards home again.

chit chat on FB

after a short break
to settle back into a normal
life, to clear the cobwebs
of the past year or so,
you jump back onto facebook,
dive right into
the pool
of gossip and
chit chat.

right away so many want to know,
where have you been,
we missed you,
what happened, we see that
your status has changed,
you did some updates,
pictures are missing. what's
up with that?

don't even get me started
you tell them, trust me,
it was beyond crazy, you
really don't want to know.
read my poetry if you want
to get even a snippet of
what went down.

so how's the weather where
you are? bake any new cakes
lately? any pictures of bumps
or sores you want to share?

the ice cream man

i hear the ice cream man
coming up the street with his
bells
and strange out of tune
percussion of dings and dongs.
his truck is old
and blue, coughs as he shifts
gears.
he moves slow
through the neighborhood,
his head looking
from house to house.
in time the kids appear
with dollars in hand,
parents on the porch
making sure the streets
are clear.
the dogs come running too.
i put on my shirt, my pants,
my shoes.
i grab a quarter from
the bowl and run out,
trying to decide on a nutty
buddy, or a creamsicle.
either one will do.

The Good Times

I remember
everything, so that's a problem
when it
comes to forgetting.
I remember
the good times,
the bad times.
most of them skewed by
the adrenaline
of infatuation. hardly one
thing
true, there are
no absolutes.
we romanticize the past.
make up
our own version of
stories to fit
the mood, placate our
sadness or grief,
or emotional
confusion.
what we thought was love,
forever,
well, it never lasts,
we alter our memories,
smooth out the rough patches,
say remember when,
then we smile,
we laugh.
no one is who you think
they are.
but once you find out
the ugly truth,
keep walking, forget it,
and don't look back.

the knot

sometimes the knot won't
give.
it's too tight.
when you pull or bend
in any direction
it won't budge, won't
loosen.
sometimes you need
to take drastic
measures to make things
right again, to free
yourself from strife.
so you take to the knife
and cut
the knot away, one
clean swift slice.
then
string in a new lace,
and at last be on your
way.
shoes on, laces tight.

When the Mask Slips

it's a mask
she wears, she has no idea
who she really is.

she's a full blown
narcissist, like her
father before her
and the other men in
her life.

the ones that kneel to
worship her,
but they have no idea
what the truth really is.

from day to day
she's playing a role,
manipulating,
lying,
betraying, it's all
about control.

pretending for the sake
of blending in.
she's a fake
wearing her costume,
the weekly dyed hair,
three pounds of make up,
the bling,
her on sale expensive clothes.

she's an emotional wreck.
a time bomb
ticking.
there is no love,
no empathy,
no true life.

she wreaks havoc
in those that fall under
her charm,
her snake like spell.

she'll look you in the eye
as she bites you,
poisons you, like the apple
in the well.

it takes some time,
but eventually you discover
what lies inside.

the place where she's dragged
you, into her living hell.

oiling the squeaks

i spend an hour or so with a can
of w d 40, oil in a small
blue can with a red spout.
there's a lot of things squeaking
in the house.
i start with doors, both front
and back.
then go to the chain on my
bicycle
in the shed.
the kitchen cupboards,
the drawers, the fridge door,
both top and bottom,
the attic swing down door
and stairs. i even
give the creaking floorboard
a squirt.
also the steps, a few windows,
then the couch, the springs
are jumpy,
then to the bedroom on all
four corners of the queen
sized bed.
i scratch my head, what else?

These Are Better Days

sleep comes easily now.
food taste better,
life is once
more interesting.
there is meaning and hope.
the aches and pains have
subsided.
the headaches are gone.
friendships
are stronger.
poetry is written,
books are read.
movies are enjoyed.
you see now what love
really is, not
what it pretended to be.
colors are rich.
there is joy and laughter
in the house.
there is peace
beyond all understanding.
what's changed?

she's gone.

fresh blood

it's not a deep wound.
but
there's blood.
crimson ribbons of red
that swirl and
flow
so easily from my
lacerated arm.
how fragile we are.
there is so much within us
that we
can't see,
that no one can see.
the mystery of our minds,
our souls
are barely visible
through our eyes, but
for the most part
others are blind
to who we really are
deep inside.
this blood though is out
there.
it's on the floor,
there's a trail of me
behind me, now clotted
dark
on the white cloth,
seeping through the bandage
as it's
wrapped tightly around
my arm. they stop
the flow at last, so for now
at least,
I will survive.

My Personal Censor

i finally get all my channels
back on the tv.
Netflix and Prime,
Starz and HBO. Showtime.

i was not permitted to watch much
tv
a few months ago, unless it was
an animated feature
by walt Disney,
or mass on the catholic channel.
or a show about bugs, or owls
in North Dakota. perhaps
a special on camels in Timbuktu.
lots of public tv.

it's been a while since I've
seen some of my favorite shows,
or a football game.
there is so much to catch up
on. i need more popcorn
and a bigger bowl.

come on over, I've got fresh
batteries in the remote.
let's watch a show, or two or
three, what the heck,
take your shoes off,
let's binge, let's watch
until the sun comes up.
here we go.

the queen of clean

I have an hour of free
time
before getting back out on the road.
it's good to be busy,
to have work,
to have money to live on,
to play with,
to tuck away beneath
a mattress for a rainy
day, or so i'm told.

I sort through some books,
putting at last
the ones away that helped
me through those dark days.
into the closet they go.
shaking my head at how worn
and battered they all are.

I delete the heart wrenching
diary from my computer, all
the emails that documented
and dominated
the last two years
of my life.
better to think they never
happened than to have
those sad reminders
so close.

I pick up
the laundry on the floor,
gathering socks, and shorts,
shirts and pants,
to the laundry
room they go.
then the cups and dishes,
plates with forks and spoons
upon them, into the sink.

I don't do any deep cleaning
though, being nice I want
to save something for the maid,
the queen of clean,
Milagro.

the handy girl

she's a handy girl.
bright and smart as a whip,
makes a mean
dish or two as well,
blueberry pie, or
cinnamon crisp,
no problem,
she knows how
to lay down
a long awaited kiss
or hug,
or back rub, if time
allows.
there she goes with her
power washer,
her paint can,
her driveway tar
and chandelier about
to be hung.
she looks good in a tool
belt too, with
work boots and little else.

room service

like lazy cats
we stretch out on the sunlit bed,
the sheets as
white as freshly fallen snow
and we yawn.
we sigh.
we look at one another
and say, I wish we had a butler
to bring us coffee
and breakfast,
a newspaper
from outside.
if only there was a button
we could push
and he would
knock smartly
when he arrived.
yes, she says.
a butler would be nice,
and a maid too,
an intern as well
to take notes when we need
to remember
all the things that have slipped
our minds.

a lucky dime

I found a lucky dime
the other day.
Wilson on the front.
the sun hit it just right
before I passed by,
so I picked it up
and put it in my pocket.
when I got home I put
it in the green bowl
on the counter where
my lucky pennies, nickels
and quarters
and all the other
lucky dimes
happily reside.

The Full Time Job

she was a full time job.
twenty four seven.
open all night, all day.
holidays too.
there was no break from
her.
every moment was walking
on eggshells, fearing the worst,
keeping her placated,
putting out her emotional fires,
waving at the smoke alarm.
every word spoken could cause
a three day irrational
explosion. a word, a glance,
a wink, a nod, a rolling
of the eyes.
she was a time bomb ticking.
everyone in the room tried
to keep her calm, keep
her happy, which was impossible,
happy was a place she never
knew, and a place she made
sure she would take
from you.
it was a grind, a coal mine.
a grueling life with her in yours.
she was a weathervane spinning
on a tin roof.
a cold front moving through.
a mystery without a clue.
she was a full time job,
with overtime, but no reward,
or joy, or payment due.

remembering how to forget

it takes a while
but i'm remembering how
to forget.

it's taken time to get
the knack of it back.
but it's coming.

forget and move on.
forget, forget, forget.
wash the slate clean.

erase the board,
dissolve the pain,
start fresh, rewire

that tired and
broken brain.

carving ducks

all day he sits
on his stool carving ducks.
glasses on his nose.
ducks with
bills, ducks in the air,
ducks
wearing sweaters,
wearing red boots.
they're everywhere you look.
in restaurants
and stores,
in the windows of homes,
on boats.
all day, he turns a block
of soft wood
into a duck.
his hands working
the chisel, the awl,
the sanding,
the paint and varnish.
the ducks are his life,
his world.

Your Second Brain

your gut, your
stomach has more neurons
in it
than does your spine,

it's your second brain.
listen to it.
listen well,
it will guide you,
keep you from harm.
it's never ever
wrong.

