the next party

when you stand
there like that
in your red coat,
like a cherry tomato
out of season,
posing for a picture
against the shimmering
white snow, the
sun setting low
behind us, i can't
help but think
of where you'll
be a year from
now, still in that
coat, cold and
shivering, outside of
arm's reach. awaiting
the next party
to begin with someone
new, and someone
else holding
your camera.

pink balloon

that balloon
you see, way up
in the sky
is you. it's you
floating,
a pinkish hue
into the white
sun. so easy
it floats,
so quickly it
sways and moves
between the clouds
beyond the trees,
over the lake
where we once
rowed together
that late fall
day. and you refused
to wear a life
jacket, that's
how you lived,
how you died, no
rules. that was
years ago,
nearly eight
years. and that
balloon is never
quite gone
from view. i liked
that in you
and still do.

chaos

it's easy to make
the wrong choice,
leave the umbrella
in the car,
i do it all the time,
take the wrong exit,
or make a left instead
of a right. go north
instead of south,
grab the wrong coat,
or put on the brown shoes,
when black would have
worked just fine. it's
easy to ignore the red
flags and go forward when
the danger signs are
everywhere and blowing
brightly in the breeze,
so clear. chaos seems
enchanting, not unlike
you. why is that.

the great wall

i get an e-mail
from china as she
walks along the great
wall. wish you were
here, it says. it's
a really crazy, and
big wall they have
here. not unlike
the one you keep
around your heart.
funny, i tell her.
very funny. don't
fall off, don't
slip and go tumbling
down into the mouth
of a panda bear. that
would be just awful.

litmus test

she's says, come
on, just one more
kiss before we go,
before we leave
this cold parking
lot where the moon
is sharp and round
above this empty lot,
as vacant and white
as freshly fallen snow.
just one more kiss,
before we hit the road.
lips are the litmus
test for the next
encounter, she says,
and gives my lower
lip a healthy bite,
almost drawing blood.
i'm in trouble i
think, as she says
goodnight, please drive
carefully and keep both
hands on the wheel.

don't hide it

lay it down.
set it on the floor
or the counter,
but don't hide
it. put it out
where anyone can
see, where you
can pick it up
and hold it,
touch it, feel
it against your
skin. stare deeply
into what it is
and isn't, and
what it will
never be. and in
time, it will
no longer be
necessary to do
so. you will have
gained another day,
another step
towards wholeness.
and this thing
that you hold onto
so dearly will
be put into it's
rightful place,
and you'll be free.

it keeps coming

in a short time
of rain and cold
and wind, the trees
have been stripped
bare out in the woods,
just beyond the window,
past fence. and you
can see the deer,
the fox run, if you
watch long enough,
and you can see
the smooth silver
reflection of the autumn
stream that feels cold
from even here, on
the second floor.
you can feel the moon
rise, as the sun
melts just barely
high enough to cast
a shadow. there
is no pause in nature.
it just keeps coming.

The Big Bowl

over drinks and pad thai
at the Big Bowl she tells
me about the time she
was in a state of grace
and angels, and where her
heart was still and quiet
while she immersed herself
in prayer and i nod and
laugh and say, hey, i know
exactly what you mean.
the sparkling warmth,
that surreal state of peace
where everything is known.
and the crowd, the pulsing
music and the line
within the restaurant,
and the waiter that
scurries in and out with more
water, and the dessert
tray, are blurs within
our conversation. and here
i thought i was going to
have to find a window,
or a back door from which
to escape from.

staying put

it's safer sometimes,
you want to believe,
to stay put, to stay
in chaos and confusion.
to stay trapped.
no one can get to you
that way. your heart
is protected from new
love, from having it
broken once again.
your survival skills
lock in. and so
you stay. you sit in
the fire and let the
world around you burn
over and over and over
while the ashes of
your once proud life blow
in the soft warm wind.

giving in

don't try to take
my plum pudding from
me. it's mine, all
mine. get your own.
i'm not afraid of
sharing, not at all,
it's just that you
offer nothing in
return, nothing.
so the plum pudding
is mine. no. not
even a small teaspoon
of it will find it's
way into your sweet
parted lips. what's
that you're saying,
you're whispering into
my ears, making me
flush, hmm. well.
okay. just one
spoonful, but
that's all.

glenda the good witch

there was a time
when my ex wife would
ride her broom across
the threatening cloud
covered skies and write
in black smoke, surrender,
stephen. but that was
a long time ago, and
she's pretty much gotten
over that. but there
have been others up
there on similiar brooms,
with equal passion and
chilling anger. i tend
to lean towards the bad
witches, but i'm trying
to change that, i really
am. glenda, where are you.

almost covered

i'm covered,
i've got car insurance,
home insurance,
health and liability
insurance, i've got
an extra policy on
my new washing machine,
my i pod, and lap top
and i pad and toaster
oven. i'm covered
from head to toe.
my roof is insured
in case the wind blows
a tree onto it,
as is the fence around
the house. i've
got life insurance,
whole and term, i've
got dental insurance,
and insurance on my
travel plans, flight
plan and cruise to
the fiji islands, i've
got assurance from
my priest who says that
i won't be going to
hell. the flu shot
i got the other day
insures me against
the flu, well, at
least that strain.
even my dog has a policy
on him just in case
he needs a new kidney.
like i said, i'm covered
with insurance, but
not compltely. there's
one thing not covered for,
and i think you know what
i'm talking about.

shelf life

when things break
down, it's easy to
tear the mess apart
and get to the problem,
analyze and complain,
examine it from within,
but maybe, just maybe
it's shelf life has
run out and it's time
to get a new one. whether
it be a fridge, a fan,
a car, a computer,
a phone, or perhaps
the dog you've loved
so dearly is now way
beyond it's years,
and the fact that
it can't see or
walk, or bark, or
stand up and pee anymore
is a sign that it's
day has come. love
can be like that too.

silence

silence is the true
church. the real place
to go and worship.
in the hollow of
your quiet, without
words, without a
plan or point, or
purpose, no petition,
no asking, but just
the open silence.
this is where you
will hear the words
you need to hear.
in that stillness
you become whole, you
enter the place
of light. no singing.
no beating of the
chest, no bells or
lectures, or homily,
no choir. silence
is the cathedral of
your faith.

the fast clock

there are times
when the clock moves
too fast, the calendar
pages flip over
and over as if the
wind was involved.
and the world
seems to spin at
a clip that makes
you hold on to the
rail, plant your feet
and take a deep
breath. a week, a
month and a year
transpire like
nothing. each season
is just a blink
of the eye, the new
love you embraced
in may, has become
just a distant memory
in december.

panning for gold

leaning over
the stream
in the hot sun,
knees resting
on rocks and
sand, dipping
the pan into
the thin sleeve
of water that
rushes down
and out from
the mountain
that is full
of snow, and
maybe gold,
sifting through
what comes along,
with heavy arms,
the broken pieces,
the pebbles that
have that shine,
but aren't who
you think they
are, looking for
that one nugget,
that gleaming
gem upon which
to rest upon.

