a slight pause

I check the time.

the clock has stopped. is that
an omen?

or just a dead battery?

I replace the battery, everything
continues.
the second hand
sweeps forward. time moves
on.

all is well, again.

washing dishes

when you wash the dishes.

wash the dishes.

each wipe of the hand.
each scrape,
feel the weight of things.

of forks and knives.
the bowls.

feel

the warmth or cold of
the water as it rushes down.

have no other thoughts,
but what you are doing.

listen to the water.
to the sound it makes
against your hands.

observe
the movement of things.
the clinking
of glasses, of plates.

dry gently and set things
aside.

lose yourself in this,
and in doing so, you will
begin your journey
home.

an act of love

it was an act of war

the man says,

so we had on choice to but
to go and kill
and destroy, as best we could.

they crossed a line
that we could no longer ignore.

but what happens if there
is an act of love,

an act of compassion, an
act of tenderness, do we act

we an equally strong response?

life is good

he gets paid
on a Wednesday,

so he disappears into a fog
of drinking,
carousing with his pals.
plotting some nefarious
scheme.
like boys in a tree house.

he doesn't show up for work.

he's not at the spot where I pick
him up.

sitting there with a cigarette
and his thermos
of god knows what inside.
his painter pants on,
his shirt inside out.

he's flush.
he's got dough now. his wallet bulges
with disability money.
food stamps.
hand outs. fat on three squares
a day
at the shelter.

life is good.
getting the big C
was strangely
the best thing to happen to him.

it's getting there

i binge on Dylan
while i work through the day.

the house is empty. the music
echoes
down the flat
walls, the bare wood floors,
through the
barren hallways.

i sing along.

is there a song of his i don't
know the words to?

don't think twice it's alright.
one too many mornings.
tangled up in blue.

i started listening to him
when i was 14.

every word rang true.

still does.

throw your ticket out the window.

things have changed.

it's not dark yet, but it's getting
there.

for him, for me, for you.

not everything is said

some people you can talk to all night.

the hours
go by like minutes.

the sun sets, the sun rises
and yet
not everything has been said
that wants to be
said.

tomorrow night, she says.
to be continued.

I look at her and smile.
tomorrow, I reply.

alright.

welcome the night

it's a wink
of an eye, this life.

every old person I've met
says
the same thing.

enjoy your life.
it'll be gone before you know
it.

don't waste a single
second
on things you can't control.

things you can't
change or make right. go
forward
move on.

work, be good, make love,
tomorrows may
never come.

don't look back, today is
all you have.

savor the day, welcome
with open arms the night.

for the good times

i nearly fall asleep
listening to al green
on the stereo.

I've got the vinyl spinning
on the turn
table
like back in the old days.

i like the scratches,
the click of the needle.
the vibration of its life
going around.

i grew up on this music.
grew old with it.

it still resonates.
it still
hits home in happy times,

or bad.

each song
i find a line to own.

when it's over, i wake up
and put the needle back
to the first cut.

i play it again,
for the good times.

Nine O'clock

it's been a month

milagro texts me near midnight.

stive. we will come tomorrow.
I get out of bed
and begin cleaning the house.

hiding money.
hiding check books.
shuffling papers.

what time, I ask her.

nine she says. thank you.

nine means 3 o'clock
in her world.

which is fine. she's in and out
with her three
helpers in no time,

but everything is perfect.

I put the money on the counter,
the key under the mat.

I can hardly wait to get home
to a clean house.

a month? where does the time
go?

an old number

I reach into my pocket
and find

a number written on an old
strip
of paper.
curled and folded.

it looks like it's been
through the wash

but the ink is still there.
the numbers still
visible.

there's no name.
I take out my phone and begin
to dial.

but stop.
it's not my turn.

i believed her

a dozen years ago
I met a woman who owned
a gun.
it was pink.
it look like a giant
piece of gum
shaped into
a gun.
she said it was loaded.
I believed her.
not because she had an
alligator purse.
or snake skin boots, but
because she had
a look in her eye.
she had the look of someone
who knew about trouble,
and what to do if
it came her way. she told
me that no one
robs her mother's
liquor store when she's
around.
I believed that too.

not made for this

there's a wreck on 95 nearly
every morning.

fenders crumpled, hoods
thrown
into the air, wind shields
cracked.

cell phones. cigarettes.
relationships
gone south.
kids. a crazed deer sprinting
towards
the other side.
coffee. the weather.

distractions.

we're not made for this.

it's a wonder there's not
more.

limitations

some birds
fly south for the winter.

some stay put.
willing to tough it out.

I like those birds.
but a bird has to know
it's limitations.

like us.
only so much cold we
can take.

tomorrow

she folds
herself to sleep.

pulling tight the blanket.
the world
is still.

there is dreaming to be done.

tomorrow, too fast.
it comes.

hug the shore

I find a new path
to the waterfall. along the back
side
of the woods.
I can hear
the thunder of the water
cascading hard
on the carved
rocks.
a century, more.
it keeps coming. it's white
in the air.
blue black
below.
don't slip, don't go in,
or go under.
stay safe, hug the shore.

two week holiday

the traffic
is slow. less crowded. the world
is at the beach,
the shore,
the mountains, or just
staying home.
two weeks vacation.
the divider of a year
of work,
making little rocks
out of big stones.
you see them in their cars.
beach chairs
on the roofs.
bikes tied to the back
bumpers.
the inside piled high
with towels and coolers,
children
with faces pressed to the window.
school looming before
them.
the look of no hope
on their sticky faces.
a dog
with his tongue out
lapping up the wind.
he doesn't care.
he's in a world all his own.
like me.

the promise

my mother said
with vigor. don't ever put
me in
one of those homes.
a place where they have
to feed me,
change me,
bathe me.
promise me none of you will
ever do that to me.
promise me.

we promised.

she spent the last three years
of her life
curled
in a ball.
sipping on a straw, being
spoon
fed baby food from
a jar.

she had bed sores.
her legs no longer moved,
stuck
from being unused.
she could no longer speak,
but would blink
her brown eyes.
tears welling up.

they brushed out her hair,
took her glasses.
her teeth.
her cheeks hollowed out.
her skin
smoothed like porcelain,
white as white can be.

she'd hold your hand though,
squeeze as best she
could your fingers,
as she listened to you
whisper words
into her ears, and read.

post card from fla.

come to florida, she says.

we have oranges.
we have lemons filling the trees.
peaches too.

we have the ocean and warm
weather, you can sun yourself
out on the long stretches
of white sand.

you can swim in our pool.

but what about the lizards
and crocodiles,
I ask her.

oh, yeah, right. almost
forgot about them.
bring a sharp stick, if
you come.

the printer

i'm out of ink.

paper too.

the printer screams to a halt.
stop.
no more.
quit hitting the print
button.

we give up, it says.

how much more?

before the snow

you want to bottle
these days.
hold them in a glass jar
for safe keeping.

the weather. the sky.
the mood.

you want to see a string of
days
like this.
before
the frost, before the ice.
before
snow falls.

before the first log
in the fireplace is lit.

last request

we talk about our last meal
if we were on death row. what would it be.

she says chocolate and bacon.
before they pull the switch I want
a plate full of crispy bacon.

which makes me laugh. no, I tell her.
a meal, like a sit down dinner.

she says, chocolate fudge and bacon.

and wine.

family outing

we take a family trip
to the mountains and by family
trip
I mean me and my dog Oscar.

he likes to sit in my lap while
I drive.
head out the window, barking
at everyone.

we love the mountains.
the cool air.

the trees, the blue sky.

it's a family day, just
me
and him.

we walk along the path, greeting
others
with a bark
and a tip of the hat.

he loves it there. so many
trees. so many trees.

perusing

I peruse the book store.

the amazon book store.

but end up looking at pants
and shoes.

I get distracted easily.
did you do something to your hair?
looks different.

shorter, perhaps.

I go back to the books.
a new poetry book would be nice.
or a beach read.
fiction, not too hard to digest.
something I can pick
up where I left off and not
think too hard
about where I was.

not old poetry though.
not the hard puzzling stuff
of the academia world.

the new Yorker poetry stinks.

who do you have to sleep with
to get a poem
in there?

what does any of them mean.
words. scrambled,
clever to the point of no one
gets it.