I wished I had obeyed
the warning signals,
not ignored the strange
pain, the immense
presence of butterflies.

others can so easily lie,
but your gut won't.
without fail
it tells the truth,
everytime.

small girl in the window

there's a small girl
in the window of the cottage
looking out
as we walk past.

her hair cut short,
her brown eyes wide.
hands on chin,
elbows on the sill.

she looks neither sad
or happy,
but in the moment with
no cares to speak of.

she just seems to be
watching the world
she will one day join
pass by.

she waves, we wave in
return. no rush, I want
to tell her,
be patient, enjoy
your life, all in
good time.

the graveyard

a graveyard
borders the great and grand
stone church
on Talbot Street.
men and women,
children too are beneath
the ground
dating back to the 1600's
until now.
we read the tombstones
as we walk by
with coffee in hand.
name after name,
the dates of birth and death
carved in.
we're so close to yesterday
so near
to tomorrows,
but in the present is
where we want to stay,
it's where we stand.
it's hard to imagine death
and burial
when you're on the outside
looking in.

The Waiter at Limoncello

the waiter knows
what we want, intuitive
and savvy,
he's been here three summers
now, working the tables
inside and out
at the Italian restaurant.
he's efficient and polite.
his wild hair,
brown and blonde
by the sun is bunched
up
in a knot upon his head,
he's tanned
and young. a surfer perhaps,
a boater?
he points to the pastas,
one for me,
one for her.
right? he says, smiling.
yes.
we say and shake our heads,
closing our menus,
asking how did he know.
I just do, he says.
I just do.

Eastern Shore Produce Stand

Late in the afternoon
It's a roadside stand
We find
along route 50, heading west from
the eastern shore,
in Talbot County
beyond the fields of corn
That grow
As far as you can see.
fresh produce, the sign reads.
Hand painted.
cukes and corn,
lopes,
melons,
asparagus and more.
crabs too, fresh from the bay.
we pull into
the side road and slowly
roll up onto the gravel
parking lot.
they sit in the shade,
the man and his wife,
they look almost alike,
close in age. Squinting,
round and sunburned, him
with a ball cap,
her with a wide brim
hat made of straw,
providing an island
of shade.
they look us over and get up.
hands on hips,
no smile on their faces,
but not unwelcoming, it's been
a long hot day.
we buy a melon, some peaches.
tomatoes, that the woman
says are the best this side
of Annapolis.
got live crabs out back, she says,
pointing around
the tin roof shack.
caught this morning.
no thanks, we say.
he packs us our fruit into
paper bags and tips his hat
when we tell him to keep
the change. they go back to their
lawn chairs as we drive
away. he lights a cigarette,
she turns back to her magazine.
we'll remember them, but I
doubt they'll remember us,
as they close up,
and shut down, the sun setting
finally
at the end of another summers
day.

Payment Due

it's difficult in chasing down
the money owed.
small companies don't answer
their phones. They become ghosts.
Once the work is done.
their message boxes are full.

everyone is a vice president
of something, all three or four
of their miniscule staff
Are V P s. with business
cards just printed to tell
you so, but they can't call back,

or answer e mails,
or text about payments due.
Lazy to the bone and arrogant.
You're not important
Enough. your pockets not that
deep. Its callous
And rude.

Service is only for the new,
not you.
no one ever picks up the phone
When it rings.
they are too busy reeling in
more business.
they leave you hanging, they
just want more customers,
more money,

Another bonus
Another slice of the pie
and don't give a
damn about you, the vendor,
who waits and waits for
A payment over due.
the bottom line is greed.

it's more for us, more, more
more, once they have you,
they leave. they're unreachable,
unless you're new, unless
You have money
and a place you need to lease.
Or sell, or show or buy.
How do these people
Live with themselves
How do they sleep
At night?

things can wait

sunburned and vaguely
blue, having the long
weekend disappear
so quickly,
you find
everything is as you left
it
when arriving home.
that chair,
that sofa, that dish
in the sink.
the plants
on the sill. a white vase
that sits on the buffet,
unflowered, unused.
what little the
ice box holds.
the pictures on the wall
are where
you placed them,
years and years ago.
the bed too
is where it was. made
as if new,
pillows aligned on
the spread tight
sheets. corners tucked
as they should be.
there's mail on the floor,
messages
on the phone, but there
is no rush
to begin a work week,
there is more rest still
to attend to.

coming home

it's nice to get away
and not think about the past.
the grind
of life.
the hell on earth
that was.
it's nice to finally relax.
to not
be reminded of
anything, those dark
days,
the things that didn't
last.
it's nice to get away,
under a golden sun,
with blue water before you.
at the pool,
or on a walk, or paddling
in a long
orange kayak.
it's nice
to get away, it makes
life easier, to smile
and be thankful,
to be grateful when
you do come back.

Perry's Cabin

The care of flowers
Tells
You much
About the inn at
Perry's cabin.
The luxury
Of land and water
Joining at rock
And sand. time seems
To stand still,
The view never changes.
the dining is sublime.
tables
set in white, and silver.
Crystal.
five star
food, and wine.
desserts that make you
smile.
It's a place where
Lovers arrive
And make vows under
Golden stars,
So much of the good
Life ahead of them.
While the aged
Come to remember
And savor the joy
Of love and
Friendship that
Stayed true
beyond all troubles
and years.
it's clear why
Anyone that stays
Here, returns again.

Needing directions

I have no sense
Of direction.
If I need to go
Left
I go right.
Straight
I make a u turn.
I'm lost with my
Head in a cloud
I make the same
Mistake with
Menus
Or
Drinks
Which line to get
Into,
Apparently with love
Im no different
I make the wrong choice
nearly everytime
There as well.

The Sicknes of Secrets

Secrets
Are psychic
Poison
According to carl
Jung.

They erode love
And trust.
Relationships.

They poison
The well of hope.

like an ocean wave
they crush
everything built.

The walls,
The floor
The foundation of
Of any home,
any relationship.

all in time
Are washed away
destroyed by
the sickness
Of secrets.

walking on coals

Jean Paul Sartre said
in an epiphany type
moment,

that people are hell.

which can be true
or false
depending on the day,
the status of the relationship,

at times it's heaven,
and other times well,
you know how it goes.

you're sweating,
and in pain with each
moment you're together,
each hour feels like a year of
nothing but
arguing and sorrow,

walking on a path
of burning coals.

But when it's heaven,
There you go. there's
peace and trust,
there's harmony.
It just flows
And flows and flows.

time and distance

it takes time.
patience.
quiet and reflection.
you need to slow your heart,
still
your mind.
it takes time to get
to where
you need to go.
to shed the trouble of a
former life,
to get back home,
to become
you again, and whole.
slow down.
one foot then
the next.
revel in the quiet,
the solace
and peace, time
and distance
will
take care of the rest.

nine bells

the church bells are ringing
upon the small town
of water and old homes,
it's a sweet
deep sound.
it reminds me of another place,
another life,
another town.
nine tolls are heard
as we sit here
with coffee, the harbor
stretched out like
a picture postcard.
I reminisce, I ponder,
I wonder what tomorrow
will bring
as I type
these careful words. how
many more bells
are there to be heard.

did it rain

it must of rained
last night.
but we didn't hear
it fall.
the cushions are wet,
the cloth of
blue is dark blue.
the deck has the shine
of water.
but the sky is clear.
if a storm
passed through, we
didn't know, we were
sound asleep, lost
in dream,
we didn't hear. so much
of life
happens that way.

quiet ships

there is a cool breeze
on the veranda.
the quiet sailboats slip
into the harbor, sails down.
you see
them arrive, for fuel,
for food,
for drinks, then go
back out again. it's a
different life out here.
like us,
there is no rush
in leaving, or arriving
traveling from here to there.
so many seem to know
one another, names
shouted out, greetings,
it's been too long,
almost over a year.
we watch them leave,
the ruffle of soft
water, the green, the
rise of blue as the sun
settles into a hot
summer day. we watch
as they disappear, sailing
off towards
the homes that wait,
so far away.

looking back

i think of last year
at this same time,
this day, this hour, this week.
curled
in a heap of bone crushing
anxiety,

disillusioned by the life i bought
into.
strange
and disembodied. My identity
Stolen. My world
Turned upside down
By a pathological liar.
Manipulated
And beaten down.