lighting the tree

as the tree goes
up, and the furniture
is moved in order to
make room in the
far corner and the lights
are strung around,
and the bulbs and
ornaments are carefully
placed throughout
the thick green
branches, and the tinsel
is thrown sparingly
about, the angel
placed on the top,
and you hit the
switch in the darkeness
and stand back,
well, it's a good
thing. a very small
and good thing to behold.

victim status

there is a long
line at the counter
for victim status.
it's a grey dark
line that wraps
around the corner.
the lonely and tired,
the jobless, the
divorced and widowed,
the sick and
disenchanted are all
there in their long
coats. they
want to wear that
crown of thorns,
they want to be
known for all that
can't be, for all that
they have lost and
won't get back.
they want you to
know and know and
know the mess that
they are prepetually
in. they want you in
their corner. they
don't want out, they
want to stay in,
and they want you
to join them everyday
for a cup of tea
to discuss it. i can
can do one or two
such cups, but then
it's time to move
on when they don't
listen to a word
i'm saying or refuse
to seek help.

ghosts

in the shadows,
ghosts arrive
from years gone
by. ones you loved,
or thought you loved,
but have revised
that notion with
enough elapsed
time. but these
ghosts linger
in the hallways of
your mind. turning
on the lights
rattling the pots
and pans of your
emotions. but it's
okay, this too
shall pass and
things will once
again, be fine.

in search of

in search of
a cup of normal.
a slice of apple
pie, the girl
next door with
the wind in her
hair and a smirk
in her smile.
edgy and bright,
with a desire
for joy, for life.
all of her baggage
can be stowed away
in the overhead
bin. you know her
when you see her,
and the kiss is not
just a kiss, it's
a beginning. a
start to what
you've always thought
could be, and yet
somehow missed.

divorce

divorce comes in
stages. first there is
the recognition that
it's over, that love
has died or at least
ebbed to the point of
lonliness while with
the other person. sex
is over, or at least
should be in the form
that it's taken. and
then there is the big
talk, the crying, the
fear, the anger, the
accusations, the admissions
of sins, confession
and remorse. okay, some
regret too. but basically
the house is burned to
the ground. then you
go together to counseling
which is like the fire
department spraying water
onto the ashes of your
marriage, it's way too
late. and then the fun
really begins. lawyers
measure you up, count
the money you have before
surrender and off you go.
but the hard part is now,
the limbo period, when
you are stuck together
in the same house, in
different rooms, in different
beds, loveless and
confused, sad and blue.
this is the hardest part.
escape. letting go of
the ties that bind,
the holidays, the furniture,
who gets the dog, the
cat, what days do we
split the child in two
and shuttle him back and
forth from new home to
new home. and money, oh
how the money begins
to matter. it takes over.
who gets the house,
who stays, who goes,
who gives in. and this
is just the beginning.
friends take sides, in
laws and neighbors.
the world will never be
the same, at least not
for a very very long
time. divorce. god help us.

cake love

she bakes cakes in her
sleep. round and layered,
tiered. angel food
and devil's food, all
floating like balloons
in the blue skies
of her dreams. she can
taste them while she
turns in her bed, her head
upon the pillow, a smile
on her lips that savors
the texture of eggs
and sugar, flour and
sweet icings all as
one. and she wishes
that her life could
be as smooth and perfect
as these cakes that
line the shelves of
her slumber and awaken
her with a hunger for
true and lasting love.

pirate girl

she's not a pirate,
but she likes to dress
up like one. with the
boots, black and shiny,
the pants, also black
and tight all the way
up. and that billowing
white blouse with three
buttons, cut loose
and alluring. she has
no sword, or parrot, or
patch on her eye, but
i like what she's got
going on. climb aboard.

the rolling boat

back and forth,
yes and no,
perhaps and maybe,
these are the
waves that roll
the boat, get you
nowhere. i'm coming
for the holidays,
no, i can't, i've
changed my mind,
my flight, my
whole outlook
on life is upside
down. i might get
back with the ex,
perhaps i'll drop
the divorce plans
and make a go of it.
we're so happy
when we are happy.
so no, don't plan
on me coming, don't
overcook, or buy
too much. just set
out one plate, you're
on your own. but
wait, let me sleep
on it. can i tell
you for sure tomorrow?

low on ink

my printer keeps
telling me that i'm
low on ink. i know
that. i really do.
you'll get your ink,
just hold still.
but it keeps
shaking and moving
back and forth,
it seems very
nervous and confused,
almost trembling
with anticipation.
it's blinking
and making squeaky
noises. i know that
feeling, it's exactly
what i go through
when i'm low on
grey goose.

social marketing 101

my friend jimmy met me
for lunch the other day. he
was really excited. i've got
this great new business
he said, bursting with
enthusiasm. what, i ask,
what is it. it's called
marketing. okay, i say.
what are you marketing.
whatever he says, it
doesn't matter. but it's
a great way to meet women.
beats the hell out of the
internet. they love this
stuff. you get dressed up,
go to happy hours and
'business meetings' and
stand around drinking talking
to attractive women. but
aren't you married? yes,
but, i don't wear my ring
when i'm out 'marketing'. i
tell her i'm out working
late. he gives me a wink.
she's at home watching
the kid, exhausted from
dragging him around to
soccer games and birthday
parties. ha. i'm working
late, babe, i tell her.
she's out like a light
by the time i get home
from work. by the end
of the night everyone
is so wasted no one cares
who's married, single,
or whatever. it's crazy,
i tell you. it's a party
three nights a week.
but what are you selling,
what are they selling, who's
buying anything? pffft, he
says, you are so missing
the point. you collect
business cards and shoot
the breeze, knock down
a few glasses of wine, flirt
around, nod your head alot,
smile, and say serious
things like, my numbers
this quarter are definitely
up or i really feel like
the economy is finally turning
around. be positive and
optimistic, women like that.
these things are a gold
mine i tell you for meeting
babes. he pulls out a stack
of business cards, i got these
last night. it's hard to
keep them straight, who's who.
it's like shooting fish in a
barrel. but, i ask him,
how is anyone making money.
he laughs. nobody is really
making any money except
the people throwing these
'events'. they collect
the fees to get in.
most people are losing money
doing this, but hey, they're
hooking up. hmmmm. so you quit
your day job to do this?
hell no, he says, i need
some source of income. why
don't you come with me
next week. put on a nice
suit. it's martini night
at the local executive's
business association, it's
at aldo's italian restaurant,
women love that place.
they flock to these happy hours
like bees around honey,
networking. trying to hit
that homerun with some guy
with dough. get some business
cards made up too. you'll need
plenty. what should i call
myself? hmmm, how about
senior vp marketing executive,
east coast division. perfect,
he says. it starts at
seven or so and runs until
midnight, unless you
get lucky. he laughs. i keep
an overnight bag in the car
just in case. well,
i gotta run, he says. i'm
working. i've got a lunch
date at one, i mean 'business
meeting' and another one at two
with these women i met
the other night at happy
hour, i mean the networking
strategy event. ha. he
waves his blackberry at me
that is blinking and buzzing
off the hook, then slaps me
on the back, see you friday,
for work! don't forget those
new business cards, buddy.
welcome to the wonderful
world of marketing.