I go back to pants and shoes.
sweaters perhaps.
winter is soon to come.

is it tuesday?

is it really Friday?

or am I dreaming and it's Tuesday again.
with much of the work
week ahead of me.

pinch me,
wake me up if i'm asleep.

pull my hair,
bite my neck.
rattle my cage,

tell me
it's the weekend, please,

I beg of you.

when we get there

is it vacation time yet?

where is the beach.

the sand.
the chair facing the sea.
an ice
cold drink.

where's my book, my
hat
and sunglasses.

my long awaited week?

wake me up when we get
there.

let cramp

I can't help but
curse
as the back of my one leg
freezes up
in a paralyzing cramp.
what the hell.
it's hard to breathe, or
move an inch.
it's a strange thing,
making you wonder if
this is it.
the end of the road.
somehow I grab an old
bottle of water
off the nightstand
and start swigging
like a sailor on leave
thinking it's beer.
finally, I crawl out
of bed, and move towards
the stairs,
step by step going down,
to
a banana in the kitchen.

the ice cream melting

I see her with her handful
of coupons,
in line ahead of me.
one for every item in her full
cart.
she has her check book out.
this could take a while.
she has a list in her hand
that she looks at, then runs
off, down another aisle
for something she forgot.
I look at my small basket.

at the ice cream melting.
bananas going to rot.

the massage

all the day, the girl
massages
the arms and legs of strangers.
kneading
backs, using her tight fists,
her elbows.
getting deep into the tissue.
down the spine,
the hand, fingers too.
she listens
as her clients grunt, or moan,
or sigh
with pleasure.
right there, they say. there.
that's good.
there is no judgement here.
all shapes, all sizes lie
there in time.
it's work.
it's good work.
the pain in all of us needs
be out.

one more meal

at times I can smell
what
my mother is cooking in the kitchen.

the onions and carrots,
the meat,
I can see her at the stove.

over the boiling pot
making stew,
lost in her own thoughts.

her seven children
bone thin
in the street, oblivious
to the news.

I see her slicing celery
on the board,
chopping potatoes.

before dark she'll call
us from the screen door.
tired, but happy
with one more meal behind
her.

something new

strange how
the light is this time of day
from
the back window.
something is amiss. something
is up.
i can feel it.
a change is about to occur.
good or bad,
i have no clue. but my spider
sense is tingling.
something is in the air.
something long
overdue. i feel the vibration
of change.
of something new.

the neighborhood cult

there was a religious cult
in
the old neighborhood back in the 70's.
they wanted
money mostly, using pretty
girls
to reel in the wide eyed boys.
cash only.
there was music and prayer.
lots of candles.
singing in a big circle,
holding hands.
mumbo jumbo using the Bible,
their version,
people talking in tongues.
prophesizing. putting their
hands on the ill, attempting
to heal. it was a scary time.
The Way I think they were
called.
and then they up and
disappeared without a trace.
no forwarding address. no
refunds, I assume they went
to hell.

leaving the door open

I leave the door open.

no need to lock
it anymore. the windows
are unlatched.

there's no one I want
to keep
out,
or i'm afraid of.

let the light in,
the cats
and dogs,
the neighbors too.

friends and foe.
let them gather around
the table
and drop their swords.

no alarms, no barbed wire.
no security camera,
no guard
at the gate.

i'm dreaming of course.
it's way way
too late
for such a peaceful
world.

hardly time to sin anymore

the faces
tell you everything.
cold masks hung grey on
the timber of bones.

the long lines of traffic.
white knuckles
gripping the wheel.

the kids at home.
the wife unhappy about
something you don't quite
understand.
the bills piling up.

the factory awaits.
the mine,
the shovel, the pick and axe.

forty years of panning
for gold.

for a two car garage.
a cruise.
a new suit.
a yard without weeds.
to put the kids through school.

it's not longer nine to five.
it's 24 7
with the phone.

what's the answer these days.
the church?

hardly time to sin with
so much going on.

cheers

i ask him, what triggers him
to start drinking.

to get drunk and pass out.

he says good fortune does.

bad luck too.
having money. having no money.

being in love.
being out of love.

a rainy day. a sunny day.
holidays.

funerals.

birthdays.

all that lies in between.

cheers.

we do the best we can

I saw a woman
steal a can of cat food once
in the grocery store.

she put her fingers to her lips
and shook her head when she
saw me watching her.

I said, ok.

they stopped her as she left
the store.
she began to cry.

but the cops came.
they took her coat off.
there were grapes, and packages
of crackers.

soup.
tuna fish in cans.

she must have been eighty at
least.

she didn't seem to mind
all the attention.

they sat her in back of
the police car.

she looked at me as I walked
by
and shrugged
through the window,
smiling, not unhappy, not
worried.

we do the best we can.

the 25 dollar short story

I wrote a short story years ago
on an electric typewriter,
the kind with the ribbon.
the cartridge that you had
to replace time and time again.
the keys would get stuck
and the ink would smudge.
but it served me well.
I won twenty five dollars
at the local community
college for the story.
it was about a marriage.
a man and a woman falling
apart at the seams.
it's snowing, but the man
leaves, tries to leave
in the snow covered car,
but the snow is too heavy,
the car won't start.
his wife comes looking for him
out in the sleet and wind,
the heavy snow.
she finds him in the car,
almost asleep, shivering.
she opens the door
and gets in with him.
she tells him she's sorry
for the years of
arguing, for the pain she's
caused him, he tells her
the same. they talk.
they look different in
the shadowy light of darkness.
they talk about when they
first met, how they used
to drive this car to the
eastern shore, stopping
along the way for fruit
and vegetables at stands
along route 50. she moves
closer to him, puts her
hands around his waist.
they say nothing for a long
time as the snow continues
to fall, covering the windows.
flakes as large as leaves.
the streets are silent.
the lamp lights sends a
glow upon them as they
huddle against the cold.
somehow in the cramped seats,
they make love.
they start again. that's
how my story goes.

i remember everything

i remember everything
to a fault,
words said,
the time of day,
the night,
what month or hour
when who said what.
i remember what she
wore,
what i wore.
what we ate and drank.
the look on her face.
where a chair was placed.
the movie we watched,
the warm
or lack of an embrace.
i remember everything.
an elbow,
a knee, lips.
the snow out the window,
the evergreen tree covered
in white lace.
the good, the blessings,
the trouble.
everything.

honeymoon in mexico

we took a honeymoon
in
mexico.
had our pictures taken
as we
posed on burros
draped
in striped burlap.
we each had a sombrero
on.
tilted in the sun,
we smiled for the camera.
a tourist
trap along the way.
we were young then
and in love.
you can see it in our
eyes.
the joy we had
for one another.
how simple it seemed,
the road ahead
was green and alive.

how good was that life?

walking backwards

I used to see her walking
before
the sun went down.
her long strides,
her ear phones
on.
her arms at her side.
the setting light
in her eyes.
her hair tied back
behind her.
around, she'd go.
past the church, the trail
beside the woods,
the stream.
walking walking, alone.
up the hill, out of sight.
she was chasing something,
not the future, not
the present,
but the past, unable to
catch it once more.
unable to make it
come back.

finger in the wound

there are miracles.
trust me
on this one, I've seen
three
at least in my life time.

a disbeliever may call
it coincidence, or
synchronicity,
or chance, but I prefer

to think along the lines
of faith,
an answered prayer.
a specific heart felt
request, on bended
knees with tears.

an angel perhaps
intervenes in your life
to alter
the direction
you are heading in.
a feeling of when to turn
left,
or turn right.

whatever you want to call it,
whatever your faith,
an answer does appear.

it's hard to ignore,
or dismiss when one happens
in your own
life.

but, sadly, and it's
the human condition,
we have to keep putting
our finger into
the wound
to believe once more.

we found something

doctors rarely have good news.
they never tell you
with a smile, looks like you're
going to live another fifty
years or more.
no worries. just keep doing what
you do.
instead they say. sorry to tell
you this,
but we found something. we
need to run tests. it's a lump,
a mass, a strange dark spot
on a lung. let's get you in here
to find out what's going on.
they tell you not to worry, but
it's too late for that,
your life has suddenly turned blue.

small store

it's a small
store on the edge of
a small town.
three steps up.
wooden,
rotted, a broken
hinge
on a torn screen door.
it's seen better days.
the pickle jar
still on the counter.
lotto tickets
for sale.
pork sausages on a spinning
metal grille.
mom is gone.
pop too.
the daughter runs it now,
four kids
and a husband who took
a wrong turn
and just kept going.
she's pleasant enough though.
sees that you're
just passing through.
tells you
where to turn to get
to the interstate.
gas, a motel
if you need to spend
the night.
y'all take care she
says.
as you carry out your
water, your
ring dings, your bag
of chips
and a map to get back
to civilization.

still here

i sit and stare
out the window.
where did the day go.
the years.
how could I be this old
so quickly.
where is the summer
of my
youth. my long hair,
my skin and bones
physique.
where is the girl
next door,
the meal on the table.
my mother
with a pitcher of cold
ice tea,
waiting for me
to come to the table,
to pour.
where are the Saturday
nights.
the stars,
the buddies, the girl friends.
the movies,
the park where we would
drink.
where is the long
months between school
ending
and starting again.
our blue jeans,
our white t shirts,
our grins. our bats
and gloves, baseballs.
the leather football
ready to spin through
the blue sky.
where is the red car,
the Chevrolet, washed
and waxed ready for Saturday
night.
where's the after shave,
the brylcreme,
the black comb in my
back pocket.
where is the night is young,
and so are we.
the radio on. songs that
we knew all the words too.
where is our innocence.
our optimism and joy
about what's to come.