I was lost
in what i thought was love,
but had nothing to do with
love. I was
Duped and abused.
lost in
a quagmire of doubt, of fear,
of pain.
cringing at each new lie
That came out of her
Sick mouth,
each new betrayal
With her married boyfriend.

what a difference a year makes,
i think, as i look out across
the blue water, relieved
That her
Darkness is gone.
That the nightmare
Has ended.
At least for me
But not for her or
Those around her.that
Will never end
no matter how many years
go by.

tranquility

there is a neatness,
a prim and proper
quaint confection
to this town, St. Michael
across the bay in Maryland,
the houses painted bright,
or pale
in candied colors, white
trimmed.
the yards a sweet green,
cut just so.
it's clean and old.
a step back into time.
main street is full of tourists
like us,
hand in hand,
going store to store,
to wander, to enjoy all
things, trivial and small,
but a joy, and
once unknown.
new treasures to behold.
if not for the news one
would think
that the whole world
is like this. at peace,
and tranquil, with nowhere
else to go.

a different bed

the bed away from
home is not like the one you
sleep in.
it's different.
soft and sure,
pillowed, thick sheets
and blankets,
but it's different somehow.
the light,
the water and dock
outside the large
window.
the way the sky seems
bluer,
the gulls, so many
squawking in their busy
way, to and fro.
it makes sleep seem different.
the world
is different.
the air we breathe,
each thought within now
changed
somehow because of this.

a walk through town

we eat on the deck
overlooking the boats, the flags,
the sailors
and tourists
walking below.
the breeze lifts our umbrella
enough
to tell us we're close
to water.
coffee arrives and arrives,
the waitress
is young, the waiter is
old.
eggs, avocados, toast
and jam.
more coffee, cold juice.
the hours are soft and slow
this far from
home.
a book by the pool, a drink
in hand.
there are no problems
at the moment.
not decisions to be made,
no tears, or arguments to
be found.
we talk of dinner, a walk
through town,
what to eat, to buy,
maybe an ice cream on a sugar
cone before the night
is over, before we lie down.

paddling upstream

the water is placid
and green
as it sways from side to side,
up against the grey
piers,
the decks, the hulls
of boats.
the world is gently
singing a watery lullabye
as we
paddle towards deep
sea, out of branches,
the tributaries where
we launched.

bald eagles are perched
on nested poles,
herons, thin and silver
lean out
from the green thick
tangle
of shore brush.
painted houses and bungalows
are quiet as stones
along the river.
shuttered and shaded,
it's hard to tell if anyone
is home.

in a long wooden chair
we see a woman in a white
dress reading.
she looks like a saint
with quiet smile.
she waves as if she knows us.
we raise our hands to her.

it's neither hot or cold,
but calm,
no wind to speak of
as we row, and row,
to where we're told,
towards a red barn,
then around and back
to where we came from.

friday at five

it's five o'clock.
everywhere.
I can hear the corks pop.
the ice
tumble into glasses,
ties come off.
the phones are muted.
the happy hour crowd
huddles at the bar.
rings are slipped into
pockets. lipstick applied.
calls are made.
i'll be late tonight
honey. work is killing
me..
don't wait up for me,
they say, as they tap their
feet to the steel band,
throw down another drink
and cross
their fingers with each
new lie.

Around the Pool

sitting around the pool,
drinking margaritas,
you hear the chatter of men in plaid
beach wear,
the women in white,
bejeweled and tightened by
good surgeons from
jersey or new York.

sunburned and half lit
from pina coladas,
all talking about their boats,
how large, how much larger
the new one is,
how they live on them, where they
go.
where they dock. what it
costs to fill them up.
it's all money talk.
bragging without bragging.

my boat is bigger than yours,
they whisper beneath
their salty breath.
they pretend to be sailors.
it's an illusion of grandeur.
of being one with the sea,
the world, nature, God.
it's worse than listening to
people talk about golf.

St. Michaels

it's a small water
side village. quaint with
nothing but postcard views.
it's over the bay
bridge, then another bridge.
the boats
are docked, settled in because
of wind.

the flags are stiff
in the breeze,
in blue stripes, red, with
white stars within.
the british flags too
blow bright,
posted on the pier.

crab houses, tackle shacks.
old men in khakis and white
shirts, ball capped and
bent, but strong, still
at the fishing,
the crabbing. children at
the pool,
not quite ready to swim.
women, with their drinks,
weathered with time and sun,
their husbands out at sea,
staring at what future might
be left for them.

from this window I can see
far up the miles river.
past the fishing lines, the
crab pots, the strung nets,
all the way to kent narrows,
almost to the bay.
the water blending in with a
cloud covered blue.

it's a good day for
nothing. for sitting on
this veranda.
legs up, shirt off,
the sun collapsing yellow
and white delicious and warm
against my skin.

it's easy to get lost
in thought, in time, in
memory, this far from home.
a day to decompress,
a night to stargaze,
to listen to water sway,
the end is where we begin.

The Wedding Ring

I've thrown so much
sentimental garbage
into the woods, bad karma,
metal plates, ripped
from trees, iron pigs
with wings, (yes, they do fly)
piano parts, broken keys,
and things.
wedding invitations
Never used,
A wedding prayer
In glass. A wedding ring.
cards and trinkets,
shreds of sentimental,
sappy debris.
birthday cards to him,
not me.
tickets, notes.
it's an exorcism of sorts.
getting rid of all
that wasn't true, all
that wasn't anything
I wanted to keep.
That brief imaginary life
was a sick
And devastating joke.
The punch line
Being me.

I feel
bad for the woods though,
those lonesome trees,
having to cradle all that
junk, rusting
And disappearing,
but Forever gone from
my eyes, as all false things
Should be.

christmas dinner

it was a nice Christmas.
a family
thing.
the dinner table set.
gifts exchanged.
candles lit, the tree
ablaze in color.
lights strung white
around the house.
the dog, the kids.
the music.
a thoughtful prayer
as we joined hands.
it was a memorable
time.
for better not worse.
it was near the end
of one thing, and the
beginning of a new
life, which was mine.

travel

I make a list.
parking pass. bags packed.
sunscreen.
toothbrush.
clothes.
pills. lap top.
charger, pillow, just
in case.
magazines and books,
fiction,
I stress that, fiction.
okay,
some poetry too.
sunglasses.
hat.
keys, phone, money,
cash.
a map.
print out.
lock the door,
feed the cat.
tell the neighbors.
put out the trash,
now go
and don't look back.

start here

we go back to child birth.
the first slap,
the bright lights,
men and women in masks.
what's going on here?
already with the deception.
they hand you off
like a loaf of bread
from stranger to stranger.
where's mom,
where's dad, what the hell
is going on here.
I need milk in a bad
way.
I was safe and warm,
snuggly for nine months,
now this?
it gets worse.
before you can think for
yourself, they're telling
you about santa claus,
the easter bunny,
the tooth fairy. they tell
you that you can be whatever
you want to be in this
life. go to school.
be good. they make lots
of promises they can't keep.
you'll meet the girl
of your dreams, get married
have children.
it's a piece of cake,
a slice of pie.
hush little baby, don't
you cry.

The Laminated List

I hadn't seen her in quite
a while, but there she was
pacing the corner in front of
a coffee shop. from what I heard
nothing had changed, although

it reached a point
where she draped herself
in black to reflect
the mourning she was
perpetually in.

she made a list of all her
ailments and problems,
both medical and mental, and
all the slights she had
suffered in her life,
whether real or imagined.

they were written in gothic
print,
in a long row on a sheet
of white paper.

there they were,
all her issues typed
out and laminated,
then strung around her neck
with a wire chain laced
in thorns.

at the top,
in bold black letters it said.
I'M A VICTIM,
please, take your time
and read. help me.

nice, i told her, good
idea. saves you a lot
of time in telling everyone
your troubles when you see them.

i see you still have the
same basic twenty problems from
twenty five years ago.
still working on them, eh?
that's a shame.

but the laminating though
is gold, it's a great idea,
what with all this rain
we've been having.

can I get you a cup of coffee,
I asked her,
i'm going in for my usual.
want one? sure, she said, thanks.
black, she said.
no sweetener, no sugar, no cream.
just black.
I winked at her,
of course, I said.
of course. cold?
yes, she said. cold and black.

man on the porch

i see the man on porch,
across the street from the house
i'm working in.
upper north east, dc.
he rocks.
he's old.
he's seen this street go
from slum
to gold.
row houses.
crack houses. whores
and johns,
a night parade
of bums,
and lost souls.
it's gone pale now.
gay now.
money now.
it's a rainbow neighborhood.
everyone is young
and upscale. kids and strollers.
dogs on leashes.
lawyers, capital hill
staffers.
but my man,
he's still here though.
dark
and quiet in his chair,
in the shade.
a tilted hat
on his head,
saying nothing, no smile,
no words,
just a simple
soft wave.

behind me

it's a zig zag day.
back and forth, from here to there.
work.
work.
work.
but there is rest
straight ahead.
when the clock strikes done.
a sweet retreat
away.
food, drinks, love and fun.
the day
and the week behind
me.

the boyfriend at the mall

I run into the boyfriend,
lumpy and bent,
at the mall,
he's in line at the jewelers,
nervously looking around,
buying another
tennis bracelet
for his true love. he looks
exhausted by the sudden
turn of events.
it's the
twenty ninth
piece of jewelry
he's given her this year
alone, engraved
of course, with the date
and names, hearts
and crosses. etc.
he'll write a note and save
the receipt
for her to keep,
to forever hide
and hold. he has a bundle
of flowers too,
and a gift bag
of trinkets, baubles
and books.
I almost go over to him
and slap him
on the back, and say
you poor sad man.
good luck, good luck
again with that. she likes
shiny things, this much
he's learned
and knows. once again
they're back at it.

find joy

there are no victims,
just volunteers, we choose
the misery we stay in.

just say no,
and watch them
show a side of them
you never knew.
the mask will slip off
with that simple word,
no.

hate your life,
your job,
your family, your husband,
your wife.

do everything you can to make
it work,
and then, when it doesn't
slap your hands
together
and go.

life should be a joy,
not strife.

you can leave anytime you
want.
what will you miss,
add it up, make a chart,
a balance sheet, the odds
are, not much.

