sunlight

the sun says
come over here.
put your head
on the silken
grass, bend your
neck this way.
turn your face
to the warmth
of my heart. pay
attention
to me. i will
give you the light
you need.
and when i set
i'll turn it on
to the moon,
and that too
will be plenty.

the lion

the lion
in his
cage
pacing
back
and forth
all day
while you
stand
safe on
the other
side of bars
a small field
of green
grass,
he thinks
to himself
if only.
if only.

crying time

she liked to cry.
tears came
like rain at even
the smallest of
things. a cat in
a commercial, sleeping.
a small dog
on his hind legs
begging for
a biscuit. old
people holding
hands. sunsets
and sunrises made
her cry. a hallmark
card, a song
on the radio. a
little yellow
peep bouncing
along on his
orange claws. and
then i came along
and she began to
cry for different
reasons.

sheep counting

you get a job
counting sheep
as they cross over
the threshold
of being sheared
having wandered
in herds for months
until their wool
was as thick and white
as colorado snow.
but it makes you
sleepy, all these
sheep, one after
another, and you get
drowsy and can't
help but fall asleep
before you even
hit a hundred.
and when you fall
off your horse, they
leave you there.
one foot still in
the saddle, the sun
setting over the hills.
all the sheep gone.
the horse licking
your face.

gypsy queen

she had a head
of wild black hair
and carried a
sharp knife, which
she kept strapped
to her thigh.
sometimes she would
lift her dress
and show it to you.
then she'd wink.
you didn't
know if it was a
good wink or a
warning wink, so
you kept your distance
and waited for her
to give you
the green light.
and even then, you
were careful not to
say or do the wrong
thing. she often
said, are you scared
of me, are you
scared of my knife?
to which i would nod
and say yup. i am.

living in the now

i buy another
self help
book to help
me live in
the moment.
it seems to be
the philosophy
d'jour. living
in the now.
being self aware.
but i'm getting
tired of that
notion. in fact
i'd like to
live in the memory
of a week ago
when betty came
over with a pot
roast wearing
that little
black dress and
high heels. i like
that memory.
i try to visit
it as often as
possible without
crashing my car.
what's so
special about
right now.
i'm standing
in line
at the dmv holding
this book,
having read
the first three
pages six
times,
and i have to go
to the bathroom,
but i can't because
i'll lose my
spot.
the now moment
is not so good.

my valentine

there was a time.
when she was
my valentine.
when chocolate
and flowers
were purchased
in a rush. when
a card was picked
from the hallmark
shelf and signed
with hearts,
with love. there
was a time
when she was
my valentine,
when we went out
to dinner,
and i pulled her
chair and told
her how beautiful
she was, then
gave her a small
box with a ring
or necklace
under a bow, within.
there was a time
when she was
my valentine,
that is until
she met jimmy who
used to be
a friend of mine,
and that pretty much
ended anything
to do with a
valentine.

the current

unsure,
the lamplight
flickers,
when you turn
the switch.
it's strand
of current fragile
at a point
along the line.
no different
perhaps than
your own faith,
how the light
will fail,
and stall,
go dark from
time to time.

some fish

some fish,
like you,
don't bite,
don't take
the hook,
the bait
and run.
some swim
the other way,
sensing
rightly so,
what can't
be undone.

bronzed sneakers

there was a
point when you
were twelve
and you had
worn a hole
into the balls
of both
sneakers, you
improvised.
you found
the toughest
piece of
cardboard you
could find
and cut a nice
round circle
of it to slide
into your shoe.
you were good
to go then
for about one
more game of
tag in
the street. you
wish you
still had
those sneakers.
you'd have
them bronzed and
put where you
could see
them everyday.

empty shelves

the empty shelves
are asking
for cans of beans
boxes of
noodles, jars
of olives
and peppers.
oats and cookies.
their long
wide hands
are out, wanting
to be used,
desiring
the things you'll
eat,
the food
you choose.
they sigh
in the darkness
as they wait
and wait for
you to return
from a grocery
store. they
are tired of
you eating out
every night
or getting
delivery. they
don't like
the dust or
the echo when
you take a
peek just in
case something
was left behind.

into the wind

everything
in winter bends
towards light,
the slender
thread of
yellow dousing
down across
the stream
of candlelight.
the charred
tree, the bramble,
the stones
with blue faces
below the water.
you and me, into
the wind, towards
another day
another night.

the yellow jello

the yellow
jello
that's been
wobbling
in the fridge
for god
knows how
long might
be fine with
a dollop
of whipped
cream riding
on top
of it's
rippled
skin. but
the date on
the can says
december of
09. but
i'm in a
gambling sort
of mood
and why not,
it's not
how you live,
but how you
die that
matters.
umm, no.
i may have
that wrong.
never mind.