escape

when you try
the back door
and it's locked
you go for
the window, but
that too is sealed
shut, then you
check the air
vents, and boost
yourself up with
a box from the
corner, you feel
that you can
shimmy your way
in, and through
and out the other
side or to the roof,
who knows, so you
slowly turn
the screws and
remove the screen
then slide halfway
up and into the dark
shaft, but then you
feel a tug at your
shoe, there she is,
pulling you right
back in. and she says
sweetly, where you
going baby, it's
not quite over,
not yet. i'll
decide that. now
come down from
there and give me
a big kiss.

the blackberry blues

who are you texting
now, my dear, or
e-mailing, what
is that beep, that
bong, that music,
the tweet, the twitter,
why are you typing
while we are eating,
driving, making love.
why do you sit in
your car for ten
minutes when you arrive
to catch up on those
fifteen missed very
important
communications, what
the hell is so
urgent that they
can't leave you alone.
where are they now,
where will they be
in ten minutes. what
are they eating,
drinking or saying,
or doing this very
second. oh please,
let's find out.what
are they wearing,
and who are they with.
we need to know,
don't we. the whole
world has turned into
a fifteen year old girl.
it keeps lighting up.
morning noon and night.
it never stops. why do
you tilt it away, so
that i can't see it,
who are these people
that can't leave you
alone, that can't for a
minute give you rest
from that gizmo in
your hot hand. why do
you have to go to
the bathroom so
often, or leave
the movie theater
right in the middle,
it's beyond rude, it's
absolutely crazy.
a sad social addiction.
it's midnight, please
make it stop for just
a solitary moment.
i can't wait to get mine
just to show you
what i mean.

mon ami gabi

there was an old
trio in mon ami gabi
the other night
in bethesda, silver
hair, or no hair,
a paunch on two,
and the other one bone
thin, lanky and lean,
with his clothes
just hanging on him.
he was on the drums,
his eyes half closed.
but they could play,
jazz, and blues,
their fingers blistering
fast and smooth
on the bass,
the sax, deep and
tender, slight smiles on
their lined faces,
they've been playing
like this for decades,
you could tell, not
missing a note,
as tight as a trio
could be, it was
wonderous and warm
as the night went on
and the wine was
poured and the food
kept coming, they
kept playing and
playing and made me
wish that you were there.

the waitress

my waitress, with
the starched pink
uniform, pouring
coffee and showing
more cleavage than
anyone wants to
see, asks me what's
up, why aren't you
eating, just toast,
no eggs, no bacon.
come on bud, have
an omelette. let
me have the kitchen
make you some french
toast, on me, she
gives me a wink.
no really i tell
i her. i'm not
hungry. it's a girl,
isn't it, she
says, and smiles,
the hot coffee
pot still in her
hand. hell, honey,
as cute as you are
you won't have any
problems finding
a new one. there's
another bus coming
down the street
every ten minutes.
pfffft. just go
stand out on the
corner for awhile,
you'll see. now what
can i get you, girls
don't like no
skinny boys. okay,
i tell her. scramble
me up some eggs,
sausage, more toast,
and some home fries.
there we go, she laughs.
coming right up, then
she wiggles away
in her tight dress
while looking over
her shoulder at me.

music

that sound you hear,
that eerie quiet,
that lack of conflict
or concern, the absence
of drama, and just
the steady rain on
the leaves outside
my window is music,
a quiet storm of
silence that embraces
the day, and me.

pruning

pruning, thinning
the brush, cutting
back the weeds
that choke the beauty
and soul
out of a garden.
digging up the bramble,
the vines that
wrap and break
the fence, softens
the brick as it
climbs up the wall.
cutting away
the dead branches,
the poison ivy,
sweeping up the leaves
that pile into
corners, heavy
and wet. getting
rid of everything
that isn't true
or brings beauty
to the yard and me.
it's hard work, but
it has to be done.

fly away

it's easy, she says,
do this. pack your
bags, get a ticket,
get on the plane
and just go. why not.
pick an island,
select a place,
somewhere you've
never been before,
and just get there.
go now before you're
too old, before
you're involved
again with someone
new. lock the house,
stop the mail,
pack lightly
and fly away.

town square

the church bells
in the town square
would awaken me
on sunday morning with
new snow on the
ground and her
beside me sleeping.
it wasn't long
after being divorced
for the both of us,
and this togetherness
was as fresh as
that fallen snow
outside on the grass,
lacing the cars
and streets.
frosting the thick
pine trees along
the frozen pond,
but the bells didn't
move her, it was
where she lived.
they were a part of
her sleep, her dream,
but for me they were
music, they were loud
and lingering with
the start of some
new path i was on,
although without her.

the turnstile

in new york city once,
when my son was ten or
eleven and we were
just there for the night
we took the subway
everywhere, and there
was a man, an older man,
working the booth who
winked and smiled at
my son, and said you
don't have to pay,
just go under son, go
under the turnstile
and live a little, it's
fine, i'm telling you
it's okay, and he
laughed with all of
his years behind him,
still on the job,
still in his well
lighted square of home
away from home, watching
the thousands of souls
arrive and leave, finding
some sweet joy in it all,
day in day out, forever.
and so my son went
under, and off we
went into the cold
new york night while
the man waved and smiled
with delight.

what follows is this

what follows often
at the end of love,
at the end of
sadness and retreat,
what often lies in
the wake of tears
and sorrow and missing,
is a fragile kind of
relief. and you turn
that hard corner,
with a sigh
and leave the cold
room of despair, you
find the sun is still
as warm and caring
and gentle upon you
as it always was. and
food finds you again,
and fills you once more,
and sleep takes you
into her dark and sweet
arms and gives you
rest. you find new
clothes to wear
and your heart
heals, and begins
again to believe in
all the things that
gave you joy and hope
and wonder in this
temporary world.

at the zoo

the zoo is a sad
place, really.
the beauty of
the caged beast,
the lion, the zebra,
narrowed out
in stripes of
black and white
behind cold bars
and grazing on
a thin patch of
grassy dirt.
the gentle roar
of the tiger is
less of wonder,
and more of his
fatigue and slumber.
and the chatter
of monkeys is not
unlike the traffic
in the city, even
the giraffes,
so spotted orange
and leaning towards
the tall trees
almost bare of
leaves are melancholy
in their stature.
and down through
the tunnel
where the fat
and furry pandas
hide, shy, and
shadowed behind
the glass and long
and anxious prodding
lines. i'm no happier
when leaving the
zoo, less so,
perhaps.

the deep end

come with me,
jump into the deep
end where the water
is dark and cool,
mysterious in it's
depth. come swim
with me when the
sun is out, when
the moon is up,
open and white
above us. come
hold me in these
waters, and let's
get to the other
side together. take
a chance, take
a dive, remove
your clothes and
leap towards love.