That's A Shame

I've watched too much
Seinfeld.
binged on it, know every plot,
every line.
every
absurd and wonderful
twist
that comes along
in each fresh
though old episode.
to live that life
so unaffected and able
to move on
from any calamity that
pops up.
to just say oh well,
that's a shame,
seems the right way to go.
a mantra perhaps
that i'll make my own.

the fortune in the cookie

settling back
in my chair after a full
meal, having devoured too much
crispy beef at Peking Gourmet,
I break open the fortune
cookie,
it reads so true.
today
you'll be with the love
of your life.
she will
make you happy
and you will make her happy
too.
it's a long
fortune, it goes
on and on.
it's a scroll, rolled
up in the sweet
stale ribbons of
the cookie. trust your
gut,
it reads. move on
from the past mistakes
and enjoy the rest
of your life.
you deserve someone
like her. you've been
through hell and back.
no more.
she's wonderful,
beautiful, honest
and true. have a good
life together.
it's time, it's way
overdue.

plant based diet

i'm on my second day
of a plant based diet.
i'm starving.
I need some chicken,
a steak.
I need a potato covered
in butter,
sour cream, bacon.
I need a glass of whole
milk.
French bread.
I stare at the lettuce
on my plate.
cut carrots.
kale.
spinach.
beets. olive oil.
I shake my head and dig
in
with a trowel and a rake.

a Jesus Moment

she has a come to Jesus moment.
it happens.
but it's temporary.
think of the sun coming
out for one minute
on a rainy day.

confession,
communion.

toss some money into the trough.
it feels good to get
clean.
it lasts a few days, this sanctity,
but it can't be sustained.

maybe a week, or less,
but being human is hard,
in no time
it's back
to the life she'll
never leave.

the stars are cold

he's legally blind now.
can hardly
hear a word I say to him.
he walks
at a slow pace.
catches his breath
at each
street lamp.
he leans towards the ocean,
smells the salt,
the brine,
the waves of his long life.
at 92, it's
amazing he's still alive.
living
at his own pace.
it's been a wild ride.
but it's oatmeal,
meals on wheels,
hearing aids and asleep
by nine.
the bars are closed.
the women are old.
the stars at night are dim,
are white,
are cold.

She's a Summer Day

I like the way
she moves. the way she's natural
in her walk,
her talk,
her laugh,
the way she kisses,
not a bone in her aloof,
nothing hidden,
no closed doors,
no secrets to disclose.
what you see is what
you get, true as the day
is long,
she's
a summer day.
a holiday.
she's quiet and thoughtful,
smart,
how can you possibly
go wrong.

tell me about your mother

tell me about your mother,
the therapist asks me for the hundredth
time.
i let out an audible sigh.
now Stephen, she says,
we have to talk about this,
or you're never going to get better
and move on with your life
and find true love, not like that
catastrophe you recently went
through. now, do you want that again,
or not. tell me about your mother.

i blow my lips out making a
balloon like sound stuck
to a kids bike.
okay. my mother. here we go.
she was messed up in a lot of
ways.
codependent on my cheating,
whiskey drinking sailor boy
father.
she'd wait by the window for
him to come home before
the sun came up the next day.
she cried a lot and her
hands shook.
but she'd knit or crochet,
i don't know the difference,
poodle sleeves to slip
the liquor bottles into.
they lined the cabinets.
pink, purple, yellow and blue.
i can still see them till
this day.

she made us go to church every
sunday and pray for my father.
which never seemed to work.

and.
well. she had a tough life.
but she did the best she could
with what she knew. her options
were limited. she couldn't leave.
no money, no education.
she loved us unconditionally,
all seven of her kids,
though often in a daze,
lost and lonely,
bitterly confused.

She Looks Familiar

i see someone on the street
that i used to know.
at least
i think i knew.
it looks like that person.
but i say nothing.
she looks up,
looks me in the eye.
there's something there.
is it someone
that i kissed, or loved,
or lived with.
maybe we were married once,
had children,
a house with a white
fence.
a dog, a garden.
i'm not sure anymore, the
lengthening years have suddenly
become a blur.

Making Stew

she asks me how do you make
stew.
so I tell her
in exacting detail.
I tell her about the chopping
of vegetables.
the beef stock.
the meat. oh, I tell her,
the meat is so important,
kosher steak cubes are
the best.
don't scrimp on the meat,
I say again,
banging my hand on the table.
salt and pepper,
red wine.
potatoes of course.
a bay leaf. some other
ingredients too. but you need
all day.
you have to braise,
you have to boil,
you have turn the heat down
low and let everything
come together.
tasting it as the hours
go by.
then by dark, there you
go. crusty bread, more wine.
sit, let me get you a bowl.

swinging a dead cat

it's easy to eat poorly
in this country.
it's cheap, it's everywhere.
fried chicken on every corner.
12 inch subs.
two for the price of one.
you can't swing a dead cat
by it's tail without
hitting a 7 11 or a baskin
and robbins,
or a donut shop.
the country is slowly sinking
into the sea
because of the weight.
the onion rings.
the beef,
the pies, the cakes.
corn syrup and packaged treats.
carbonated sugar water.
is there anything not
charred or deep fried in
a pot of Wesson that
we don't eat?
is there a piece of broccoli
out there that hasn't
been slicked with butter?

someone she can love

she's lean
and wobbles in her high heels
when walking down
the cobble stone street.
she likes
strange food.
livers and brains.
odd dishes
from places I've
never been.
she's traveled far to get
here.
dodging men
and jobs that drained the life
out of her.
but she wins.
there is iron in her blood.
steel
in her spine.
she's alone, but like everyone,
dreams about
finding an honest person,
someone she can love.

as if nothing is wrong

you get used to it.
the drip
of the faucet.
the splinter, the pebble
in the shoe.
the leak
in the roof, after
awhile
it becomes your new
normal.
the noise next door.
any pain
or suffering
from a loved one
is in time endured,
and you think
this is the way things
are,

a prisoner in your

own cell.

you adjust, accept
and go on about
your day
as if nothing is wrong.
when everything is.

reserved seating

we go to the movies
and sit in our big leather chairs.
reserved online.
recliners
like dad used to have.
cup holders.
they lean back, lean forward.
you could almost fall asleep.
there's plenty of leg
room.
we have our food. a meal.
popcorn too and twizzlers.
a large drink,
napkins.
we're early so we have to
watch an endless stream
of ads, but so what, we're
comfy in our seats, smack dab
in the middle, in the back.
it's not like the old days,
squeezed together,
in hard seats, knee to
knee, elbow to elbow,
scrambling to find two
spots together in the dark
before the movie
starts. it's a wonderful
new theater, with a curved
big screen, the sound shakes
you to the bone.
it's a shame though that
the movie stinks and all
the good stuff is on Netflix
and amazon at home.

What a Difference a Year Makes

almost overnight
my indigestion disappeared.
I stopped sweating
profusely.
anxiety was no more.
my nerves became unjangled.
I was hungry.
food began to taste better.
I was relaxed.
my vision cleared, the tightness
in my chest
went away.
I had more energy and pep.
I felt optimistic,
and hopeful,
I even laughed.
I began to sleep better.
have amazing dreams in color.
the clouds cleared,
the sun came out, birds
chirped cheerfully in the trees.
what happened, someone asked,
what's going on,
you're different now.
just one thing, I told them.
one thing and one thing
only, she finally packed
her bags and left.

new rain

the stream
is fat
with new rain. cold
rain.
the water is clear,
the trees
have fallen and been swept
away.
so much of what was
here is gone
now.
how quick the present
becomes
yesterday.

Get Out of My House

I flush,
I toss, I throw,
I burn
I crush, I destroy
and mutilate
each and every item
she ever
gave me under the false
impression
of love
everlasting.
she was doing the same
for others.
the same love cards,
love bombing,
flirtations,
and impersonations
of a real human being.
ah, the snakes,
the rats,
the evil among us.
the witches on
their brooms, circling
for the next
victim.
when she looks in the mirror.
who does
she see.
how in God's name
can these sick people
live with themselves.
they lie,
they manipulate,
they traumatize,
they deceive. day in day
out.
it's how they live.
it never ends, until you
tell them
it's over, get out,
take your dark sick soul,
you have to leave.