dog days

it's too hot,
but we go at it.
arms
pulling, pushing. our
legs climbing.
we work
in the heat, the air
still without a breeze.
we are wet,
soaked to the bone
with sweat.
covered in paint,
the debris of sanding,
scraping.
we cough and bend
to the weight
our bodies.
we look at the clock,
we suck down
water.
it's an oven of a day.
but we
make it through.
relieved by a setting
sun,
a night approaching
and the home
that awaits.

do as we say

our eyes
are on our parents at a young
age.
we mimic them.
pick up clues on how
to live,
or not live
the life they choose.
does anger work,
compassion,
does a quiet word
with love
work, or is it the belt
and punishment
that we carry with
us to our own
children. their eyes
wide open.
watching, listening
learning.
carrying on as we do.

hole in the cup

some cups
have a hole in them.

no matter how much
you pour
into them they never
get filled.

some souls
are like that too,
they
can't hold,
or absorb any truth.

it's useless to give
them words
of wisdom.

no experience is learned from.
out it goes.
through the hole.

starting all over again
and again.

the one star movie

it's a bad movie,
I've never found anything
the manson family funny,

but it got great reviews,
and the big stars are in it,
so we go.

what is there to lose,
but time,
and money.

the chairs are big and comfy.
reserved seating.

a wine bar.
hot food.

almost like at home but
at home we can change the channel
if the movie
stinks.

here, we're locked in, too
crowded to get up
and go.

so we see it through
and when it's over we shake
our heads and say,

what the hell was that about.

post card from LA

the son
calls from La La land,
on the left coast.

we talk movies.
we talk scripts and writing.

we talk
about relationships.
ghosts.

it's a good talk.
he's putting gas in his car.

i'm cutting a sandwich
in half in the kitchen,
phone cradled under my chin.

we talk about
girlfriends.
death, love, sin.

we laugh too. don't get me
wrong.
it's rarely a dark talk with him.

he has a life.
i'm glad for that. a real life
without me
or his mother pulling strings,
feeding him.

he's on his own, but still
not far from being under my wing.

it's a good talk.

a long time ago

when i was younger, much younger.
like a year ago.
i thought about life differently.
i thought
the world should go according
to how i wanted it to go.

i wanted people to behave like me.
but not anymore, which was a bad idea
from the jump. i'm not a role model
by any stretch.

but i was younger than, very young.
unwise, burdened with things i
had no business being burdened by.

i wanted people to change.
to be good,
to be better.
to be who i imagined them to be.
i saw the halo on almost everyone
i'd meet.

not anymore.

it's too hard thinking like that.
worrying about such things.

but i was younger then,
what the hell did i know way
back then,
a year ago.

biding my time

i have new sense
of patience.

i can wait on anything
these days.

traffic.
red lights to change.

water to boil.

people to change.
the phone to ring.
the mail to arrive.

i'm in no hurry anymore
for anything.

let the rain fall, tell
me a story, take your time.
you'll get there.

i can wait. i'll be here
all day.
all night too.
i'll bring my lunch.

take your time with your
issues. i get it.
I've been there.
been there and back.

i can wait.

something new to write about

I was going to write
about
my old dog,
the humor in him,
how it was love and hate
from the start,
the death of him
which broke my heart.

and then changed my mind.

maybe i'll write about
the old house,
the childhood home in the hood,
the battling parents,
the paper route,
the sixties coming to an
end
with assassinations and war,
or
the old girl friend,
throw twenty names into a basket
and pick one out,
or
the ex wife, perhaps,
which one, they're adding up,
or maybe old friends
that have come and gone,
and the handful that
still remain,
no.

maybe i'll write about
something new.
something I know nothing
about. i'll sleep on it.
see what comes up.

monkey in a banana tree

it's a simple
flame. a white candle lit
on a clear plate
in the center of
the darkened room.
you breathe in.
slowly.
exhale.
slowly. you
repeat until you get
there.
until you get
out and get in.
the mind clears.
the frenetic brain
is no longer a monkey
in a banana tree.
it's quiet
and at last aware
of what's real,
what isn't.

back from mars

when I got back from my
trip
to mars, things were different.

people were odd.
the sky looked bluer
than what I remembered.

it was nice eating real
food again.
tired of those little tins
of canned ham
and tuna. creamed spinach.

tang.

I walked around in a strange
other worldly way.
using big steps,
not used to the gravity
of earth.

I was able to scratch
my head
and other parts of my body
that had
been itching on account
of those sweaty
lumpy space suits.

boy it was great to be back
home.
my girlfriend greeted me
with a big kiss,
which nearly made me faint.
I thought we were broken
up on account of the lack
of communication,
the gamma rays and what not,
but no.

she said she saw with her
telescope, the big
heart
that I drew on the red planet
with a shovel, writing
our names inside.

absence does make
the heart grow fonder.

a kiss goodnight

the old songs
are
full
of us. the years of youth.
how we know each
word,
each beat,
the b sides too.
how we danced
all night.
our feet and hearts alive
with the promise
of love,
a kiss
goodnight.

pink in the middle

the chicken
is pink in the middle
so I put
it back into the oven.
it's not
ready, not yet.
almost done,
I look at my watch.
still time
to bake a pie,
peel the potatoes,
and make
a salad on the side.
still time
to open a bottle
of wine.
make a drink, put
the music on.
I set the table.
dishes,
candles. glasses.
I just need now
to arrive.
still time. come on
over.

work and love

the solace
of work, that island of busy.
it keeps
us from
the truth, the reality of the lives
we're living.
where is the joy, the fun,
the love?
what is the point
of all these hours
bent
at the wheel of work,
Monday to Sunday,
week in weak out.
the grey blah of life,
a cloud upon us.
is it money, is it fear
of the unknown,
fear of getting old
and being alone,
is it the lack
of true love and wanting
at last to be home
with a special someone,
anxious for a kiss, a
hug, a word of comfort?
work and work,
keep at it and
those days will never come.

lean into it

you can drink it away.
numb
it out
with a drug, or buying a bunch
of junk
you really don't need.
you can go on amazon and buy
every book ever written about
it and become an
expert on relationships,
or maybe you can have
a lot of
sex
that means nothing to
your or them.
buy a dog, or a cat,
or redecorate your house.
get a new haircut,
a new car, take a trip
to some island,
or you can go to the gym
and work
it out.
sweat and grind
at the tread mill, the iron,
flexing those limbs.
you can cry it out,
whine about it
to all your friends,
and strangers too, but none
of that works.
you just have to feel
the pain,
the grief and go right
through it.
lean into it. lean hard
and long
straight through to very
end.
no turning back, no looking
back.
all forward, this is how
you mend.

short note to the shrink

i send a note to my former
therapist.
a short note telling her i'm
still alive.
i hope she is too.
one never knows in the psych
business.
i want to tell her
about coming out the other side,
to thank her for
the insight
and inspiration
she gave me in taking
back my
own life.

i could go on and on and
tell her to update
the magazines in her waiting
room, maybe put a water
fountain in or
a coke machine. a few bowls
of nuts out
for snacking while waiting
for the next session
to begin. but i don't. i just
leave it at hey, everything
is fine.
no offense, but
thanks. hope not to see you
ever again. saying a prayer
that there is no next time.

choosing to become

I like this quote by Carl
Jung,

I am not what happened to me,
but instead
I am who I choose
to become.

not wisdom found over night,
but through
a myriad of
nights, never losing
sight

of what lies ahead,
the soft glow of light at
the end.

forever stuck

the door
was locked tight. I pushed,
pulled,
turned the key
but it wouldn't open.
I tried it from the other
side.
I took a knife
and slid it down between
the jam
and edge to free
the paint, to make
a gap
to give it room.
I kicked the kick plate.
rattled
the knob, but still no
luck.
the door wouldn't open.
it may never open.
some people are like
that too.
forever in one place,
forever stuck.

the passing storm

so nice
to do nothing on a cloudy
Friday.

so easy
the time goes at home.

the music on, the bed made,
the bills
paid.

with no where needed to go.

it's a peaceful sigh.

how grateful you are for so
many things.

there is so much good in your
life.

storms do pass in their
own sweet time.

it can go either way

some people talk all the time.
you can't get them
to shut up
about themselves, what they're
doing, where they're going.
their illnesses, troubles,
good fortune or bad.
blah blah blah.
asking them a question
is like striking
a bee hive with a stick.
out they come.

while others are wound
so tight, so closed and
uncomfortable saying a few
words about themselves,
you want to scream.
like grey rocks, they give
you nothing in return.
they just can't trust, or
loosen up, or let anyone
in. pulling words from them
is like pulling teeth.