embers

the chill
in the night
air does not
cool the fire
that burns
within.
the heat
of that moment
survives even
with the passing
of time
and seasons.
the embers
easily stirred
with just the
slightest turn
of the wrist
into the belly
of the stove.

the glow

a million
silver balloons
called stars
are adrift
in fixed points
along the coast
of nightfall.
clustered and
separate, but
brilliant pin
points beyond
reason, like
ideas brimming
to be told, like
love when it
begins with
a glorious
glow.

christmas island

there is an island
in the south pacific
called christmas
island where millions
of red crabs migrate
to the sea every
year, and from above
it looks like a red
carpet moving across
the warm white sand,
they know from birth
to death what they
need to do, in which
direction to go and
how to return home
again. how nice
that is. how simple
and yet complex our
lives can be, in
finding home,
in finding our
own sweet blue sea.

ice cube tray

i have seven ice cube
trays, yes, that many.
however, i only use
just one. the one
on top of all the
others. a clear blue
plastic tray that i
fill to the brim
every other day. i pop
the cubes out of that
one and have them tumble
into the white plastic
box on the door. i don't
believe in icemakers.
which may be connected
somehow to my relationship
with my mother, but i'm
not sure. i'd rather
do the tray, despite
the fact that i always
seem to be breaking
them free when i'm on
the phone with you
and i lose those fifteen
seconds of conversation
because of the noise,
the racket of cubes
crashing against
one another. i can't
hear anything when
i do that. perhaps
that's when you told
me that you loved me.
i just missed it, right?

a new coat

slipping into
this nice new
coat, this clean
black coat that
fits just right.
checking the mirror
as we speak, yup.
this one will do.
i need to snip
that tag now. no
it doesn't matter
what it costs.
a perfect fit
is a perfect fit.
see you at eight.

the next flood

she says to me
what's up with
all this religion
stuff. what the
hell is wrong with
you, just shut
up and go to work,
there's more fish
in the sea, throw
your net over the
other side of the
boat and see what
you bring up. let
them flop around
the deck and just
pick the ones
you like. i
laugh. she's a
hard one. she
believes in a higher
power. money,
fame, fortune,
friends. she's got
a nice warm blanket
of people around
her. who needs God,
she says. let's
drink, i'm buying.
it really is time
for the next
great flood.

always something

i saw you on
the news the other
day. holding up
traffic with your
protest sign.
what is it now.
save the whales,
the babies, the
snapping turtles,
what cure are
you marching for
today, what color
ribbon is pinned
to your shirt,
what rally, what
issue are you
holding the torch
for and blockading
the road. always
something, isn't it.

crumb cake

i bought a crumb
cake the other day.
and there is a trail
of crumbs from
the kitchen to the
bedroom, to the
den to the livingroom
and up the stairs.
you'd be right if
you thought i was
leaving you a trail
to find me. it's true.

high heels

the twelve
hour distance
is disconcerting
to say the least.
she's over there,
i'm here. i've
got jet lag
just thinking
about the time
difference, putting
myself in her
shoes, not that
they would fit
to begin with, and
i don't think that
i would look good
in heels anyway. i
imagine they must
pinch your toes.
but well worth the
pain as you well
know. it's the jet
lag, i tell you,
the babbling will
stop soon, promise.

bad boys

she wants more
muscle. she wants
a man with a tattoo
or two, edgy, and
a bad boy, this
stirs her soul,
put him on a
harley with
reflective shades,
make him tough,
and wild, make him
hard. shave his
head and put a
ring in his ear.
put a snarl on
his face, a sneer.
a man that will
sit there all
night drinking and
close the bar
down with you
and stagger home
with you in tow.
those are
the best men,
you can just throw
them away when
you're finished,
because they don't
care either.

the new mask

i like your new
costume.
how it shines
bright, the
silver smiling
face of
your new mask
it's a brilliant
disguise. like
the amber liquor
that swirls
in your short
thick glass.
it warms you
to stay hidden,
to keep the shine
on, the fun drum
beating, beating,
despite every
thing.

cotton candy

have i ever
told you that
i'm not fond of
cotton candy,
the pink or the
blue kind, and that
it's a deal breaker.
of course all
of the really
really important
deal breakers and
red flags apparently
escape me. it's
funny how the heart
works that way,
blurring our vision
with thin sugary
clouds of infatuation.

you know where i am

i'll let you in
the back door,
if it's okay, in
fact, i'll leave
a key under the
mat. you know
where to find me.
you've been there
before. you don't
need a light
on or a candle,
take your shoes
off and tip toe
up. you know
where to find me.
i'm waiting.
bring your heart
this time, okay.

you have permission to slap me

honey, if i start
talking out of my
head again about love.
just reach over, shake
me silly and give me
a good cold slap
across the cheek. let's
just take that off
the table, off the list
of discussion for about
a hundred years. that
should do it, clear
the air, clear the
smoke out of the room.
and by the way, who
is that slinky friend
of yours, the one in
the black dress
that you were having
lunch with the other day,
single by any chance?
not that i care. nope.
not me.

around and around

and this too,
these words, this
stream of
conciousness, this
string of thoughts
pretending to be
a poem, will
tumble to the
floor and slide
away without so much
as a whisper between
the cracks of
the floorboards
of this merry go
round where the music
is loud, a kaliedoscope
of pianos out of tune.
and the children scream
and hang onto
the hard plastic
horses and unicorns,
the paint worn off
their manes,
faded into lime, once
green, and reds now
pink. their eyes
are bent, afraid of
being left, seeing only
the blur of their
world going round,
searching for their
mothers, for the love
they want and need,
but will never get.

the last tenant

a nice snow
pile stack of bills
sits on the round
black table, check
book, pen, register,
a calculator that
i never use, stamps
and fresh envelopes
soon to be licked
and creased and taken
to the post office.
they keep coming,
don't they. i still
get notices and bills
for the last tenant
who died seven years
ago come december. i
take a finger and
touch her name across
the front, and remember
her well. her smile,
her voice and stormy
moods. all of her
in a name, coming
once more through the
slot onto the floor,
once her house, now
mine. she loved to
light candles, everywhere,
i'll put one in the
window just for her
this christmas.

you'll live

as the color
comes back, and
the mood improves
and they take you
off life support
and you actually joke
about something in
your old sarcastic
way, and you shake
your head in dismay
at what the paper
says, or the news reports,
and you begin to
think about food,
chocolate in particular
and things that
are heavy and filling,
and you find that
sleep is once more
a wonderful thing,
and you turn your
head when the sound
of high heels clicking
against the floor
go by, well
it all adds up. you'll
live this time.