maybe

the world is
littered with
maybes. maybe
you'll clean
out the closets
today. maybe
she'll call, she
said she would.
maybe not. maybe
it will snow
and the streets
will fill
with snow.
maybe not. maybe
you'll call her.
you'll pick up
the phone
and dial her
number. maybe
after lunch,
maybe she's
sleeping or
in love with
another man.
maybe you'll
call her right
now to find
out. but maybe
later, after
you clean
out the closets,
after you stop
looking out
the window and
into the sky
waiting for snow.
maybe.

seagulls

how uneven
the brittle sea
moves forward
with wave
after wave
of brushed
steel water.
the iron
sky, the clouds
heavy
with the white
stripe of birds
half blown,
half in flight.
we get stuck
there sometimes
too.

the mad knitter

your friend madge
took up knitting
over the summer
when her kids left
and her husband
had an affair with
a barista from
zambia. now she
knits all day.
sweaters mostly,
but she'll do an
occasional hat when
the mood strikes.
when i went to visit
her, it was hard
to get the front
door open on account
of the balls of
yarn and stacks
of sweaters and hats.
but there she was
sitting in the far
corner watching
dr. phil, sipping
on a diet coke
and knitting. the
needles clinked madly,
furiously against
one another as she
knitted. hey, you
said to her, what's
going on.
and without looking
up, she said what's
your favorite color,
what size are you?

infinity

you marry einstein's
grandaughter who goes
by the name of
infinity. yes, that's
right. look it up.
google it if you must.
crazy name, but
hey, she's related, to
him, she's a relative
of albert einstein.
she's very smart when
it comes to numbers
and figures, quantum
physics. mention
time travel and she'll
talk your ear off until
the wee hours of the
morning. you get along
quite well in many
areas, but she's
not that bright when
it comes to the world
at large. she's always
late for one thing
and leaves the lights
on all over the house
when she goes to bed.
she has a giant head
of curly red hair
that you often get
your hands stuck in
when having a romantic
moment. and when you
say moment, you do mean
moment. talk about your
speed of light.
you say things
to her like, i'll
love you until the end
of time, which you
quickly regret when
she rebuffs you and
explains how the universe
curves and how the big
bang has caused every
molecule in existence
to expand outward to
the far edges of
the universe.
it's not easy being
married to her, but
you love her and she
makes a mean cinammon
apple pie with crust
to die for, not that
there is such a thing
as death.

five years from now

so where do you see
yourself in five years
the interviewer says.
close your eyes,
take your time and
think about it. put
your head back while
i go through your
resume. but
you only close one
eye, the other one
you squint at the man
because you don't
really trust him.
are you thinking?
he says, relax, imagine
your life, yourself
progressing through
the workplace. it's
hard to concentrate
though. you have to
go the bathroom really
bad on account of the
sixteen ounces of
coffee you nervously
drank while waiting for
the interview. you're
hungry too, and you
remember seeing
cheese danish on a
table in the hallway.
there were a lot of
other people waiting
out there for the same
interview. they must
all be eating the
danish, you think,
and get a little
panicky. sweat trickles
down your forehead,
gets into your eyes.
which makes you rub
them. are you okay,
the interviewer says.
what's wrong, you seem
to be crying. you keep
your head back, your
eyes closed. my
grandmother passed away
on this very day seven
years ago, you tell
him. she always
wanted me to work for
this company. you're
a very sensitive man
aren't you? he says.
okay, okay. i think we
are done here. we will
let you know, but
i want to tell you,
that it looks promising.
you shake his hand,
then head for the
danish, then the rest
room.

first day at school

dizzy, you want
to sit down,
but no, the room
keeps spinning.
you can't even
yell out that
you want to get off.
you have no
voice, no whisper,
no sound.
the stars above
are moving too,
the wind fills
your ears like
cotton, the
voices you hear
are muffled. your
vision blurred.
you feel helpless
caught in a ride
against your
will, one that
you can't off.
and this is just
the start. day
one. first grade.