I think I fall somewhere
in between unless drinking
is involved. then it can go
either way.

the tuna caserole

when I moved into the new house,
a woman,
I think her name was Stella,
brought me over a tuna casserole.
it was heavy
in a nine by nine pyrex dish.
yellow. I remember my mother
having one just like it.
tuna casserole, she said smiling,
welcome to the neighborhood.
she may have opened with the word
howdy. I remember there
was a flower in her hair
and she was wearing a flowery
dress that blew around
in the wind. it's
still warm, she said, so no
no need to heat it up.
I told her thank you very much.
and she said.
just wanted you to feel at
home. the gang is having a little
picnic this Saturday, you're
welcome to come. no need
to bring anything.
she pointed to her house
at the corner, that's me,
she said. those daffodils are mine.
thank you stella, I told her.
I just might stop by.
I could see her looking around
the inside of my house, as
she stood at the door, trying
to figure out what my deal was.
it took a while but I finally
threw the tuna casserole
down the drain and washed
out the dish. I set it in
the cupboard with some other
bowls and dishes. whenever I open up
the door I see it, gleaming
clean and yellow. I should
return it at some point
and get to know these
friendly people in
the neighborhood. just not
quite ready yet. it's only been
fourteen years.

the fortune teller

I stop by to see my gypsy friend
rosa lee.
she lives in a little beat
up house
down by the railroad tracks.
she hears me pull up in the gravel
lot and goes to the window.
as I come up the porch
I see her putting on her lipstick
and getting out her crystal ball.

my friend, she says, swinging the
screen door open, I haven't seen
you in so long. how have you been?
what's it going to be today.
a little crystal ball, some cards,
palm reading? I've got a special on
the trio.
she's holding a fly swatter in
her hand. come in, come in, she
says. Quickly, the flies are so
bad this year.

I want my money back, I tell her.
you told me that she was the one,
that the person I was with was
going to be the love of my life,
and that i'd be happy with her
until the day I died.

oh my, she says. i'm so so sorry
things didn't work out,
but, you know my policy.
no refunds, come, come.
sit down. let's talk.

take off your coat. let me get
you some tea. earl grey okay?
cream and sugar, I tell her. okay,
okay, relax. breathe. breathe.
I have some oreo cookies too,
if you'd like some.

sure, I tell her. bring the bag.

she comes in with the tea and cookies
and sits across the table from me.
tell me, dear boy. what happened?

I don't want to get into it,
I tell her. it just went crazy,
the whole thing fell apart in no time.
kaboom.

give me your hand, come on,
give me both your hands, let's
take a look. kaboom? she says,
really?
I reach out and stretch open my
hands.

oh, oh, she says, after a minute
or so of studying them.
she shakes her head.
I see now. I see where we went
wrong.
we?
relax, relax, she says. okay.
I may have made a tiny little mistake.
I think I misinterpreted this little
line right here, the crease in
your palm. it's not natural, it's
a scar right? I didn't realize
it was a scar. it threw me off.
I just had my cataract surgery
the last time you were here,
remember, so maybe my vision was
a little blurry.

what the hell, I tell her. you're supposed
to know what you're doing here,
this is your profession for crying out
loud.
she pushes the bag of oreos towards me.
I have some vanilla ice cream in the
fridge, she says..want some? small bowl
maybe? I can't eat it, i'm watching my
figure, going to the beach next
week with Anzio.

no, now tell me what you see today.
are your eyes okay? not blurry?
so mean, so mean, she says. let me
see.
okay, okay. I see it now. I see
about your future. forget about
the other one, the other woman,
there's someone else.
she's different. she's fun and smart.
very very successful and a good cook
too. funny! you like funny, don't you?

sure. I like to yuk it up sometimes.

good, good.
she's quite interesting this one.
I see her with one small suitcase.
very light baggage. a carry on,
in fact. you can put it up in that
over head storage bin on the
airplane. oh, and she has a dog,
are you okay with dogs?

I take a cookie from the bag and
dip it into my tea. yeah, I like dogs
as long as they don't shed too much.
but
how can I believe you, this time,
I tell her. how can I be sure you're
not steering me down the wrong street
again, sending me down another
dark alley?

oh no. this is not the wrong street.
no dark alley. she's the real deal.
you can trust me on this one.
she knocks her knuckles against the table.
this, my friend is your true love,
she says, then stands
up and smiles, hands on her hips.
well, I think our time is up again.

cash or credit card today?

the hamster cage

i see a lot of people
stuck
in the middle, lost in
transition,
unable to move on, or get out,
or restart their
own
lives. you can hear
the wheel
of their hamster cage
spin and spin
all day, into the long
sleepless nights.

you want to help,
but you can't. there are
no words of advice
that will provide
a path out.
love is meaningless.
prayer and waiting won't do.

they have to change.
not talk about change, not
pretend, or
make vows, or say they are
changing,
you have to see it with
your own eyes.
it's action. i only know
this, because I've been
there time and time again.

giving birth

with her baby due
any day
now.
she's angry. a little
harsh,
frustrated,
blunt.
I give her room,
some space.
she's sweating
as she stares her belly,
beyond full.
I can't relate to such
a thing.
a life
growing within me.
I can barely deal with
my own life,
let alone two.

laminated affirmations

I make a list
to remind me of things
that I should never forget.

I laminate it
and tack it to the wall
where I can see it every day.

there are 42 items on the list.
life lessons.
affirmations and promises
to one's self.

each neatly typed and numbered.

it's a good list.
a long list. a positive list.
it will serve me well.

moon beam

the moon,
full faced and high,
it's beam, its flash
light
of sun
upon its dusted shores
falls
upon the river.
it rises right up
the dock,
to my feet.
I can't help think
that I've been here before.

crazy town

if a scorpion stings me,
I will
turn it into
something else.
a love affair gone wrong.
it represents betrayal.
a puddle
stepped in
is a sign of a world
spinning
out of control.
a shoelace that breaks,
or a coffee spill
on a clean white shirt,
means
i'm doomed, I can't a lucky
break in this
long hard life.
it's insane to think this
way
all day long.
it's crazy town on many
levels.
but i'm at the station now,
with a ticket
in hand,
ready to head on out.

step back

the farther you get away
the clearer
the picture is.

sometimes we stand too close
too near,
our eyes focused
on the details,
not the whole,
we don't see what
is really
going on here.

step away, give it room
and see
what the truth is.
what it all means.
the picture at last is
perfectly clear.

our addictions

it's an addictive world
we live in.

so much out there to soothe us.
so many ways
to numb the pain.

we pick and choose what
feels
best
whether food, or drink.
the highs
of love, real or imagined.
sex
in various forms of
undress.

we comfort ourselves
with our drug of choice.
the needle,
the pill, coffee
and cigarettes.
our phones feeding us
an opioid
with the next call, the next
text.

work, or exercise.
money too, the score, the things
we buy.
we wake up
and begin to make ourselves

feel better about whatever
trouble
or pain
we might be in. it's an
addictive
world we live in.

cold turkey, cold turkey,
my jittery friend.

i be the man

it feels like
Friday.

in fact, I think i'll make
this a Friday.
not a Thursday.

i'll make this the end
of the week.

the beginning of a long
weekend.

why not. who's going to stop
me.

i'm the boss of me.
there is no man keeping down.

I be the man.

the new chair

i'm still waiting on

things.

my new chair for instance.

how long does it take to make a chair
and put
it in a box
and send it to me?

other things too.
how long does it take for
letters
to be sent.

emails.
cards, notes.
smoke signals in the sky.

some friends aren't friends,
just acquaintances
with hidden
agendas.

at some point I stop waiting.

I move on.

her new book of poems

her book comes in the mail.

her poetry.

some new, some old.
at 87

she's still at it.
honing down each line.

each word a perfect fit
each
comma, or period

needed.

she takes a rock and
carves
into a poem.

you see the effort,
the chips
at her feet, the struggle
of life.

that pain or joy that she
lived with,

all
needed to make each
one her own.

being like this

is there anything better
than a glass

of ice cold water on a sweltering
summer day,

I ask her, pouring the pitcher
into
our tall glasses.

dropping in a slice of lemon.

she smiles and sips her drink.

not that I can think of, she says.

the sun
is on her face, her arms
are long
against the table.

her legs are folded in her chair.

can we stay like this for a while,
she says, finding my eyes.

just drinking our water, and not saying
much?

yes, I tell her.

of course.
being like this, is enough.

it's more than enough, she says.

the moving parts

table for one
I tell the hostess.

no friend, she says.

no,

I tell her. just one.

sure, she says.
follow me.

I sit and eat.
have one drink.

a world of people
come and go.

I can see the
worry on their faces,
the pain.

but some joy too
as others arrive.

I feel fullness
of their lives
before me.

it's a stage, a play.
a quiet painting
in a gallery
with moving parts.