sheila

my printer
has a mind of
it's own. it's new,
and cute, and flashy,
but it still churns
and rattles, stops
and starts, begins
and ends when it
wants to. it can
do alot of nice
things, like take
a fax or send one,
or make copy, or
scan a photo.
she's very very smart.
but the buttons
that i push don't
seem to matter much.
eventually it
get to printing,
but it's always
whining about paper,
or ink, or a loose
connection, something.
nothing is easy with
her. it reminds me
so much of my first
ex wife, sheila.

holiday plans

making plans for
the holidays.
wine, red and white.
turkey, check.
potatoes, yup.
gravy, of course.
dinner rolls,
cranberry sauce,
whole berries,
without a doubt.
stuffing, home made.
green beans, okay.
sweet potatoes,
well, if you insist.
olives and
a salad. throw
in a pie or two.
pumpkin for me.
whipped cream.
a hot pot of coffee.
i know i'm leaving
something off
the list. hmm.
come on over,
we can figure it out
together and then
if we can move
find a way
to work it all off.

a soft place to land

a soft place
to land, she said.
that's what i need.
peace and quiet.
she yawned, she
sighed. she shook
her head. i'm tired.
work,is killing me.
i'm alone. i know
everyone, and i'm
alone. i need
a soft place to
land, she said again.
and took my hand,
i wish you were that
place, she whispered.
i said, i know,
i wish i was too,
and at one point i
thought i was,
but i'm not.

simple things

the simple things
like coffee
in the morning,
together,
holding hands,
the kind word, a
touch upon the
shoulder, an
unexpected gift,
or kiss, before
leaving, or when
arriving.
a call when
there is nothing
to talk about, but
to say hello,
how are you. these
simple things,
can fan those
flames, keep
the fire burning.

delayed

there is much
in life that you
can delay, even
your own death
given money and
proper care, they
can string you along
for years on end,
plugged in. and
marriages too
can go that way,
drifting on and on
in a sea of doubt
and fear, with no
rows in the water,
no sail to take you
anyplace, but where
you are. going
through the motions,
circling the absence
of love, delayed
are the flights out,
delayed are the
flights in.

leaving

leaving home,
leaving a tip,
leaving room
for someone else
to come and sit.
leaving space
between the words,
space between
the lines. leaving
the mail in the
slot to be picked up.
leaving a trail
with your finger
of the dust on
the tabletop, leaving
a mess in the kitchen
sink, leaving a note
of apology to the
maid. leaving
a trail of footprints
in the snow. leaving
blood on the towel
where you cut yourself
shaving. leaving
the lights on, a burner
on the stove. leaving
a hairbrush below
the sink, one shoe.
leaving home. leaving
a long regretful
message on the phone.
leaving love. leaving
you. it's always about
leaving, isn't it.

breakfast art

when the toast
comes out, hot
and browned, almost
too hot to touch,
but you manage
to get it to a plate,
and then a soft pad
of butter, a swab
of blueberry jam,
and you let it sit
in this morning
sunlight, framed
in shadow, like a
picture, not a
rembrandt of course,
or even a warhol,
but something else,
something that resides
within you, that is
just as good and
wonderful.

let it play

i lean towards
the dial to change
the station, but
each one is the
same, the same song,
the same. it's
funny that way,
and you reach
down to pull
the plug, to snap
out the battery,
but decide no. not
yet, let me hear
it just one more
time, let it play
let it go.

another song

each day is not
without song, whether
bird like, or
cathedral worthy,
or a dirge, or
a melody that rests
between your other
memories of pop, and
rock and all of that
noise you danced to
when you were young.
it's strange now,
these tunes that roll
within, both fading,
and staying put, like
bookmarks in your
life. touch stones
of loves once new,
now old, now blue, and
yet you'll find another
song, another voice,
another heart that will
sing as loudly and as
clearly as the first
one that you knew.

photo albums

a winter's pinch
of frost is what i
awaken to, the blanket
too thin, the heat
too low this night
in november. but
it's fine when my
feet hit the cold wood
and feel this
new season. and as
i bend down to get
my shoes i see the
photo albums still
on the floor, beneath
the bed, where we
left them so long
ago, when summer
was still on, and
we were wet with a
sultry smooth sweat
from making love.
i'll put them back
onto the shelf
tomorrow, and you.

in the quiet

it's in the quiet
that you'll find
an answer. it's in
the silence, in
small room of
your mind, where not
even the clock
ticking is heard.
it's there. if you
can be still long
enough and not let
the moment run away,
that you'll find
the answer to
whatever it is you
need an answer for.

the baby

my friend looked
tired, disheveled
unkempt and
sleepy, unshaven,
he was dragging
himself around.
the baby
was just a few
weeks old. but
he had a smile,
a shine on him
with his solid
and loving marriage,
his life, his
work and now this,
putting it all
in sweet order.
i relish those
days.

the rising fog

there is a tipping
point in life, when
you are closer to
the end than to
the start. you are
in fact past the
middle. and those
around you are slipping
away, one by one.
it's unfathomable,
that such a thing
could happen, that
so many years could
transpire right in
front of you, and
these friends, these
lovers, these people
that you have known
and woven into
the fabric of your
day have passed on,
become memories,
become names and
faces that are fading
into a rising fog.

first snow

i wanted the
first snow to
come quickly,
to cover the roads,
to rise and get
deep with heavy
flakes falling
from a low grey
sky. i wanted
the first snow
to keep us there,
inside until
the storm blew
over. i wanted
to dig us out
of where we were,
to carve a new
path, a new road.
but it never
snowed, we never
got there.

vanity

the mirror is
neither kind,
nor unkind, it's
just a pale
reflection of
what the outside
appears to be.
the inside has,
or will take
over, that's
the way it should
have always been
and will be, but
it takes others
longer to realize
that, and by
others i mean
specifically,
vain souls, like
me.

desire

desire is a wonderful
thing. just as fire
is when it's cold.
but you don't you
lie down in it for
long. it will consume
you, heart and soul.
it's a fine balance,
this thing, this lust,
this appetite for
sex, for affection
and togetherness. it
gets more confusing
with the years, not
less.

keep moving

the time is
such that it's
dark when you arise
and snap the leash
onto the dog,
and go out into
the cold morning.
there is the first
hint of ice on
the car windows,
and the dog is
slow and cautious
in the wet grass.
and you pull your
sweatshirt tight
around you, you
blink your eyes,
blow on your
hands, then go
down the street,
you make
the turn, you go
where you've always
gone. you think
about what's new,
what's old and
keep moving. it's
what you do best.
keep moving.

the blue

the furious
blue calm
of sky after
the storm blows
out across the
sea. and you
can see it move
like a dark
hand over
the green
plateau of
water rising
and falling back
from the heart
beat of an
unseen moon.
and the blue
is brilliant,
the blue is
everything you
ever imagined
it could be,
when this
storm passes.

a new season

as she goes
up the stairs,
leaning on
the rail and
me following
and the light
from the bedroom
laying down
a soft yellow
path, i know
tomorrow
that i will
leave her, and
that this night
of love, will
be the last.
just as the
weather changes,
and the leaves
fall, and the
snow comes,
it's fine, it's
good, it's
nature taking
it's right
course, you
can't stop it,
you can only
accept it,
and bundle up
and build
that fire within.