natural selection

we never go anywhere,
or do anything
fun, she says.
you tap your hand on
the steering wheel
and roll your eyes,
glancing at the gas
gauge. hand me
that bag of pretzels
would you,
you tell her. my
friend jeannie
is in africa
on a safari with
her new boyfriend frank,
she says, handing me
the bag. frank? you say,
i like that name.
well good for her
and frank, i hope
the lions don't
eat them and that they
don't catch malaria.
i'd love to go to africa
one day. can we?
sure, but first
we have to go
to your mother's
house, remember?
it's her birthday
and you made her
a tuna casserole.
and by the way,
didn't we just play
miniature golf last
weekend? i'm talking
later, maybe this summer
we can take a trip.
go to kenya on a safari.
a photo safari, not
one where we kill
the animals and put
their heads on
our walls. you nod
and take a bite
of a pretzel.
jeannie has already
posted some photos
on facebook. this
morning she took a
picture of a zebra
with a monkey on it's
back. oh really, nice.
what's up with the
zebra anyway? are
they horses, donkeys?
and why the stripes?
those stripes make them
stand out even more
for hungry lions if
you ask me. everything
about them says,
come here lion,
bite me. charles
darwin call your office.
natural selection, umm,
not so much? we should
really really go,
she says, save up and take
a trip like that. okay?
hmmm, maybe, what
about the zoo? don't
they have zebras?
it's closer too.
still malaria free
from what i hear.

the right thing

you'd like
an apple.
but you have
none, other
than the one
eve picked
and holds
in her slender
pale hand.
you've been
down this before.
temptation,
the offering,
the indecision.
at some point,
perhaps, but
not right now,
you'll do
the right thing
and say no.

the far side of the moon

draw me a picture
the doctor says,
show me where you
are in relation
to your parents,
your siblings, your
close loved ones.
and so you draw
the moon, and
then you draw
the earth with
all of them upon
it. primitive
stick figures, some
with smiles, others
with frowns.
and where are you,
she asks, i don't
see you in this
picture. i am on
the far side
of the moon, you
tell her. where
it's safe.

carrots are carrots

i am better
at vegetables
than i am with
flowers, she says,
her hands
brown and soiled
with turned
earth. her knees
are soft and
wet from kneeling,
her nose,
a bright red
from the sun
and april cold.
flowers are too
fragile, they
seem to need more
than i can give,
she says,
whereas carrots,
are carrots, not
unlike you.

cold feet

cold feet on
a cold floor
in the middle
of a cold winter.
please pull
the window
down. close
the door.
bring the dog
onto the bed.
come close, no,
not for that,
but for the heat
that you provide.
we can make it
to spring,
together, this
love, unlike
others, just
may survive.

sorrow

stop raking
your sorrows
up like leaves.
let the wind
take them.
let the snow
cover them, let
the rain break
down their
skin and veins
and sweep
them towards
the stream
where it all
goes in time.
stay away from
the window,
and let things
be.

the accident

the nurse comes
into the room
and leans over
and whispers
into your ear.
is there anything
that you need,
that i can give
you to make things
more comfortable,
and you manage
a smile from
behind the oxygen
mask which makes
her smile too.
she winks and turns
away, putting
a little
more swing into
her hips as she
leaves the room,
having marked
your chart,
still alive.

kansas

she met a farmer
in kansas.
he was rich
and handsome.
and when he stood
in the field
with his hat
off, blocking
the sun with
his hand, she
loved him even
more. and
the blueness
of the sky
added in,
the silk of corn,
the infinite
fields, blankets
of wheat.
as warm as bread.
she didn't
see the worm.
the blackbird
on the wire.
or hear the
murmur of wind,
in spin
approaching.

saccharin and spam

i cannot read
your fiction anymore.
your poetry doesn't
please me either.
and television
and movies, slights
of hand, slender
on thought and heart.
there is no room
for me anymore.
not in this new world
of meals that don't
nourish, a bland
mixture of saccharin
and spam. of bees
buzzing without nests,
without honey. a
relic is what i relish
the black and white
films, books made
out of paper, but
the hourglass has
no sand.

silence

you spend the day
nodding.
the coffee shop.
they nod, you nod
in return. yes.
the same.
and so it goes.
in traffic,
please go,
why thank you,
you nod wordlessly.
and the grocery
store, you
nod at the machine
as it lets you
pay without a
person being
involved.
the mailman
gets a nod too
as he drops
your bills into
the slot. sometimes
you smile,
you wink. you say
a word or two,
but the nod works
for the most part.
a seamless
day of silence.

snow prayers

the closest
these children
come to prayer
is when
the sky darkens
and the wind
lifts
the sun away.
and clouds lower
less white,
more grey
and that first
flake falls,
like a slow feather
from an angel's
wing. and they
gather at the window
with elbows
on the sill,
hearts trumpeting
their prayers
with wide eyes,
come more, come
snow. let's go.