I read my fortune cookie.
tomorrows
come soon, be happy now.

there is a snap

there is a snap.

a cosmic burst of some string
broken.

the sound
is hard, a vibrant ping.

I feel it.

something has changed.
I vibrate
at a different level.

taken to a higher plain.

and no, it's not about some

new age crap.

it's real. significant.
undeniable.

maybe it's the meditation
settling
in.

or prayer, or the conscience
effort to obtain
peace.

to let go and forgive
and to say the hell with it.

maybe it's the whole stew
of it.

but I know what I feel,
what I hear. the enormous
snap
of an epiphany.

the bed is an ocean.

the bed is an ocean.

I free float through the night.
from dream
cloud
to dream cloud.

it's an easy night of deep
sleep.

the waters have calmed down.
the waves are soft
and comforting.

i'm not worried about land anymore.
or
a ship to appear
to take
me to shore.

I have survived.
my happiness is different now.
it's
not about hope, or love, or
the past.

it's not about righting the wrongs,
it's not about the future.

it's more about the moment.

the bed is an ocean.

I free float from dream
cloud,
to dream cloud.

the lights are all green

i hit a string of green lights
when i'm out
driving through town,
and i wonder if it's a portent
of some kind.
a sign.

green means go. all is well.
everything is all right.
perhaps.

i depend too much on signs
these days,
on feelings,
on coincidence and
synchronicity,
although i must admit,
they are often right.

three jobs

the neighbor has
three jobs now. i see her in her
grocery store smock
at night.
name tag in place.
she works over at the church
too, doing what
needs to be done.
in the mornings she goes
to her full time
job, wearing a dress
and shoes, her hair done.
she waves.
i wave.
sure is hot lately, she might
say, and i'll
reply, yup.
stay cool.
she's a busy woman, hardly
ever stopping to say
a word, or sit still on her
porch to stare and wonder
about
that big silver moon.

whose turn is it

the family, the extended family.
the immediate
blood related family
has a problem with calling, staying
in touch with each other.
they keep track.
whose turn is it to call,
i'm not calling them, if they
don't call me, kind of thing.
it's bizarre, passive aggressive,
a little crazy,
but so it goes.
we're all different despite
the same
parents, the same blood
and growing up under the same roof.
funny how things fall apart
as we get old.

hearing voices

i talk to myself
these days. long conversations.
short conversations.

mostly at the tv,
some dumb show I've landed on,
but can't find the remote to change,
or when i can't find something,
or when i'm
trying to figure out what to eat.

i say out loud.
eggs or cereal tonight? shaking
the box of cheerios to see if
i can get one more bowl out of it.

i yell out answers to jeopardy
before they ask a question.

or at the weatherman when his
forecast is not what i need
for the week.

come on Bill,
i'll say.
give me a break on the rain,
would ya?

i talk to the guy calling
about health care,
or hotel deals at some resort.

sometimes i change my voice
to an old indian woman,
or to an old man down in alabama
strumming a banjo.

it's fun for a while until
they want my credit card number.

i think the neighbors are starting
to talk, wondering who
all these people are that are in
my house now.

a talk with the inner child

I have a talk with my inner child.

how are you these days,
my boy,
i ask him
over a cold beer
in the back yard.

he laughs. do you really have
to ask.

i get it, i tell him.
i'm with you. sorry about those
bruises.
those bumps and cuts,
sorry about the pain you've
endured,

but there's something i have
to tell you.
all of this will end soon.
you don't have to
worry anymore
about what's been done to
you from early
childhood
and further into your life.

i get it now.
you'll be okay. you'll see.
relax.
it's going to be easier
from here on out.
no one is going to hurt
you, or me, anymore.

we're healthy now, we're
whole at last.

you're free. we're free.

thanks he says. i appreciate
all the hard
work you've done.
thanks for taking care of me.

the authentic self

the protective self
is the glass,
but in time
it has to come down.
the real you lies behind
it,
it starts as a small divot,
a book,
a word, therapy,
prayer.
new love, perhaps.
it's a tiny hair line crack
of knowledge that expands
and deepens.
soon the window is
full of branches, full of
truth.
the glass will not hold.
in time,
it shatters
at last.
a break through long
over due.
it's clear and clean
now,
the wall
between the old and
new
is down. you are back
to who you were,
who you were meant to
be. your authentic self.

the only way out is through

we all
do it differently.
grief.

it's a wave that appears
out of nowhere.

just when you think you're done
with it.

it knocks you down.
crushes
you. bends you over.

it's an impossible thing,
this sorrow.

sorrow being holy ground.

we all do it
differently, but do it
we must.

go through it. straight
through.

it's the only way to heal.

the old friends

the old friends.

the life long friends. the ones
you grew up
with.

the ones after.

so many have left. i keep them
in my phone.
for times like this.

i look at their numbers,
their images
captured.

they're still here, i tell myself.
still
just a call a way,
a short drive.

just around the corner
with a word
of advice, a handshake,
a hug.
friends who will sit with
you.

put their arms around you
and promise you,
tell you not to worry,
that everything will be
just fine.

some to give away.

I follow the recipe.
printed it off from a photo
saved
in my phone.

all the ingredients
are there.
I have them ready,
stored
for the moment when
I need something sweet.

i take out an egg,
the nuts
and chocolate,
the unbleached flour.

the sugar.
baking powder. a pinch
of salt.

vanilla.

i mix with my hands
in the cold bowl.
muscling the dough
into shape.

i grease the pan.
and drop each cookie
into place. i set
the clock.
i wait.

some for me, some
to give away.

surf's up

two more weeks,
then it's surf and sun,
beach.
beach. beach.
give me the old boardwalk.
the sand
and sea.
give me the blue sky,
the sun setting
and rising
against the water
as we sit side by side.
we'll take our books,
our chairs.
our gin and wine.
we'll leave the work,
our troubles,
the clouds behind.
surf's up. let's go.
i'm ready, gas up the car,
turn up
the radio.
roll down the windows.
let's hit the road.
it's way over due.
it's about time.

the heavy box of us

we stand in line with our
box
of problems.
the line is long, the window
is small,
the hours short to
to get in
and whine about things.
slowly
we move along.
it's a heavy box.
a load.
we've been carrying so much
of it
for so long.
since childhood.
a whole hot mess of trouble,
blame, shame,
all the things that
people have done us wrong.
relationships, love
and marriage.
dying. work. children.
parents.
all the lies
all our sins, all our misgivings.
we want to set it
down, this heavy burden.
but for some reason we
can't, it's who we are.
our story.
it's what defines us
as we bend to its weight
and carry it around.
no one can ever help us,
because our hands are full,
holding tight to our
troubles. the heavy box
of us.

the spin cycle

we spin.
we put our take
on what went down.

we give our side of
the story, our way
of thinking
on things.

this is how it went,
how it goes,
not for you, but
for me.

we rewrite history.
embellish,
conveniently leave
out the details,
lie by omission.

we spin.
we make it the way we
need it to be,
not the way it really was.

it's how we live with
ourselves, with no one
the wiser.

spice

spice.

hot pepper. jalapeno.

bring the burn.
the heat.
the sweat on the brow.

bring me that kind of love.

the boil,
the steam.

let the tea pot scream.

make the smoke alarm go off.

write me a poem

hold me in your
arms, she says.
whisper that you love me.
tell me
the world will right
itself
and all these problems
will
fade, dissolve like
light
on a summer day.
write me a poem.
send it
to me. write about us,
about tomorrow,
like you used to do.

the fresh wound

it's an unseen finish nail
buried part way
in the folds
of old wallpaper
that catches the fat of
my palm
in scraping.
the blood flowers quickly
to the white tile,
the vanity,
the floor.
it springs upon my shirt.
my life blood,
so easily let free.
it blooms in rivulets,
in swirls,
circles, in crimson
bands.
I run the cold water under
the new wound
and see the crevice of skin
now open,
then place a cloth
upon it to stop the bleeding.
with my left
hand I clean the evidence
of my life.

bed time reading

I remember
my mother reading to us
as children,
two
to a bed, her
sitting in the big
blue chair,
in the middle
where we all could hear.
fables,
stories, fantasy.
she was often dramatic.
using different voices
for different characters,
giving a pause
before danger, and a high
pitched voice
for joy.
we would plead for one more
page,
one more tale.
and she would give in
and say, okay. just one
more than it's
time for bed, time
to turn in.
it's what love
does. it listens. it gives.
it's a well
without an end.

beneath the cloth

it's fear, mostly.

it's not the absence,
the vacant
lot
of one's heart, or
the echo
of one pair of shoes
on the floor,
going up the stairs.

it's not one plate
on the table, or
one light on beside
the bed.

it's fear mostly,

not of being alone, or
unloved,
or lost.

it's something else,
entirely,
it's beyond the surface
of one's life,

it's beneath
the cloth.