how much

what do you
need to get you
there. gold, money,
how big of a house,
how many rooms, how
many forks to lift
the food into
your mouth, how
many knives to cut
the meat. how much
love do you need,
how much sex will
keep you warm and
happy. how many beds
can you sleep in.
what title do you
need, what promotion
must you have, what
level of education
will put you there.
will the new car
do it. the new clothes.
how many rings do
you need on your
fingers? how many
friends do you need
on facebook. how much
love and affection
and attention do you
need to make you content
with your life. how
much therapy, or sunday
mass do you need.
ask the homeless
beggar who has found
Christ and he will
tell you.

asleep

i remember you
asleep. nothing
in your hand.
long and lean
shadowed in
the morning light.
your eyes closed.
your warm and
still body beneath
the sheets. alseep.
no words, no
movement, nowhere
to hurry off to,
but well within
a long and well
earned slumber
beside me, while
i lay there awake,
worried about
everything.

shake it off

plans get cancelled,
the flight's delayed,
a storm, a fire,
an illness changes
your plans, not for
better or worse, it's
perception, response
that decides your
new found feelings
about this turn of
events. it's out of your
control. anger sometimes
gets a nod, or sadness,
or grief and sorrow.
frustration, but
to what point.
this road is the only
road for now, so shake
it off and let it go.

where have you been

it surprised
me what i heard
in the silence.
no books, no
music, no phone.
just a deep
quiet. i was
stunned at what
i heard below
the sound of
my own breathing,
my own heart
beat. that whisper.
the small voice
within that
turns a sigh
into joy. where
have you been
and where will
you go now,
questions that
need no answers.

at the well

it's easy to discard
the lonely, the noisy,
the tired and weak
souls that are on the
fringe of your life,
or perhaps right in
the middle. it's easy
to run and hide from
the chaos that others
can bring and spoil
your day, your night,
your sleep, but compassion
and understanding is
necessary if you truly
want to walk that walk.
distance and shutting
them out, turning your
back to the broken
does nothing to make
this world a better
place. it's painful,
it's a struggle at times.
but there is always
someone at that well
going to get water and
some days it could be you.

motion

there is a madness
in the world
that makes one
think and believe
that motion is
meaning. that
purchasing, and
chasing, and
being somewhere,
someplace, or on
our way there
will somehow fill
that void, that
space that only
fits one thing.
and yet, we all
fall victim to
this constant
hurried state.
without our phones,
without our friends,
without that drink
in our hand, without
our schedules
packed to the brim
we are little, if
not nothing in this
world. it is so
much about
tomorrow, not now,
not in the silence,
the quiet of now.

riding

in the wind,
on my bike,
through the woods,
across the wet
path of fallen
leaves, to the
lake, so grey
and blue, so
full of sky, the
long arms of trees
near empty as
winter approaches,
i find the bench.
i take in the sun,
i lean forward
breathe in the
sweet shine of
a good day.

ah ha

my new best friend
beth, my counselor,
adivsor, paid
therapist, at least
for this short spell
until i get to the
other side of this
bridge, pointed out
that clearly i sought
chaos, because that
is what i know having
grown up in a whirlwind
of shifting sand,
and storms, violence
and infidelity. it was
an ah ha moment, to
say the least. you feel
safest when things
are unstable, when the
winds are blowing, and
seas are crashing
against the boat. i'm
still nodding and shaking
my head at how true
that insight is. quite
an epiphany.
whatever i've paid
her, it's not enough.
in search of peaceful
shores. hmmm.

the kitchen drawer

i was staring
into the knife
drawer full of
measuring spoons
and dull blades,
oversized forks
and spatulas that
have seen better
days. i didn't ponder
the mess for
long though. it
was beyond organizing,
beyond reason. it
had taken on a life
of it's own.
everything a different
size and shape and
purpose. the ladle
lay next to the
chopsticks, next
to the long wooden
spoon that criss
crossed with the
cheese grater and
meat thermometer.
cork screws and bottle
openers, can openers,
skewers of unknown
origin were all there.
it didn't take long
to close that drawer
and move on. i've
known lives like
that and i've
got enough on my
plate right now.

the orange

i take a fat
orange out of the
fridge and dig
a finger into
the side, ripping
the skin in small
chunks, sending
an arc of citrus
spray up
into my eyes. and
it's a sweet
orange, very sweet.
i can't remember
eating one
this sweet and
juicy as i pull
the skin off and
break apart the
translucent fruit,
in small wedges.
i am amazed at how
orange this orange
is. amazing. how bright
and thick the skin
is. stunning
actually, the color.
it's as if i'm
seeing it for the
first time. it's
been that kind
of a month.

the client

the future is not
what it used to be,
he tells me, shuffling
papers at his desk,
writing me a check
for the work i've
done. a cigarette
is smoldering in
the ashtray,
the doctor gives
me a year, at best,
maybe two if the chemo
works, the pills,
the shots, prayer,
magic. what the hell
he says. fucking
cigarettes. how much do
i owe you. i put my
invoice in front of
him and he finds the
number and nods. i'm
throwing in a little
extra, you don't
mind, do you, he asks
and smiles. can't
take it with you,
he laughs. but it's
grim. he's grey,
he's ashen, he sees
what most of us
can't see. he sees
an ending to this
life. he's gathering
himself for this
last storm, this
last trial, this
final journey. and
there is nothing i
can do or say, or
tell him that will
change that. so the
words i say, i say
to myself in silence,
then shake his hand,
and look into his eyes
to let him know
that i get it.

change

we all need change,
whether it's the cold
side of the pillow
in the middle of the
night, or where we
live. perhaps it's
a job, or a love gone
sour. but change is
good despite how
hard it is. it's
difficult to make
that leap from safe
and sane into risk
and faith.

waves

they call them waves,
this emotion that
swallows you whole
in the beginning. it's
dark, it's sad, it's
a sorrowful place to
be when it engulfs you.
you can hardly breathe.
as the water rises
above and below, and
holds you there. it's
an amazing thing to
be in one, but with
time, the waves subside.
the tide goes out,
and the water begins,
finally to just ripple
onto your feet, around
your ankles, cold, and
harsh, still, but not
like it was before.

the fire

to make a fire
you need dry wood,
thick dry logs
to build upon.
you need kindling
thin and lean,
twigs that will
set fire quickly
and burn hot
to singe the logs
and get them going.
it's work, to
build a fire. you
have to be attentive,
be aware, move
things around
and adjust. you
need air to breathe
in. and it's so much
easier with two
going at it, to
keep it going
throughout the cold
nights. not
unlike love.