strange birds

every bird
a stranger onto
itself.
yes. the color
and stripe
may be the same
or close,
the beak, pointed
just so.
the nest may
fill with those
that resemble
this one
or that. but
truth be told
strangers they
are. forevermore,
how hard it is
to not be like
that.

red winged black bird

under the red
winged black bird
as he swallows
whole a worm
and glides down
with menace
towards your
shadow, the brown
locks of your
rabbit hair. he
finds you too large
to take with
him, but creases
the air an
inch above your
scalp, before
turning on
wings built
on the centuries
of blood
before him
away

the blue river

the longer trail
the stone
path where no one
travels
covered with storm
branches,
and broken trees
in half.
it's a harder
way to go.
but the beauty
of it is in
the struggle,
the sweat and
the gleam of a
blue river that
floats effortlessly
below.

alone

she sinks
under a cloud
of sleep
her hand
knowingly
alone. her
empty bed
is blue
with unruffled
sheets
and pillows
cold, unturned,
untouched
by head
or heart,
or hand.
it won't
always be
this way she
thinks, but
tomorrow tells
her that it will.

put it in the hat

when i took up
banjo playing
people laughed,
and when i added
a harmonica and
eventually a drum
set, they took
notice. and when
i set up on
the street and put
a hat out,
they put money in.
but the money
was more for me
to move on, to
stop, because i
had no music ability
whatsover.
writing poetry
is a lot like
that too, minus
the money coming in.

broken glass

what does that
word mean, you
say to yourself
scratching your
head. it seems
quite poetic
and i'm sure
pertinent to the
poem's theme
and fits the poet's
intent in
bringing it all
together. but
why use that word,
a word that only
six people may
know without a
dictionary? it's
hard enough as it
is, digesting
a poem, why throw
broken glass,
even if it's stained
glass from a great
cathedral,
into the mix.

the five stages of happiness

you feel good.
you feel better
than good.
you are happy.
but then
something happens.
and you don't
feel so good.
then you feel
worse. then
you aren't happy
anymore.

finding a niche

when you
were in the circus
trying to find
the job that fit
your skills,
you struggled
for awhile
looking for
your niche. scared
of heights the
trapezee was no
place for you.
and the lion's
roar made you fear
for your arms
and head.
you tried the human
canonball, but
it gave you
headaches, the boom,
the landing,
the awkward spills.
the snakes were,
well, snakes.
you weren't strong
enough to be
the strongman, or
perceptive enough
to be a fortune
teller. only
the elephants seemed
to hold your
interest, their
dark eyes, awake
with innoncence
and kindness. they
spoke to you with
their long trunks,
their muffled roars,
their tails snapping
against
their battleship
bodies, you had a
way of finding what
itch they had.
you took a long
rake, standing on
a stool and you would
scratched their wide
curved backs, and
that would bring a
tear to their eyes
and yours.

jelly on your chin

i was having eggs
with my friend wilma
the other morning
after church. she
sings in the choir
and rings the bells.
sometimes she
organizes the pot
luck dinners and
the scavenger hunts
for the kids and
meet up events
for singles.
i met her while
painting the outside
of the church last
summer, and she
brought me out some
cookies she had baked.
we're going white
water rafting the
third saturday in march
she tells me.
you should come,
there will be lots
of cute singles
there. no, you tell
her and bite down on
some bacon. okay,
she says,
well we're having
a movie festival
in april, we are all
gathering at pastor
bob's house on
the lake and watching
old classic movies.
no, you tell her
shaking your head
and sipping on coffee.
well, why not. don't
you want to find
someone and be
happy. you are so
exasperating sometimes.
but i am happy,
i tell her and i'm
not good in groups, plus
i don't like that
pastor bob, i feel
so guilty around him.
lean forward, you've
got some jelly
on your chin.

jimmy joe in alaska

a distant cousin
calls you from alaska,
jimmy joe,
he may not even
be a cousin, but
he has the same
last name as your
mother's maiden name.
he needs to borrow
some money to get
his dog sled business
up and running,
so to speak. he's
a little short on
cash due to the economy
and the weather.
five thousand would
get him out of
the poor house, out
of the cold, off
the dole and back
into the wild. you
scratch your head,
and pause. have
we ever met, you ask
him. he laughs, yes,
of course, he says,
i was at your
wedding. i gave
you a black and decker
toaster oven. so
you're that jimmy
joe. hmmm. well, you
know what, the
marriage has been
over for some time
and that toaster oven
has been long gone
too. so i'm sorry,
but i can't help
you. no problem, he
says. i can hear
dogs, or wolves,
howling in the back
ground. can you
give me your brother's
number? sure i tell
him, hang on.