The Collection

some collect stamps,
or coins.
old postcards.
porcelain figures
of cows
or dogs.
some collect antiques,
or
phones, or clothes,
magazines,
rag dolls.
it's a hobby, a joy,
something to do,
a way to pass time,
while others
collect people.
feigning love,
keeping them all on
a thin
thin line.

the new mail man

i see the new mail
man
with his leather sack
strapped
across his uniform,
his blue shirt,
his sweat.
hey, i say. where's the old
guy.
haven't seen him in a while.
he's dead, he says
calmly.
died. had a heart attack.
he hands me my mail.
a bill or two.
flyers.
something from the IRS.
he tips his hat,
then moves on
to the next house.
i go inside and put
the mail on the table.

No Refund, No Returns

it's hard to put
a price
on the damage done,
who cares
about the diamond or all
the other useless
things
i purchased in the pursuit
of love.
it's what's been done
to the heart and mind
that can't be paid for.
there's no insurance policy
for that.
no refund.
no receipt,
no returns. what's done
is done.
you take it home, it's
yours, despite
how broken
and unknown the person was.

a suit for the occasion

I buy a new suit for the occasion.
the old suits,
though very fine
and fairly new
have the stain of bad luck
upon them.
a wedding, a funeral.
is there a difference?
but the new suit is light
weight.
a pale grey.
it fits fine on a summer
afternoon, a white shirt,
crisp in the collar
and an indigo tie.
I hardly know I have it on
as we drive
to where we need to go.
to see a play. to hear
music, to eat and dance
the night away.
it's a good suit and i'll
wear it
only for memories newly
made.
both hers and mine.

We're all Waiting

we're all waiting.
waiting for something, for
someone.
for the bus to arrive,
for the train.
we're waiting in line.
we're waiting to live
to die.
for love.
for sunlight, for rain.
we're waiting for something
to begin,
something to end.
we're praying for peace
and sanity
when there is none.
we're all waiting, waiting
as if we had all
the time in the world.
everyone is waiting
for something or someone
to change,
when they never will.
we're waiting for the
weekend,
when we can be back with
the one
you love again.

we go down to the river

we go down
to the river. along the banks
of the Potomac.
where the rocks are.
where we can see the bridge.
the ferris wheel
changing colors.
the boats are out there.
the sails
up in the silver sunlight.
we go down
to a bench along the shore,
we say little.
everything that needs to be
said,
has been said.
we wait. we breathe. we listen
to the children play.
it seemed easier
back then.
that young. that innocent.
it's different now
at this age, far from
the beginning,
closer to the end.

wheels keep turning

she's tired.
I can hear it in her voice.
low
and hoarse
on the phone.
it's been a long day.
a long
year.
she wakes up
to get at it again.
the wheels keep turning.
another day
slides by.
it's hard to do it all
alone
with no one by her side.
I do what I can do.
I try.

Just Ask

call it God,
the universe, synchronicity.
call it what you may, but
don't ignore it when
it appears.
ask and you shall receive,
pray and your
prayer will be answered.
seek and you shall find.
the truth will
set you free.
it's not a coincidence.
it's not luck
it's beyond this life
that we see. it's the energy
and love
that surrounds us
that's waiting to be found,
waiting with open
arms to be tapped into.
I know this first hand,
not once,
or twice but several times
in my life.
finding what needed to be
discovered.
it altered the direction of
my life.
saved me from the path that
I was wrongly on.
released me from a hell where
I didn't belong.

the stockholm syndrome

the guard,
as she chains you up
onto the wall,
says here, let me turn
the light on for you,
get you a glass of water.
then she
strikes you
on the knees with a club.
threatens you with
leaving you alone in
the dark if you
say another word
against her.
she
gives you a crust of bread,
she reads
to you from charlotte's web,
before you
pass out
from fear and fatigue.
but you take these crumbs
as a sign
of hope.
that maybe, just maybe
she isn't as bad as you know
she is.
that deep inside
there is a human being worthy
of love
and companionship.
she puts her make up on,
her lipstick, brushes
her hair out
and gets dressed.
she smiles as she stretches
your arms
out on the rack,
your legs, pulls
at your hair, your soul.
bites you on the neck.
she doles out
as much pain as you can
stand,
then she kisses you goodnight,
and says sleep tight,
don't let the bed bugs
bite.

I want to know the truth

i remove all the door knobs
in the house.
the locks. the bolts.
the chains, i take the doors
off the closets.
put lights where it's dark.
i install large glass
windows
into every room, to see out
and see in.
nothing gets hidden.
there are no secrets here
anymore. only what's true,
what's real, what's honest
is allowed in. that goes
for people too.

cottage by the bay

I see a vacation
coming. a four day breather
on the bay.
I see food and drinks.
morning coffee.
I see the water
and the sky.
the white gulls.
I see books, poetry
and fiction.
long walks against
the sunset,
the sunrise.
I see lingering in bed
with nowhere to go.
I see nothing but fun
and relaxation.
come on week, fly by.

jersey girl

she's wearing pink
heels.
pink lips.
her hair is done,
so are her nails,
both pairs.
she has a purse to match.
she's dressed to kill.
ready to roll, ready to
go,
she's a walking violation,
she's all business,
she's a thrill.
she's a jersey girl.
she's blueberry hill.

the mermaid dream

in my dream
she's underwater.
she's a mermaid with silver
wings.
wound tightly in a green
petal dress.
her long hair
blows
beneath the sea
lit from the light above.
in my dream
she's coming, she's
near,
she's opening her arms
to me.
I wake up with salt
in my eyes,
the brine of night
upon me.
the weight of the past
holding me
still in bed.

The New Basement

there used to be a pool
table down here. purple
felt. a rack of nine,
sticks and balls.
albums on the wall.
a man cave, not really,
just a walk
down memory lane,
that's all. guy stuff.
a fishing rod,
a stack of wax.
a phonograph. a bowling
bag without a ball.
the big green couch
where diane and I got
busy once
or twice under the haze
of pina coladas.
the pillows stuffed
and soft
behind us.
the books stacked
in the corner. cobwebs
in the corners.
empty glasses.
a stereo bought long
before. an empty
wine bottle.
a bracelet on
the floor.
shoes. a basketball.
the closet full of tools
and nails, screws.
a bike, lamps and a box
of photos, the kodak kind.
it's not like that anymore.
things have
changed. it's as clean
as an operating
room now. the past is gone.
shiny white and antiseptic.
people have come, then hit
the road.
it's a new world.
fresh paint, fresh flowesr,
new carpet. it's no longer
just a room,
it's a home now. a warm
place to be with
someone that i love,
and who loves me,
or to be alone.

the end now

I see her
in the shadows, pushing
her cart.
a bag of groceries
at the bottom,
her broad hat on,
keeping the sun out.
her silver hair
a tangle
around her shoulders.
she's bone thin.
where's she going?
is she loved, is there
anyone in her life
that wonders where she
is?
she stops to catch
her breath.
she waits for the light
to change.
she was young once,
like you,
like me. like all of
us.
but it's different now.
the end is never
what you thought it
would be.

we are never done

the warm
wind wraps around us at this beach.
this long
white shore.
kissed
by the sun. drinking the blue sea
as it rolls
upon our stretched legs.
we realize that
we have most of our lives
behind us.
but feel that the best is
yet to come.
we are survivors.
we learn from our mistakes,
we leave
the weight of pain
behind. we go on.
we are never never done.

the poetry instructor

she's eighty three now.
my former professor of poetry.
she calls
to tell me about her new book.
she's still at it.
her lines are clear and clean.
stanzas neat
and boxed.
her images full and ripe
with metaphors.
the subtle hints of her life.
each day she writes and writes.
i can see her now
at her desk. the window
facing the river.
thinking about all of us
she taught. some still at it.
some having gone another way.

this thing called love

this thing called
love
is a dangerous thing. a risk.
a walk
on a tight rope,
with nothing but air
ten thousand feet below.
it's work,
it's a chore, it's exhausting
and stressful.
anxiety ridden,
and yet,
we seek it so.

but

maybe that's not real love
at all.
maybe love is something
different.
it's freedom
to be who you are,
no eggshells on the floor,
no sense
of doom, or lack of trust.
no pain.
no secrets.

maybe love is easy.
maybe love is kind
and gentle.
relaxing. transparent.
maybe love is joy
when two souls embrace
each other
without fear.
maybe love is the best thing
to ever happen to you.

i want that love to appear.

black and white

nothing is black and white.
bring the rainbow
out.
the big box of Crayola
crayons.
the shades of grey,
the blues and greens,
reds. out comes
the prism
of light through glass.
there is color
in every walk of life.
every strange corner,
each
love, each death,
each
new problem that arises,
each joyful surprise,
or
delight.
nothing is black and white.
there are six
or seven sides
to every story, none of
them exactly right.