the rest of life

it's hard to write
with tears
in your eyes. with a knot
in your
throat, uneasy in the chair,
the summer light
upon you.
it's hard to find
words
sometimes that say right
thing.
words that capture the moment
the truth in
one's heart, but you try.
you wipe away the tears,
you breathe in.
you sigh. your fingers
move across the letters,
you write. it's what you know
how to do,
the rest of life is harder.

emotional gum

we have emotional gum
stuck
to the bottom of our shoes.
the soles.
the soul.
it's hard to remove
once there,
once stuck,
once no longer soft,
no longer sweet or
of use. it clings
to us.
we take a stick and scrape,
we rub it along
the pavement, the curb,
but there's always
a little left
behind,
that takes time
to wear away.

wise guy

did you find everything
you
were looking for, the clerk
asks
in a zombie like trance,
barely getting the words
out of her mouth,
as i put
my purchases on the belt
and move forward.
yes.
I tell her, otherwise
i'd still pushing my cart
around looking,
but thanks for asking.
wise guy? she says.
sometimes, I tell her.
sometimes not so wise too.

say nothing

say nothing.

just sit there. pour
me another cup of tea.

i'll stir in some sugar.
some cream.

no need to speak.
the silence holds enough
words.

the tea is warm.
the sky blue.

say nothing.
what we know is true.

spare change

there's some loose
change
about.
dimes on the floor,
heads up, some
tails down.
shaken free from pockets,
from purses
perhaps
long ago.
the washer and drier
both seem
to want a share,
want to take hold
of silver, of copper.
the couch too,
is sneaky with coins.
taking
them deep between
the cushions.
the dresser has a
few quarters, and
behind the buffet,
they both seem
to be saving them
for some far off
rainy day.

the made bed

i clean.
scrub, wash, dust,
sweep.
i'm on my hands and knees.
i can't
dig deep enough
to get the dirt out.
clean sheets.
i make the bed.
pull the blanket tight.
there's something else
going on
here.
it's not about the house.
the cleaning.
there's something beyond
all of this
that i'm trying to dispose
of, trying hard
to get out.

a long year

a long year.

unlike other years,
and yet familiar.

it looks the same at times.
smells
the same.
trees in the yard.
the cut grass.

the bend of wind against
me as I
walk the hill
and around.

I hear the same birds.
the same
stream as it moves like
time beside me.

everything changes.
everything stays the same.

it's been a long year.

the left lane

the car behind me wants me to move.

he's flashing his lights.

it's nine o'clock on a sunday morning.
he honks his horn.

waves his finger at me.
he wants this lane, it's his right.

I see his lips moving, cursing me
as we drive along at
70 miles per hour,
with all the lanes full beside
us.

there is nowhere to go, to give him
space.

I sip my coffee and hold onto
the wheel.

he's inches away. his life,
my life in his hands.

this is the world we live in now.

darkening clouds

when I go dark.

I go dark.

there is no grey. no soft
earth colors.

no vibrant blues or reds.

just the bitter sweet
darkness of black.

I go away.

I hear it in a voice,
a sigh.

the superficial conversation.
the opinions
and pride
of what's been collected
over a lifetime.

I don't care about your house,
your boat,
your cars,
your cellar full of wine.

I don't want to know about
your cruise.
your simplistic views
on the state of fashion
and food.

you're skin and bones to me.
an empty suit.
you bring nothing
to the table

but a list of things.
I have no clue what's in your
heart.
your soul.
what's really o your mind.

don't tell me about your church,
how often your pray,
or give. how spiritual you are,
when you aren't.

don't send me another affirmation
from
your false God.

live it, show it. keep quiet
about it,

or go.

everything must go

some junk mail comes
through
the slot.

there's a sale on mattresses
up the street.

everything must go.

they've been
going out of business
for over ten
years now.

I know that feeling.
I've had the sign up
in the window
for some time.

everything must go.
closing.
no refunds, no returns.

make me an offer I can't
refuse.

no middle man.
no salesman will visit
your home.

clearance, half price,
final offer.
bring a truck and take
it home.

everything must go.

the world you're stuck in

tired
of the trivial that this
world
feeds without stop.

television, movies. media.
our phones.
the babble.
the addictions that we have.

the garbage.
the nonsense.
the bullshit.

the deception.

if I hear another lie
come out
of another mouth, i'll scream.

it's inescapable.
the earth is radioactive
with
these people.

toxic to the core.
is there anyone out there
with a good heart.

loyal and true, someone
you can believe in.
someone not in the game?

anyone, anyone?

it's frightening.

at times,
you can hardly believe
the world you're stuck in.

i'm there now

everything I used to believe

I no longer do.

my childhood innocence is gone.
the boy in me
is finally old.

it took a lot to get me
there.
but i'm there now.

the spark has died.
the wonder
is no more.

nothing matters.

I understand
the world, at last.
no heart
is pure.

the rose colored glasses
are off,
the optimism
of love,
the promises of youth
live in me no more.

the final exam

tell me what learned
by all of this.

he asks.

tell me the lessons.
what truth do you have
now
about love
and loss.

pain and sorrow.

will you repeat the past
once more.

or is this it.
was this the master class.

the end test.

will you be whole once more
for
what's next?

have you passed?

a new place in the sun

i'll go now.

i'll sweep up the broken
pieces.
collect
my things. i'll leave
no
clue
that I was ever here.

no note,
no card, no
ring. no photograph
of me,
or you.

i'll just go without
a sound.

set my key
upon
the sill.

drive off. go far,
go to a place where I
can't be found.

before you sign

don't have
an eye for beauty.
don't glaze over, or sweep
the dirt
under the carpet.
pinch yourself.
smell the salts. let
the burn
go up into your eyes.
be real.
be awake.
be aware.
not all things are what
they appear to
be.
listen to the pipes.
try a door,
turn the key.
test the lights.
look out the window
and see what goes on
before your eyes.
be careful, be smart,
don't be fooled before
you sign on that dotted
line.

lawyer advice

i visit my lawyer for advice.

he's eating a sandwich.
drinking. seven new clients
are waiting in the hall.

he's funny, dismissive.
he says things like you never
loved that house
to begin with did you?

it's just money.
hey, you'll see your kid
every other
weekend.

play nice. there's more fish
in the sea.

how much? i ask him.

half he says. it's the law.
half. no matter who's wrong.
who's right.
no matter who cheated, who
lied.

let her have the dog, you
take the couch
and the picture on the wall.

or hell, leave everything.
start fresh.

a little child support.
alimony until
she's back on her feet.
bingo, you're out the door.

back on her feet?
i ask her. that's hilarious.
you should do stand up
when you aren't
doing this, robbing
the poor.

pounding the nail

I have a new book.
five new books, actually.

they lie about the house.
like stepping stones,
dropped
where I can pick
one up and read when passing
by.

in time, i'll turn each page
and devour
what's inside. i'm building
a better me.

I realize that
most of the truths I look
for
I already know.

but I need to pound that
nail much harder.

without water

to be without water
is not
unlike
the absence of love,
of affection.

your mouth is dry.
your heart withers.
your
hands tremble.

the oasis is a mirage.

you look no one
in the eye, ashamed
of what you feel,
and yearn for.

it's a cruel
thirst
to want your lips
to be wet
by another.

unbusy yourself

to be still
and quiet, to slow down
the race
of heart.

to unbusy yourself
and clear
your mind, is a start.
let the ripple
of your life
smooth
out.

let the drip drip
drip
of your day stop.
hear only your heart.
it will tell you what
is true,
what isn't.

in stillness you will
find
who you really are.

the drug of love

we all become
hostage at times to love,
or love imagined.

to someone who isn't
who you thought they were.

it's a drug,
this sort of infatuation.
another hit,
another kiss,
or card,
or piece of chocolate.

in the beginning it's a high.
a true
level of strange
bliss.

but it never returns
when the mask slips.

you chase it. chase it.
but it's too late, you're
hooked.

a junkie to something
that doesn't exist.

separate rooms

after cross words 

we find
ourselves
in separate rooms
down the hall, behind closed
doors.

it's a hollow feeling
to be left
alone with the one you
love so close,
so far away with so many
things unresolved.
it's what we've learned to do.
mothers and fathers
teaching us, leaving us
like this, taking us
back into
the dark places we have
known.

still children lost

in silence,  not quite,

or maybe never

grown.

junk yard blues

the junkyard
is full of memory.
stoves
and washers, dryers.

things that made the world
go round
for someone.

maybe dead, maybe alive.
but no
longer needing
these piles of machines,
these
mattresses
and cars, tires,
tossed toys,
stacked high.

we dispose of things so
easily in this life.
and sadly, each other,
at times.