flowers

the single
flower
in a vase
on the sill
with withering
petals
is hardly alive
anymore,
thristy for
sunlight and
water, you've
neglected her
you've been
wandering distant
fields
full of wild
flowers.
taking in
the fragrance
and life
of what's new.

a kingdom

your own
room
your own
bed
a pillow
with which
to rest
your head,
this alone,
sometimes
is enough
to call
a kingdom.

politics

you don't understand
how it all works,
she says, the money
is gone and spent
before it's printed.
there is no budget,
there is no one
accountable for
the dollars made,
or taxed or earmarked.
if they want to go
the moon, they go.
if they want a war
they fight a war,
if they want disease
and poverty to continue
they choose that too.
your vote means
little, your voice
is just a whisper,
you have no hands,
no tongue, no feet
with which to change
what's been in motion
since day one. i
don't want to believe
that, but i do.

three a.m.

you come home late.
it's three a.m.
the dog is in
the window, still
up, but groggy
awaiting your
return. you let
him out into
the court yard
where no one's
around, and he
barks and barks
at the darkness,
at the moon,
at the still
sound of night
having won over
the light. then
he comes in,
happy, and you
understand.

the left turn blinker

daydreaming, with
the radio up,
your tail light
has been blinking
left for a hundred
miles. and you've
ignored the looks
of cars slowing
down to gaze
into your windows.
shaking their heads,
they seem angry.
upset and frustrated
by your blinker.
there was a time
when this would
have bothered you,
but not anymore,
not for yourself
or others. at some
point you will
turn left and
make someone
happy.

how it should end

we need to talk,
she says to me,
pouring corn flakes
into her bowl.
i lower the paper
just enough to
allow my eyes
to see her. what?
i say, what now?
i met someone,
she says. i met
a man at work who
says that he loves
me. i'm thinking
of moving in with
him. what's your
time frame, we have
that picnic to go
to on saturday,
can you wait after
that? everyone loves
your deviled eggs
and would be
disappointed if you
didn't bring them.
no time frame, i'm
actually thinking
that he could come
to the picnic too.
you could meet him.
i think you'd really
like him. sure, okay.
i'll help you
start packing after
breakfast. great,
she says, you have
really been a swell
husband, sorry
it hasn't worked
out. pffft, i say.
it's been fun. you've
been great too.

browsing online

i found my dog
on the computer
the other day,
he was up in
the chair, paws
on the keyboard,
a meaty bone
and a bowl of
water beside him.
he was browsing
poodles in sweden.
i shook my head
at him and he
shrugged as he
sent off an e mail
to a daschund
named greta in
stockholm. what,
he said to me,
you're at work
all day, what am
i supposed to do?
how many hours
can i stare out
the window and
bark at the mailman?

but what if...

what if we get
married and it doesn't
work out you tell
her while flipping
through wedding
cake books.
what if we hate each
other in a year.
i leave up the seat,
you become a
vegetarian and won't
cook meat. what if
this undying love
we have turns into
something else,
something that resembles
disgust. sleeping
in our own rooms,
watching our own
shows, going out with
our own friends. what
then, you ask her
pointing at a three
tiered chocolate
cake. no way, she
says, vanilla.
but what if...
shut up she says,
it's too late,
the invitations are
in the mail.

let's go there

they want
for some reason
to go to the moon.
again, the other
six or seven times
weren't quite enough.
but let's start over
there. the roads
are not unlike
the ones we have here,
so it makes sense.
the potholes,
the sand and dust.
they are just missing
twenty miles of
orange and white
striped barrels and
a blinking yellow
arrow. let's go where
there is no air,
no water, no
place to buy a
cup of coffee
and a bagel. it
all makes sense.
this is why we vote
them in. they are so
wise and diligent
about out money.

pie eating contest

bored you enter
a pie eating contest
at the county fair.
blueberry is your
favorite. they put
seven pies before
you. looking down
the table you see
your competition.
ten men and three
women who look like
they've swallowed
watermelons, except
for the little
japanese girl who
weighs maybe ninety
pounds. you scratch
your head at that.
you look down at
your own stomach,
a little pouch bends
your white t-shirt.
maybe you shouldn't
have stopped off at
cracker barrel for
three eggs and waffles
before the contest.
the gun goes off
and you take a small
bite of your pie
with your fork. it's
not that good. you
raise your hand
but no one can see
you because there
is pie flying all over
the place. cherry,
pumpkin, apple,
mincemeat. but you
don't like yours and
you don't think you
can even make it
through one slice.
you wish you had a
scoop of vanilla
icecream to put on
top, but no one
seems to care. you
realize suddenly
that you may lose
this contest.