her art

I see the art
in her. the brush strokes.
the vibrant
slashes of color
onto the white canvas.
faces
and clouds.
death
and life.
she paints from her heart.
from her soul.
the past
is hers
to hold. she shows it.
she puts it
out. she paints a picture
of who she was
and is
right now.

the party invitation

are you going to the party,
my friend frank asks.
jimmy is having a summer time
bash.
music. fun.
the usual picnic sort of thing.
burgers and dogs.
someone will bring
potato salad, coleslaw.
are you coming, it will
be fun.
who's jimmy i ask him.
i don't think i know jimmy.
really?
he says he knows you.
he looks at your facebook page
all the time
and likes what you post.
but i haven't posted anything
since
all hell broke loose
and i changed my relationship
status.
well, he says you're friends
on there,
and he wants you to come.
he says to bring a case of beer,
steaks, and
paper plates and
a gallon of wine too.
oh and some charcoal.
who's jimmy, i ask him again.

no kids

the kids are in the parking
lot
the cul de sac
they are wild.
flies
buzzing. screaming
a few crying.
balls bounce,
jacks are thrown,
ropes are jumped. i'm
dreaming though.
i'm imagining things
on this blue sky
day.
it's 1968 in my mind.
there's no one out there.
no kids.
no four square, no
tag,
no kick ball. I haven't
seen a kid
in ages.
they aren't shoveling
snow,
or cutting grass, or
washing cars.
I haven't seen a kid
looking for empty bottles
to turn in for
two cents
in ages. and that makes
me sad.

The Lake I Know

it's a short ride
to the lake.
it's a place of memory
of retreat.
the bench awaits,
the gravel of the path,
the trees
in every season I have
seen.
I've walked the miles
in tears,
talking to friends
that have passed. lovers
to be,
lovers gone.
it's a short ride
to the lake,
a long walk around.
I did it then before her,
i'll do again,
now.

everything is different now

she calls long distance.
but it's not like the old days,
dropping coins
into the slot, with an operator
telling you when to talk
when to stop.
it's strange to hear her voice
again.
it's been too long,
there are too many miles between
us.
too much time
has swept
across our lives.
so much left on the table.
left unsaid.
we used to believe in love.
we used to believe in
tomorrow. we still do,
but it's different now.
everything is different now.
just look around.

into the fire

you become
steel. wrought iron.
an alloy.
the fire burns off the dross.
we need the fire
to become
who we must become.
it's that or
die hard,
die alone, die weeping.
die
without ever having
the true life
you were born to own.

we let him go

he's grown into his own
skin.
his own set of bones.
he's me,
he's her.
he found his way
to the left coast.
brazen and bold
to leave
his home to find his
own gold.
to sift the streams
of his own life.
he has no fear, there
are no apron
strings
to keep him tied.
we hold him tight,
but we've let him go.

The New Umbrella

i sit down
at the table out back.
made of iron, not unlike
me. I have
no idea where it's from.
it doesn't matter anymore.
i stretch my legs
and yawn.
the new aqua blue umbrella
spread open
keeps the sun
at bay.
the wind blows gently
across the yard.
the bird bath
is full of yesterdays
rain. a crimson cardinal
stops by
for a swim.
i have my books,
my writing. a cold drink.
it's quiet,
it's wonderfully peaceful,
it's satisfyingly
sane.

the long hard day

my father
accidentally calls me at 8 am.
I figure it must
be important
so I call him back.
the electricians are coming
he says.
all the furniture is pulled
away from the walls.
it's like a hurricane
hit.
it's terrible.
he's ninety one.
if the soup goes cold
it's a nightmare he might
not recover from.
did you call me, I ask.
I was in the shower when
the phone rang,
no he says. I must have
hit the wrong button.
well.
okay.
good luck, I tell him with
the electricians and all.
thanks, he says, exhausted
and worried,
pacing,
it's going to be a long
hard day.

our tender hearts

I remember my first love.
her name
was karen.
she lived next door to me.
a year older at twelve,
but wiser and stronger,
more
adult than the child I
would always be.
she gave me a first kiss,
a first valentine.
a first
feeling of love that's
never left.
that I still chase and chase
to this day. i
remember those summers,
hiding behind the trees
deep into the shade,
embracing,
trembling with the mystery
of what any of it
could mean.
we were both so young,
so young, our tender
hearts unscathed.

we have a pool

they talk a lot about
their pool.
it comes up in every conversation
this time of year.
the new pump,
the new motor, the leaves,
the debris
from winter floating
on the surface.
how it needs to be skimmed
and vacuumed,
the tadpoles,
the frogs, the birds,
the litter.
they talk about how many
gallons are needed to fill it
to the brim.
then there's the filter,
and board,
the chemicals needed.
they spend much of their summer
lives
tending to the pool.
getting it ready for parties,
for friends.
come over soon, they tell you
time and time again.
the water is
nearly warm enough,
it's clean, it's clear,
come over, bring your suits,
you must come
over and take a swim.

It Never Ends

the work day is nearly
over.
a fast whirl wind
of phones ringing,
papers shuffled and filed.
computers lit up
and hot.
everyone is gone.
more than enough money
has been made,
but you're here late,
late again.
this is your life.
nothing else matters
but work.
not family, not love,
not fun.
the lights go off one
by one.
the desk is cluttered
with tomorrow.
and the next day.
the door gets locked
behind you. it
never ends.
but we do.
we do.

The Third Drink

two drinks these days 

are the limit.
with one
i'm fine.
a little wiser, more
reflective,
settling back into a chair,
as my bones
unwind.
two drinks and i'll say
something silly,
whatever is on my mind.
i'll reach over to kiss
you, to touch
your arm, your leg, your knee,
your soft behind.
but the third drink
is my
downfall. i'll tell the truth
about everything.
no one gets out
alive.

Silver band

it was just a ring.
a piece of machine
shopped metal made
by a stranger in upstate
new York.
grinding and polishing
at some anvil,
on a stool
in the half darkness
of a factory.
a thick silver band of
white gold.
almost a thousand dollars
in hard earned
money, spent.
shiny in the light,
glimmering softly in
the worn folds of my
finger.
how easily it flattened
under the hammers weight,
yanked off in bitter sadness,
strike after solid
strike. no remorse,
no regret, no mistake.
I pounded it into a squared
roman coin against the cement
floor.
i turned it into
a mysterious shape
not forged in love
not from joy, but from
a deeper darker
place. a place i'll
never understand
or go back to.

the smothered child

sadly some children
never grow up. they are smothered
and loved
obsessively
to the point where they can never
leave their nest.
their wings are cut,
their spirit dampened by
the parent's fears
and needs
to keep them at home.
they grow old before their
time.
stuck without a path,
a reason,
a life of their own. in
time the parents will
pass on,
and the shell of their child
will linger in shadows,
clueless and alone.

You're Home

when you find
trust, when you find calm.
when you discover
laughter
and wisdom wrapped
into one.
when
someone with
compassion and smarts
appears at your door,
when someone
shows up who is
the opposite of all that
you're used to.
when you find someone who
melts your butter,
who you can't wait
to kiss,
or see again.
and it's all reciprocal,
then stop looking.
you're there. you've
found home.

it's how you get up

the life coach
calls at ten pm.
he's clear. he's ice.
he's straight up.
kind, nice.
he's been down my road.
a few times.
he hears it in my voice.
the anger,
the fear, the resentment,
the healing too.
he's funny and smart.
it's an hour session.
well worth the ducketts,
the price.
I watch his videos.
his take on what ails you,
what got you crazy.
the infection of crazy
upon you. he's brilliant
with his words.
it sinks in, all of it.
it helps, everything
helps, every day, every
night.
as he says before saying
goodbye,
it's not how you get
knocked down,
it's how you get up
that counts.

her day will come

they mix a mean mai tai
at the hunan
west.
four chairs at the bar
while you wait for a carryout
order
for combination fried rice,
one wonton soup,
and two egg rolls,
brown rice.
I sip on the cold drink,
mostly ice,
mostly rum, some cut
fruit
and an little umbrella
that almost takes out
my eye every time.
I sip slowly examining my
life. I look deeply into the thick
mirror five feet across,
the bottles aligned just
right.
a tv is on, the place is empty.
the blonde girl at the counter
is bored, looking at her phone.
playing with her hair,
she's young. she wants out of
here soon. she has places to be,
friends are waiting, maybe a boy.
she knows nothing
yet. nothing about love and death
and the grind, but her day,
her day,
in time will come.

just business

it's just
business, just business.
we move
on.
we live.
let live. work.
we work.
we lie down at night
and sleep.
we think about the days
behind us the days
to come.
we know what we need
to do
to survive.
it's just business,
we move on.

summer ice

I remember the summers
on the street
in Maryland, the wagon coming
by with shaved ice.
strawberry, blueberry,
lime.
the white cone cups
in our small hands,
soft
under the melting sweetness.
we licked, we
took bites, we drank
it down under the sun,
leaving our lips
with the color of that
delicious summer ice.
never happier we're we
then those days that lasted
long into the night.