white christmas

surprisingly, i was
singing in the car
the other day. i
shocked myself.
it just came out
of nowhere.
wasn't i still
supposed to be sad,
in mourning, in deep
dark distress about
a girl i fell in love
with and couldn't
keep or have, or,
what the hell, it's
so confusing now,
but anyway.
i was singing that old
standard 'white
christmas', and doing
a fine job with it.
impersonating a
voice somewhere between
sinatra, bing, and
sammy davis junior.
but i can't hit those
low notes very well,
or the high notes
for that matter,
and i couldn't
remember all of
the words, or stanzas,
but i plowed ahead
and just repeated what
i knew over and over
again. it felt really
good and crazy.

long day

exhausted, i drop
my clothes onto
the floor. take
out the keys,
the watch, the phone,
fling the shoes,
fall into bed naked,
pull up the covers, find
the cold side of a
pillow and grab a book,
toss that one, and
find another, nope,
one more. okay. i'll
sift and skim through
this one. every page
has been underlined
at some point, so i
read those lines. i'm
making it easy on
myself tonight. i've
got no room, no time,
no energy for any more
soul searching,
not tonight.
sleep would be good.

just a dream

i had a dream
about a cat
the other night.
black with no
white. small eyes,
green and lit
like lanterns.
she was on
the window sill
purring, as still
and quiet as
the room i slept
in. she couldn't
decide whether
to leap and
jump upon me,
or to stay there,
cold and unloved.
it was neither
a good dream, nor
a bad dream, it
was just a dream
about a cat.

strange days

it's a warm
feeling. heat.
a fire within.
it's in your belly,
your gut, your
heart and it rises
up, up to your
chin. it surrounds
you, compresses
you, explodes
inside of you,
and when
the tears fall
out they are not
your normal sort
of tears. they
are hot, they
are coming from
someplace behind
your eyes. from
deep within in a
place you didn't
know existed.
and there is no
sadness. it's a
sublime, ridiculous
joy. a feeling
of pure knowledge
and love. it's
crazy. i'm telling
it's absolutely
crazy. this feeling
that happened.

just a message

in the early
morning, still
half asleep i
got an idea in
my mind, or heart,
or somewhere to
e mail an old
friend, not a
romantic link,
but someone who
i met and knew
and conversed with
and eventually
lost contact with,
but i felt the urge
to write to her,
to tell her what
exactly i was
going through in
my life, not that
she would care,
or that it would
make a difference
in her own life.
and so we talked,
we talked for an
hour or more, and
she listened,
and she listened,
and she realized
right away the reason
for the call.
she was stunned
into silence and i
told her that i was
just the messenger
and what she did
with this information
was in her hands now.

stars

i went a few days
without looking up
into the sky, at
the bright white
cluster of stars
thrown out in handfuls
like confetti. i
can't do that
anymore, ignore
the stars, and such
important things.

in the north atlantic

you strangely
want to save
the others
that are drowning
after you have
been pulled
yourself from
the murky cold
depths, when
the ship went
down. but only
a few will grab
your hand, or
oar that you
lean out for
them to grasp.
the rest will say
no thank you,
i got it. i can
swim from here.
don't worry about
me. i'm happy
where i am, but
thanks just
the same. and
as you row away,
looking over
your shoulder
you remember what
it was like to
be faithless
and freezing,
believing that
your strength and
intellect alone
could save you,
treading the water
of this life.

the blur

instant coffee,
instant oatmeal,
quick fixes. jiffy
lube, and the
express lane.
ez pass and the
drive up window.
one stop cleaning,
banking, wash
and wear, never
needs ironing.
instant families,
quickie divorces.
the vegas chapel,
shooters and online
dating. no lines,
no wait, no hesitation.
no questions asked,
no answers given.
just please me
now, please me
quickly, then start
over, start again.
but go fast. it's
best not to think
about where this
is going. go fast.
i need the blur
not clarity.

i'll send you a post card

as the bus pulls
out, swings it's long
metal casing over
wheels that rumble
on the street, my
bags are stowed
below, the sky is
blue and clear, and
new york city is
just a mere five hours
away, into the
canyon of cement
and steel, the arteries
of bridges coming
in from all sides, penn
station, my heart
skips a beat. it's
been awhile. i've got
a pocket full
of money, a credit
card that's been
taking a beating
and some broadway
tickets to a show i
have no clue about.
my room is not far
from times square,
but far enough to
not feel the pulse
of it all. i can
taste the hot pastrami,
i can feel the pavement
beneath my shoes. smell
the chestnuts roasting
in a corner cart.
i can feel the wind
of taxis speeding
too close, too fast,
i can feel christmas
easing like a slow
parade around the corner.
it's just a visit and i
could never live there,
not really, but it's
a taste, a nice long
drink of chaotic fun.
i'll send you a post card.
and i'll write, love,
wish you were here.

nevermind

you left a sweater
here, in case you forgot.
it's hanging in my
closet. neat and quiet.
it's blue, it buttons
down the front, thick
and perfect for a fall
day, walking in the park
with me, hand in hand.
it's long in the waist,
longer than what i
imagined you would
ever wear, the buttons
are black, it has pockets.
you left a note and a pen
in one of them. and
after i read it, i realize
that it's not your sweater
after all, you would
never write such things
as that. nevermind.

the narrow road

it's a very narrow
road in that direction.
be careful, especially
when it rains or snows,
so easy to go off the
side. there are no
lights, no guardrails,
not even a tree to
block your flight into
the that great abyss
of downward spiral into
the rocks, into
the dark cold mouth
of a roaring sea. but
it's the only road to get
there, to arrive at higher
ground, to get to where
there is light and
clean air. go, but go
slow, take someone
with you if you can.
keep your eyes open,
your heart open and
leave everything else
behind. it's time.

hey bug

a woman up the street,
i don't know her name,
but we know each other
well enough to acknowledge
one another and say hello,
and comment on the sun,
the wind, or cold. she
usually has a stroller
in front of her, with a
fat pink faced baby tucked
inside, blue eyed, with wisps
of yellow hair flying
out from beneath a white hat,
that has the name 'bug'
stitched in red on
her forehead. hey bug,
i say, and the baby stares
back, her eyes so fresh,
and new, so wet and
yearning for what's next
in this world,
and they stay on me
for as long as they can,
her head turning until
the stroller is away,
and my key is in the door
to go home.

forgiveness

forgiveness is
hard i tell my friend
labella.
seventy times seventy,
isn't that what the
bible says, and even
then, more.
it's a hard thing
to do, to show compassion,
to show love to those
who have hurt or
betrayed you. but if
you don't it's
your own soul,
it's your own heart
that stays darkened,
stays wounded. and i
know i have done
the same, and regret
not coming to my senses
earlier.

who he is

as the child
grows, and you
hear it in his
voice on the
phone, the deepness
of it, the
quick wit and
fun softened with
some wisdom, or
pain, or both
learned within
his unseen days.
he's no longer
underfoot, no
longer awaiting
my approval or
heavy hand. he
is who he was
meant to be,
a part of her,
and a part of me.

chips

i forced myself to
eat a whole bag of
chips and washed it
down with a cream soda
on ice, in a clear
cold glass. they went
down easy. salty and
good, and greasy.
one after another.
stuffing a new one
in before the other
has even been chewed.
i won't hate myself
in the morning, no
not at all, but i'm done
with chips. seriously.
i'm done. just watch.