an itch

it's an itch.
a yearning. a desire
to flee.
to run, to find a way
out
of this muck,
this mire. I see
the long road ahead.
I see the road
behind, east, north,
south or west.
so much is undecided.
which way to go,
how to stay
and think things through,
to
figure it out.

a good life

a long tree
falls, fat with rain on the slope
behind
the houses,
the fence. the retaining
wall.
it goes gently
against
the other trees,
tearing at the arms,
the trunks
the branches, then lies
down
softly against
the water below.
hardly a whimper.
it had a good life.
this tree.
how many times I've
looked out the window
to watch its changing
leaves
I can't count.
seasons come. seasons go.
trees fall.

not talk

it's a fine line.

thin.
white chalk
in front of your life.

not to be crossed.
boundaries
are made.

promises unkept.
vows lost.

we go on. we go on.
it's all about
action.

not talk.

still water

still water.

the depth of it unknown.
like
me, like you.

what little we know
of one another.

what happens in a storm.

but for now, still
water
holding your reflection
is what
i'll go by.

the rest will follow,
or it won't.

don't give you away

it goes like this,

I tell her.
this is my story.

she listens.
she folds her legs
one against the other.

puts her slender hand
upon her chin.
and looks away.

we all have a story,
she says.

there's a black bird
in the tree
beside the window.

i'm glad you told me
yours. I feel closer
to you now,
more than I've ever felt
before.

but keep it to yourself
from now
on.
be careful who you share
your heart with.

don't give all of you
away.

isolation

isolation can be bliss.

never leaving
the confines of the house.

the couch.
the chair where you read,
and sit.

why bother with the outside
world.

why go anywhere.

how nice it is to simply be
at home.
the open window.

why leave when everything you
need or want
is here.

why bother,
as you gaze out the window,

settled in
with memories of what was,
seeing all
with a long distance stare.

penny pasta

my mother filed an insurance
claim once
for a few gallons of red
sauce
she made and put into
the freezer.
a storm knocked out the power
and it all went
bad.
she talked about the labor
she put into stirring
the sauce
over a hot stove.
the dicing of onions
and the hand made meat
balls.
she went to great
lengths with the adjuster
on the phone, detailing out
the process
of making her red sauce.
i'm sure it made him hungry
for pasta, for his own
mother, his own
childhood home, but she never
got a penny.

dry land

the immediate future
is unclear.
the land is wet, the fog
thick.
when your boot hits the ground
it sinks.
turn right
turn left,
keep going straight.
there are no answers,
just questions.
the signs are all down,
the sky is black
without a star
to show you which way
to travel.
you're in the wilderness,
circling,
circling,
listening for a voice
to call you home,
searching for dry,
safe land.

love like that

the girl
next door would look
out her window.
I'd wave to her.
but she was shy
and would
hide.
in time though
she gave in,
she held my hand when
no one was
looking.
she'd sneak a kiss
behind
the shed, under
the canopy of trees,
and shade.
I can still smell
her skin.
taste her tender lips.
see deep into her
dark brown eyes.
I've never been in love
quite like that,
and never will be again.

the lunch box

my mother
would make a sandwich
for each of us
for lunch. bologna
and cheese.
mustard. maybe tuna,
or egg salad,
then wrap it in saran wrap
after slicing it
diagonally.
three cookies.
an apple, a thermos
full of milk
secured by a clasp
inside the plaid box.
a note saying, be a good
boy. love, mom.
this was before
the money ran out,
before divorce, before
the car left
with my father in it
and another
woman, it was
before the lights went off.
it was paper
bag from there on out,
make you own.
there's two cents
for milk
on the table.

the hour glass

the hour glass.
both yours and mine
are tilted.
decidedly in the direction
of
less sand in the bowl,
less than
there was a year
ago.
but still time, my dear,
still enough
of us
to go around,
enough sand to trickle
down, enough to make
things clear.
to make love
right,
to not go gently,
but with a roar into
that good night.

at this alone

I can only be cold
for so long.
in time I need the warmth of
a heart
beside me.
I can't go at this alone.
these arms
were meant to be around
another soul.
these lips
meant to be pressed
against another set of lips.
heart to heart.
to be at rest at last
with true
love.
what a gift that would be,
this late
in life.
this far down the hard road.

what i've always wanted

i go back
to the house to take one last look.
to see if
the floors are clean.

there's no one home.

the rooms wait for new life to appear.
children perhaps.
a dog.
a husband, a wife.

their lives will unfold here,
at this address.

a garden will appear
in the back yard.

hopefully love will stay.

a family will grow and never
leave one
another.

i look one more time before
closing
the door
and turning the key.

i see what I've always wanted
to see.

the unknown tomorrow

before dark
i'll get a bike ride in.

the woods will hollow out
a path
of shadows.

the walkers
will be in by then, having
dinner.

the path will be clear.
i'll see a deer
or two
still on the edge of
the stream.

i'll ride hard to the end,
to where the water
gathers, to where it
descends
down the side of the concrete
damn.

i'll look at the train
rumbling over the trestle
as I ride under.

i'll watch the sun melt
into the blue stretch of the lake,
fisherman
throwing lines out towards
the darkening
end.

i'll remember this day,
this moment,

then gather myself to ride
home, swift
and strong into an unknown
tomorrow.

holly has a cat

holly
has a cat.

a new floor.

a cat box in the corner.

the cat has a soft
mouse, full of catnip.

books line the shelf.

new paint on the walls.
what else?

there is no sadness here.

she has arrived
at the land
of I don't care.

she teaches. the kids
adore her.

no love interest, no
reaching out. she's safe
and secure.

she makes a point of locking
the door.

holly has a cat.

is there anyone ot there

what was true
is now untrue. what I believed
was real,
was false.
does anything or anyone
ever be
exactly what
you thought. is there
a single
human being on this planet
not in the game.
truly good,
honest and loving,
not lost?

another day

the world is neither
kind
or unkind. it just is.
is their karma?
does what's done come
back around?
who knows.
we're only here for a short
while.
avoid
anger. avoid sadness.
avoid
those that bring you pain.
be true
to others, be true
to yourself.
get out of your own
way.
be compassionate to those
that fail you.
love yourself first,
don't worry, this is all
temporary.
it's just another day.

heading home

the lovers
are everywhere tonight.
out on
the boulevard.
the weather has brought
them out.
young and old.
there is a sparkle in their
eyes.
hands
held as they walk by
the fountains.
stars
are in the sky.
they lean onto one another,
whispering,
laughing.
they're night is just
beginning,
you think, as you walk
alone, heading home,
passing by.

invisible

you're down the line.
on
a back
burner.
less important, less
needed.
less loved.
or
wanted.
you fade into some
vague
memory.
arms and hands,
legs.
slowly you go back
to where you came.
you become claude raines
the invisible man.
a ghost.
an apparition,
a figment of someone's
imagination
once again.

who's right?

some wars, personal wars,
you have to fight. some
are
more about saving your world
from evil.
but in
the bigger picture.
the battles,
that's where you draw a line.
what's the point.
no one wins,
no one loses.
it's just a fight.
a brawl, a bloody mess
of emotions.
broken bones and hearts,
ego ego ego trying to prove
who's right.

pirate man

he's a pirate
without a ship. without
a parrot.
without a sword,
or cross boned black flag.
he's alive.
peg armed
and legged.
a barrel bellied man
at 60,
striped in an old ragged
shirt.
cigarette smoke
and beer still
keeping
him miraculously alive.
he's got the system
figured out.
the po po,
the hospital, the doctors.
he's full of sin
but too tired to make it
happen. he's
full of vinegar,
bloodied piss and
broken toothed grins.
he laughs
at it all, he hasn't
sunk yet.
not even the sharks
will take a bite of him.

love helps

it's a flicker
of lighting in the far
sky.
fair weather beyond it.
the blue
fists of clouds.
this will pass. they always
do.
patience
and shelter. love
helps
as well.

unfixed

when the roof leaked,
he'd put a bucket beneath the drip
to catch
the water
when it rained.
why fix the problem
when we have a bucket
he'd say.
it's easier this way.

control issues

we try so hard
to control our world.

we do it with routine.
waking up as we do.
the coffee,
the paper. the scroll
of the phone.
the unconscious texting.

the rituals. we ask other
to participate as well.
asking them
to do the things
that please us, makes
us feel better
about our
dysfunctional selves.

we soothe our breaking
hearts
with
control. it gives
us a false sense of
security
in an uncertain world.

emotional amnesia

you forget sometimes
and slip
into emotional amnesia.
pain
leaves,
wounds heal.
scars
evaporate before your eyes.
but then
a word
is spoken,
something seen.
a thought pricks the balloon
of
the serenity that you've
miraculously
achieved,
and it all comes back
to you. but unlike
before,
you quickly and surgically
remove these
thoughts,
snipping them
one by one, until
there is nothing left
to grieve,
nothing left to be lost.