Going Home

i'm on the road
at 9.
i'm on 236,
backlick,
the beltway. braddock
road,
prosperity, olley,
gallows and fifty,
lee highway.
i'm in falls church,
springfield,
annadale then down broad
street
to little falls.
Arlington.
I end up on 7,
down to glebe,
to shirlington,
I swing by Carlyle,
then 7 again to 395,
past duke, past seminary,
past edsall.
finally
I near home, exhausted
at the wheel. onto keene
mill,
past St. Bernadette's,
then right
onto tiverton, one more
turn and i'm
home.

The Tightening Noose

the noose began
to tighten around my throat.
The confetti of
Infatuation still
Hanging in the air.
no television
she said.
it's bad for you. no music
either.
No al green. He's evil.
no books, no magazines.
no dinners out,
no friends over or to visit.
the house was full
of eggshells. shut doors,
and quiet.
deadly quiet.
no sex.
no intimacy. no nothing
that one would call
companionship.
each word that left her mouth
was a lie,
or a deceit.
some sort of fabrication
of her sick mind.
in bed by nine.
self help books piled
to the ceiling.
her phone cradled
obsessively in her hand.
curled in a tight
ball
as she'd fall asleep,
crying. Sobbing
it had become a living hell,
and still
I hung on, as if my life
depended on it.

give me more blood

she wants more of my blood
after I gave her
three whole vials the last trip
into the office.
the rubber band, the needle,
the distracting conversation
so that I don't pass out.
we need more, she says, standing
there with her hands on her hips,
wearing her white doctor's coat,
and a smile.
but I hate needles I tell her.
and I don't know if I can make
it on no food or coffee for the
next four hours. quit being a baby,
she says, stamping her high heel.
now get in here and roll up
your sleeve. we need to test
you to see what's up, how long
you're going to be around.
i'm not investing in someone
with bad blood coursing through
his veins.

single or tandem

I tell her about my last
experience with a tandem kayak
on the bay
with a former significant interest.
how badly it went.
the rough water on the bay,
unequal strength.
going continually in a circle,
the arguing
and cursing. the rolling
of eyes. the dismay.

I tell her
single kayaks are the way to go.
together
but independent of each other's
oars
and direction,
motivation and speed.

she agrees.
let's keep it at an agreeable
distance, she says,
but close enough so that when
our boats collide
we can kiss.
I say okay. that's perfect.
it's a deal.

make it right

the phone rings.
it's too early for work, but
I take
the call.
are you coming, the old man
says.
can you fix what's come down,
can you be
here soon.
I need this done as soon as
possible.
i'll pay cash, or check,
or credit card.
I need this sheet of wallpaper
back up.
the seams have split.
it's falling right off the wall
and only after thirty three years
of being up and tight.
I can't live this way.
fix it please. I can't sleep,
or eat.
my life is in turmoil until
you come and make
it right.

fade away

it's early
in the morning, but I wake
up
and get to it. coffee on.
clothes too.
shower and a shave.
I check my facebook page,
such as it is.
lame and frayed.
I log on
to see what snarky things are
being said.
who's baked a cake,
who's in Iceland today,
who wants to share
a blemish on their leg.
who's relationships
have changed.
I say nothing. I just observe.
being happy and content
to just slowly fade away.

other reasons

for old times sake
i stop into the church
along the road.
park near the fountain.
mary.
i sit in the back
settling into a wooden
pew.
the cross is there.
the priest.
the altar girls and boys.
the stations
of the cross.
i came here once to get
new.
i come here now for other
reasons.

romaine blues

i start my plant
based diet again. the ribs
are all gone.
the bacon too.
the ham has vanished
between two
slices of rye.
i look at a stalk
of celery,
the lettuce stares back
at me.
i slice up a cucumber,
shred some
carrots,
dice a tomato and
onions.
olives get thrown in.
it's going to be rough,
but vacation is coming up
and i need a new to suit
to swim in.

Lights on her deck

she strings a set of Edison
bulbs
that burn
bright across her long white
deck.
party lights
above the blue couches,
the grill,
the chairs.
it's a fine place to be
on any given summer night.
the trees,
the breeze, a drink in
hand
and her sweet life beside
you. the stars are out.
the night is young.
you smile and sigh, this
is what life should be
all about.

Real Love

they treat you with respect.
they stand up for you.
they have your back.
they believe in you.
they listen.
they never purposely hurt you.
they don't lie,
or betray.
they respect you.
they want you to be happy
and give you pleasure.
they value you.
they enjoy your company.
they treat you with kindness.
they support you.
they feel for your sadness,
when you're scared or unsure.
they are honest with you.
they want the best for you.
they defend you.
they care about you.
they trust and encourage you.
they can't wait to see you,
to get home from work
and kiss you.
they truly love you.

Positive Energy

we only have so much
positive energy
in us to give away,
to burn,
to bring light.
to comfort those
we're close to you,
or ourselves.
at some point we need
to rest
and let it go out.
to turn the switch off
and lie in the dark
to heal, to pray,
to restore what
was taken from us,
and recharge.

The Comfort Zone

some souls
make you relax when you're around
them.
a comfort zone.
they
are pleasant to be near.
a smile on their face,
rarely
are they sad and depressed,
cringing
with a frown,
wiping away another new
set of tears.
there is no argument
hanging in the air, no
tension
or anxiety. no secrets.
there just there. real
and
normal, with pleasant
words
to share.
some people are easier
to love
than others.
they accept you for
who you are,
embracing and giving
back a love
that's rare.

strange and scared

the lights blink
in the storm.
windows rattle, a door
swings open.
the cat runs out into
the street
never to return.
we knew she'd leave
at some point.
truthfully she isn't
missed.
she was a cat.
aloof and cold, always
taking, never giving.
strange
and scared, prowling
the corners
of my life, turning joy
into fear.

Late in the Game

she's still sick.
thousands in therapy.
decades on the long
couch.
self help books,
years and years
of closed doors and
disorders. flushing toilets.
running sinks.
water water water.
laxatives, starvation.
lying, hiding, secrets.
eating less and less.
melting
away like the wicked witch
of the east or west.
her phone is filled to
the max. she saves every
heartbreaking call.
every shred of her life
is documented and saved,
giving meaning to
the meaningless.

she won't pick up.
no contact serves her
well. it's too late.
she's a walking train
wreck.
a wrecking ball of pain
to those around her.
crushing the foundation
of others.

a mystery without a
clue, a rebel with
no cause. at this late
stage in life,
she can't be helped.
she's forever doomed.
lost in her own
dysfunctional world
of sickness and gloom.
no one really knowing
who she is or was or
will be. she doesn't
know herself from day
to day, hour to hour,
pretending to be well
and healthy,
when everyone knows
she's stuck inside
her own living hell.

One size fits all

I find a shirt,
a tommy Bahamas shirt,
one last gift given
at some point during the last
hell storm
that passed through my life.
a birthday,
Christmas?
father's day, who knows.
who cares,
each holiday was ruined
anyway with
some hysterical, depressive
nightmarish scenario
conjured out of thin air.
I'm sure it was the same shirt
she gave to her husband
or her married boyfriend,
or her son. or father.
one size, one emotion
fits all.
I take the scissors to it,
cutting it in long ragged
strips. it burns better
that way
on the grill out back.

Control

when I don't hear from someone
for a while,
I assume the worst
and check the obits, the metro
section.
the daily news.
facebook.
incarcerated, perhaps.
inebriated, maybe.
locked up
in a straight jacket, could be.
maybe they've jumped off
a bridge,
or did themselves in
with chocolate,
or gone for a one way
swim ala virginia woolf,
or taken
the Sylvia plath route
of baking themselves
in the oven,
minus heat,
but usually they aren't dead,
though they threatened
quite often to
do themselves in,
they're just indisposed,
or lazy,
or sick in bed.
or perhaps playing a mind
game.
still in control of what
gets heard
or said. I smile and laugh,
knowing the answer.

the netfix binge

it's cold in the basement,
so we grab
the heavy blanket out of the closet.
the big thick
green one, the color of
clover.
we pull it over our legs,
our shoulders,
we gather our arms
and hips together. we're
in for the duration.
we're on a Netflix binge.
popcorn
is in order.
salt and butter. we
put the tv on pause and
go for the big bowl
off the top of the fridge,
letting it overflow
with the warm kernels,
still hot off the stove.
then we click forward, on
to the next addictive episode.

What Love Isn't

there is a lesson
in everything that happens
to us, good or bad.
a quiz or test
may follow
accordingly, so study
up.
cram for the exam.

stay up all night and burn
the mid night oil.
take notes.
have a study partner
if that helps.
each love, each loss,
each left or right turn,
a lesson.
a life lesson.
mistakes are made,
detours. we've allowed
evil
into our lives.

you learn what love is.
what it isn't.
it certainly wasn't
the last time around.

I will get an A on this one.
I've been up all my life,
all night,
especially lately,
getting ready for this
test. no need for a cheat
sheet, or answers on the palm
of my hands.

bring it on. my number
two pencil is sharpened
and ready to write.
I've learned the hard way
and now I
understand, this time i'll
ace the test. every
answer will be right.

monday, round one

I cut myself shaving.
the blood
drips onto my shirt.
my hands.
I wipe it with a thumb
and continue on.
it's a fight.
a struggle to the death
to get this
done.
another cut, another.
I feel faint, and weak,
almost going
down onto the tiled floor.
I splash some water
onto my face.
the crimson tears
keep pouring out. i
put tissues into the cuts.
I press on.
I tell myself you can
do this, you'll be fine.
guard up, chin down.
it's just the beginning
of the day.
Monday.

i know what time it is

i have a drawer full of watches.
black,
gold, silver,
rubber straps,
metal, leather.
all sorts and sizes,
some that tick, some stuck
on a time
way back.
each has a memory to it.
a gift,
a purchase,
some given in love, others,
just handed to you
with no reason.
some have been left behind
on the counter,
or dresser
or in a bathroom.
a box of watches, all
keeping
someone else's time,
not mine. i don't need
a watch.
i know what time it is.
time for a new life.
time for fun and joy.
love.

stolen identity

I try to conjure up one
single
good memory of her.
but nothing comes
to mind.
every hour
every day, every minute with
her was
dark and lonely, full of
grief.
full of imaginary demons
and ghosts.

how hard she tried to control
me. telling me what to think,
what to say.
don't read this.
don't watch tv.
no movies. don't write.
don't speak.
be dumb, be numb, don't
exist when i'm around.
she took my identity
away.

there was nothing,
nothing good between us
to break up
the long nights,
the even longer days.

eye drop memories

i bottle
some memories into a very small
bottle.
i use an eye dropper.

very few drops
of fun,
or joy, or good feelings.
it's a tiny
bottle.

it's blue, indigo.
i shake the three
or four drops together
inside,

then pour them back into
the ocean
which was where
the rest of the memories
are.

all bad, continually
being pulled in by
the tide.

It takes time to heal

it takes time
to heal.
time to let the scars,
the damage
done fade, the scabs
to peel.
the blood
to gel, the wound
to disappear.
it takes time
to scrape the memory
of abuse out of your
heart,
go south,
go north, go anywhere
but stay stuck
inside your soul,
your mind,
your mouth. it's hard
to understand
unless you've been there,
been under the thumb
of darkness,
been trapped in a world
of false love,
living each day
with fear and doubt.

Nobody Cares About Me

I see that she's sad
again,
ninety eight days in a row,
Quiet sullen unresponsive.
so I offer her a drink,
she says no. a cup of tea?
water, perhaps?
no thank you. Wine?
can I fix you dinner,
make you a salad,
or a sandwich, perhaps
a bowl of
soup? Cut up some carrots,
Some fruit?
no, she says again. i'm fine.

your father is on the phone,
do you want to talk
to him? he's concerned
About you.
no, not now. i'd rather be
alone.

can I take you somewhere,
go for walk,
watch tv? The zoo?
you're mother called,
your sister too, maybe you should
call them back.
no, I don't want to talk
to anyone. I just want
to stare out this window
for another hour or two.

I can run up to the store
and get you whatever
it is you need.
no, no thank you.
do you have a headache
again?
is it your stomach?
can I get you an aspirin,
some ice, a heating pad?
a book, a magazine to read?
i'm fine, really, she says.
i'm fine.
don't worry. Just leave
Me be
While I obsessively text
People I dont want
You to know about
Or see.

an hour later she's
crying, mumbling,
curled in a dark corner of
A room with the door shut,
rocking back and forth,
pulling on her hair,
saying over and over again,
nobody cares about me.

another fun day.

repeat and rinse

the church is crowded
the cop
has his blue lights lit
he's directing traffic in the rain
at st. Bernadette's.
the cars
move in, move out,
park, while he waves
his red baton in the half
dark. the sinners
get clean,
again. penance, holy water,
a homily,
kneeling and confession.
it's a daily thing,
this sinful
nature. the guilt,
the forgiveness,
repeat and rinse,
again and again.

they go to church

they go to church.
they go to church.
they go to church.
rosaries in hand.
crucifix wrapped around
their necks.
they pray, they confess.
they feel guilty,
then clean.
over and over again.
the human stain.
but they never change.
the get out of jail
free card
is in their hand.
lies,
betrayal, adultery.
stealing, etc.
no commandment left
unburned.
but
they go to church.
they feel better.
let's do it again.

this years model

I finally get
rid of the old the car.
I couldn't take it any more.
the rust
and dings, the dents,
the exhaust.
she never turned over on a cold
morning,
when you really needed her.
she couldn't be trusted.
a high maintenance
piece of sheet metal that
once looked
good on the showroom floor.
all shiny and waxed
with a few new paint jobs,
but soon the tires
were low, the oil
too.
the windshield cracked.
you couldn't get a good song
on the radio.
she'd been around the block
more than a few times.
churches and flea markets,
rendezvous parks.
she'd seen better days
with me at the wheel,
but I gave it a ride, and
now it's time to let her go
to the junk yard
where she'll be crushed
into a block of metal
for scrap. she was an okay
car.
not my favorite of all time,
but we had our moments.
time for a new ride, a new
sleek model, this years or
the next.
one that goes fast,
true and solid when she
hugs the road,
and me,
no looking back.

saigon west

we sit in the cool
air
on the patio of a Vietnamese
restaurant
near the river.
Saigon West.
the tables are lit
with candles,
the greenery waves
from the open doors,
to the stairs, around.
we sip our drinks and say
little.
the friendship allowing
an easy silence
to take place.
we eat light,
drink light, we talk about the past
the future
of our lives.
we relax in our chairs,
each couple hand in hand.
the present is this.
this now, this Saturday
night when all is not perfect
with the world,
but there is enough in place,
enough love,
to be just right.

the early workers

the workers
are on the house at seven
a.m.
hammers pounding,
chisels,
they're on the roof,
crawling like
ants
in heavy boots.
ladders are slung against the brick.
they are beating
the day lights out
of old wood,
bent nails, shutters.
it's too early for this,
I think
as I sit here
drinking coffee, wondering
how they got
into yard
with the gate latched.

mercy mercy

i hate sarcasm
she used to say. everything
is not a joke.
you laugh
at everything, aren't you
ever serious.
don't you ever stop
being on, stop being a clown
and a constant
observer of the absurdities
in life
that go on?
mercy mercy,
quit making fun, she'd say.
not everything is a joke.
stop it. just stop it, or
else.
so like i a fool, i did.
i became a doormat,
a bump on a log,
a non entity just hanging out.
i went silent
and became someone else,
someone similar
to some dope she loved
in her past,
i guess,
and it nearly killed me.

we choose

we choose
our lives, despite what
some think of fate, or destiny,
dna,
or parental guidance,
or misguidance.
there is nothing
set in the stars,
in cement, there is
no set way, or path
decided upon. you choose
the pain
you're in, the suffering
you endure,
or the joy you wish to
find and keep.
it's up to you, not some
grand plan
for your life already
written. there is no
truth in a horoscope
or some crazy gypsy
looking at a crystal
ball or the palm of your
hand. there is nothing
in those tea leaves.
and instead of prayer,
take action,
be the person God wants
you to be, quit whining
about your life,
be a woman, be a man.
quit abusing or allowing
others to abuse you.
get the toxic souls out
of your life
and live. live a true
life.

the ship sinks

the ship sinks.
small holes, big holes.
too much weight.
the sails are ripped.
the engine
is sick.
we row and row.
but get nowhere.
we look at one another
and say okay,
enough.
we swim for shore,
going in opposite
directions, into different
sets of arms
to save us.

finding normal again

when you find normal.
you hold on to it with dear life.
especially after being
with the darkest
soul who has ever entered
your world
with her sharp evil knife.
she cut your heart out,
not surgically but like
a butcher having fun,
chopping up steaks for
the night.
when you find normal you
smile, you relax.
you exhale the fright.
you let the past slip away.
that's done, she's gone,
don't look back.
there is no other way.

anything is fun

it smells like
rain. see how the curl of blue
clouds
rises
in the north.
that ragged streak
of lighting
in the distance, feel
that slight chill in the air,
see how
the leaves turn up
awaiting
the wetness that will
fall.
let's sit here on the porch
and watch it come.
let's wait for rain,
together,
anything I do with you,
can be fun.