remembered by

before she died,
despite all the accolades,
and awards.
the Nobel, the
Pulitzer prize, etc, for all
the words
she penned.
books, and stories
that she was praised for
she
said
she was happy with all
of that, but what
mattered most
was how she wanted to be
remembered.
which was as an honest
trustworthy woman.
that would suffice.

let's take it slow

I take the side roads home.
the back
way.
the scenic route.
it takes longer, but hey,
we've got time.
there's no rush
to get where we need to
go.
the hurry is over,
we'll be there before you
know it.
sit back and relax.
let me do the driving.
turn up the radio, hold
my hand.
tell me something I don't
already know.
let's take it slow.

just ask

often it's the question
that illuminates,
not the answer.
the question is the plow
that prepares
the earth for seed.
it's the line
in the ocean,
the reaching vision
of a telescope towards
the unseen.
ask, ask, and you
will receive.

take a cold shower

I read about the positive
effects
of the cold shower
and begin to indulge
in the freezing
blast of cold water
each morning,
each night.
it's invigorating.
strange
and crazy, but I like
it.
I like how it wakes
me up.
brightens
the day.
the mind is suddenly
alive
with possibilities.
it's a good habit to have.
I want it to stay.
don't laugh,
really, just try it
and see.

a sigh of relief

i pinch myself to see if
i'm still sleeping.
but i'm not. this is not
a dream.
this is real.
this is a new day,
i'm really free.

i jump out of bed.
i can hardly believe
this is true.
i run around the house
laughing,
with a sigh of relief.

she gets everything

the mistress gets everything,
almost.
the attention.
the flowers,
the gifts,
the cards, the books and rings,
and sweet gooey things
that the wife once got,
but no longer gets.
she's had her day.
she's locked in and will never leave.

men have to try harder
when they have something on
the side.
maybe pay some bills for
their new love
interest. they have to go
the extra mile for the new
cupcake,
buy what they need.
a new phone, perhaps
to take another dozen
selfies
of their secret rendezvous,
a well planned trip when
the timing is right.

maybe an apartment near by,
so she can be close,
and patient as she waits
for him to separate
and be forever hers when
they begin their new life.

she stares at her phone,
never leaving the house,
waiting for the next call,
when he sneaks away,
the next
text as the years go by,
and nothing changes.

more promises, more vows,
more lies.
the milk is free,
and the double life is
working just fine,
so why toss the old
wife under the bus when
he can have both and
keep his money. everything
is perfect.
he's got it all and
life is mighty fine.

the new car

the neighbor has a new car.
I see
him taking pictures of it,
him leaning on the hood,
him touching
the door.
getting in, getting out.
he takes a rag and wipes
off a spot.
stands back and smiles.
he's worked so hard.
and here it is the new
car.
within a week, I see a
dent.
a smudge, a hubcap gone.
he's lost interest.
I see gum wrappers
on the seat.
the window is cracked.
the tires low
on air.

three days

I remember picking her up
at the airport.
she'd be standing there in full
uniform.
lipstick, heels,
stockings.
a wide smile on her pretty
face.
she was the cat that swallowed
the canary with
a bag by her side.
an angel, but a devil
in disguise.
by day three I couldn't wait
for her to leave.
so that I could have my
life back.
she was dangerous,
deceptive,
dark and disordered.
troubled from top to bottom,
broken to the nth degree.
but fun too.
hopefully that pattern
is at last broken. the last
few so called loves
were exactly like her.
normal is what I need.

the dance of trees

the trees
are dancing tonight
in the long wind.
the blue clouds applause
with thunder.
the leaves
turn up their emerald
hands
awaiting rain.
clapping softly
against one another.
it's a joy
this season, this sweet
warm summer.

set the alarms

it's a break in.
she's in
the window. at the safe
in the wall.
a cat burglar.
but she doesn't want
your jewels,
your money, your
gold.
no, it's much worse
than that
she wants to devour
you,
she wants to steal
your heart,
control your soul.
don't let her in.
lock, then double
lock those love
starved doors. secure
the windows.
set the alarms.

the nice guy

they see you coming.
they
see and feel your heart.
your empath
side.
they can tell you're
a nice guy.
you're safe. honest.
responsible.
you'll do anything
to help save them
from their life of bad
decisions.
you want to help them
make the countless
mistakes they've made,
and continue to make,
right.
they have you from
the start.
you're a knight
in shining
armor. a godsend.
an island of calm
in their perpetual storm.
a savior who will
right their sinking ship,
and off you go, lost
now in the quicksand,
the emotional
turmoil
that will sadly be
your new exhausting
life.

the sway of the hammock

i stretch out the lines
to the hammock in the backyard.
tying them from post to post.
it's in the shade.
i set a small table
beside it.
bring out the cold drinks,
the books.
it fits two, as it swings
in the late summer air.
we are careful as we lie
down within, smiling
as the stars appear.
it's what love should be
like.
moments like this,
being together, side by
side, relaxing in the gentle
sway of time.

mother hood thing

I remember asking
my mother where my hat was, or
shoes,
or baseball glove,
or pants,
or shirt, or book,
or a pencil, or pen, or
my pet frog,
or my
list of phone numbers
to all my friends.
the scissors, or a needle
and thread.
we all asked, all seven
of us kids, where
things were.
never truly lost, because
she always knew where
everything was.
always. it was a magical
gift that she
possessed.
she had this motherhood
thing down pat.

sunny side up

he's on the dole.
making
real money now. a grand a month
disability.
food stamps too.
a bunk in the shelter
until free housing arrives.
three squares a day.
he's making new
friends. he's got a girlfriend
now who texts him
nine times a day.
all the doctor's bills are
paid.
he's on top of the world.
he actually says, i wish
i had gotten this cancer
years ago, oh how my life
has changed.

faux ocean

i buy a candle that smells
like the ocean.
i turn on the white noise,
which is a recording
of waves
and seagulls.
i spread some self tanning
lotion all over
me and put on my
sunglasses. i step into my
new lime green bathing suit.
my sandals.
i sit in a small chair
in the living room,
facing the sun
with a fat new book of
poems.
then it occurs to me
maybe i should really go
to the beach,
and quit this fooling around.

finding peace

the old couple
at the table beside us
are holding hands.

they say a few words.
but it's mostly nods and smiles.

saying things
with their hearts,
saying things with their eyes,
things
they both understand.

it's obvious how in love
they still are.

they are at peace with this
world. with
each other, and who they are.

they have won this war.
and who doesn't want that?

Mind Games

the mind is
a terrible thing at times.
so easily
distracted, fooled, tricked
duped
into doing things you
don't normally do.
it ignores the truth,
puts blinders
on the eyes, closes
the ears
to all the words you
don't want to hear.
don't believe what it tells
you.
it's soft and undisciplined.
it wants love
when there is none.
joy when it's impossible.
kindness in a place where
it doesn't exist.
your mind will create
what you desire,
a mirage.
it's easily swayed by
charm, by a convincing kiss.
it's not real.
don't listen to your mind.
it will steer you wrong
every time.
trust your gut, it's
your true compass
to this life.
you can save yourself
a world of grief and sorrow,
if you disobey
your mind and listen
to the intuition that
lies inside.

simple faith

it's not about
church
attendance, or how many
times you recite a prayer
on a string
of rosary beads.
it's not about confession
or communion,
or being baptized.
it's not about the collection
basket
or good deeds.
it's beyond all these man
made rituals
that assuage your guilt,
qualm your fears.
it's more.
much more.
it's the simple act of
faith, and sinning no more.
forgiveness.
trust and gratitude.
being thankful, for all
that lies ahead, and all
that came before.

i need it now, baby

I have a break down.
I lose
my mind and go a little crazy.
I can't take
it anymore, i'm in dire
straits,
i'm up to my neck in
this desire. I need it.
i'm sweating profusely,
I've denied myself too long.
the cold showers aren't working.
I need this.
I want it, I absolutely
deserve it.
my body craves what
I've been away from
through self discipline
and spiritual
awakening. I need it
badly, I need it like now,
bring it on.

I need an ice cream cone.

the yellow butterfly

the butterfly
that's on the sill is yellow.
she has
soft wings.
like silk.
patterned with dollops
of black.
she's beautiful sitting
there so still.
I wonder where
she's going as she takes
flight,
to whom does her heart
belong.
will her life be
fulfilled.

swimming out

I've been in the shallow
end
too long
with the other shallow
dwellers.
those with broken fins,
hooks from past lovers
still lodged in
their mouths.
time to go deep,
to the rich and blue
waters
on the other side.
to the healthy part of
the ocean.
where there is less
pollution, less debris,
less
sorrow and regret,
less of those just
surviving day to day,
wallowing in sadness,
no thriving,
no cheer, no joy, no
fun
in what they do, or say,.
time to swim out
into the deep and
breathe in new air.
taste new salt
in my mouth, swim with
the beauty
of this wonderful sea.