gold

each broken bone,
or stubbed toe,
or black eye from
a door thrown open
unseen, each finger
jammed by a ball,
or hand, or knee
twisted in a fall,
each bump or bruise
or cut or scrape
has meaning. has
substance. it's a
chance to renew,
and feel the pain,
before understanding
the reason why.
don't squander
these broken hearts.
they are gold.

up stream

within the hollow
of these old woods
there is a turn of
season in the fallen
leaves, the wet
trunks of bent and
heavy trees that may
or may not make it
through the winter
soon to come. the water
runs cold across
the smooth white stones
that shimmy in mirage
like fish unable to
go up or downstream.
i know that feeling,
but not now. i am
on the move, like
these woods, turning,
with color with design
for the next season
already set and
moving.

perspective

up close, it all
seems good. the blur
of beauty, the
smudge of happiness
in the form of fun
and laughter, the
power and pull
of sex, but
as you pull away,
with time, as you
back up, and take
another look, suddenly
it's clear, what
you thought was real,
was a mirage, a
dream, a notion of
what you thought
happiness was, or
could be. you are
stunned and relieved
at where you stand
now. awakened. your
vision cleared.

letting the paint dry

despite what you
do each and everyday,
sometimes you can't
help but paint your
self into that
proverbial corner.
you see exactly where
you are going, backing
up with brush in hand,
paint can at your feet.
trapped in your own
undoing, your own
hurried need to get it
done, and there
you are, but strangely
you find the patience
to let it all dry,
and then walk out.

christmas lights

a string of lights
tacked crookedly along
the roof of the porch,
is bright with blue
and white bulbs. one
or two, and sometimes
three may blink on their
own free will, and in
the yard is a plastic
santa, fat, and pink
with a white beard
and a faded red costume
that has seen too many
rains and snowstorms
from winter's past.
a cinder block from
behind hold's him
steady. the sleigh
and reindeer are missing
this year, still in
the garage.
but there they are,
santa and the lights
behind the picket fence,
behind the dirt lawn,
in front of the window
where a child leans
his elbows on the sill
and waits with magical
wonder for it all to
happen.

online dating

my friend told me
about her new suitor,
he's sixty-seven, she's
fifty three. after one
date, he said, i love
you. coughed a little,
excused himself and
blew nose while turning
up the heat. they met
online. in a dating
chatroom. he had
buried his wife a year
ago, and felt ready
to date again. and she
met him. she made
the mistake of making
love to him, and now
he calls and calls and
calls. he has plans,
he sees a future for
both of them. he wants
her love in return.
it's a hard story to
listen to. and at times
you feel the weight
of this sadness
of this world and
the lonliness of
so many, so many.

the summer sand

a package
arrived in the
mail the other
day. it was full
of poetry, poems
written in the
heat of love,
in the heat of
passion,
infatuation.
poems written
when the turn
was made, written
in the cold, damp
days of things
ending. but they
were all there,
like snapshots,
photos, as pure
and clear as
they can be.
written from
the heart with
a steady hand.
all of them. all
of those words
collected and written
on the soft
fine shores of
summer sand.

in for the night

it's nearly nine
o'clock and i'm
ready for bed. i
laugh at that.
friday night and
not a sinlge cell
or bone in my body
wants to venture
out into the fall
night air. not
for a drink, or
food, or quest for
affection. i am
in for the night,
with a stack of
books nearby.
a cup of tea, the
lights just
right, the window
open, the curtains
like soft hands
gentle and kind
on the breeze.
which book will
please me first?

in spades

it's the paradox
of showing love,
showing your hand
full of cards too
soon, that can lose
the game. and it
shouldn't even be
a game. no table,
no cards, no pot
of gold in the
middle. the heart
is a much more
complex thing than
that. and yet,
the truth be told,
it's best not to
ever, ever say
that you love
someone unless you
know for certain
that it's coming
back in spades.

icecream anyone?

occasionaly i'll cut
open a vein, let the
blood pool rich and red
on the desk, dip a
pen into the middle
and begin to write.
yeah. well, that was
yesterday and those
poems are done.
icecream, anyone?

go home now

go home now,
it's time.
it's time
to eat, and
sleep and
make love again.
it's time
to laugh and
smile, and
relax. go home
now. be done
with sadness,
the dark day
you have
embraced for
so long is
over. let it
go. it's
time. go home
now and be
free, be
thankful, be
of good cheer.

younger now

i use to fear
getting old.
the hair going
grey and thinning,
the weight so hard
to discard once
it's there, the
vision blurred,
the ache from today's
work collected
with yesterday's
and the day before.
or a new wrinkle
or line upon the
face that you never
noticed until now.
but not anymore.
there is no fear.
no worry about another
year gone by, another
birthday celebrated.
i'll never truly
be old. i know
that for certain.
i know it my heart.

childhood

there is a sweet
long dream of
time when children
are young, from
birth, before real
school and life
begins, perhaps
until they are ten
or nine, i'm not
sure. but to tuck
them in everynight,
to be home with them,
to hear their prayers,
to bring them water,
or read to them
to answer every question
that rolls through
their little minds,
is gold. is beyond
gold. those are
memories that are
never diminished
by time, by age,
by the long road
of life. he knows now
as he knew then
that i am here,
i am down the hall,
in the other room.
there is nothing on
this earth i would
trade those moments
for and neither
would he.

the long parade

it's the long parade,
there are floats, pink
and gold, ribbons in
the wind, balloons
tethered to keep
the wind from taking
them towards the sun,
there is the brass band
in step, with drums,
pageantry in bloom.
there are people waving,
people smiling, it is
the long parade. it is
everyone you've ever
known, everyone you've
loved, or have lost.
the dead are there too,
everyone is there, in
the long parade. it
has a beginning, and
an end, but you can see
neither, you may be
near the middle, but
you don't know, not yet.
and it keeps moving,
under the blue umbrella
sky, it's the long
parade. every place
you ever lived is there,
every school you sat
in, every tear you've
cried, each laugh,
each tender kiss,
each moment of pure
joy, of utter sadness.
every time you made love,
or lied, or lifted
someone up, or ignored
them, it keeps moving.
it's the long parade.
it's a dream, it's not
a dream. it's your life.
in shadow and in sun
light, it's the long
parade.

light

in the moment,
inbetween breaths,
inside a small
window of intuitive
thinking and quiet,
call it prayer,
if you'd like,
it comes to you,
like a small
lighted bulb in
the palm of your
open hand. and
you laugh, you
shake your head.
you are as in
the moment as you
will ever be
and understand as
clearly as you
ever will
the purpose and
true point of
this life.

shopping

it's a strange
mirror that i see.
the lost weight
is actually not a
bad thing. it will
force me to go
shopping, which
i love to do for
new clothes.
new shoes. yes.
there is good in
everything.

all together now

galloping clouds
in a rush to get
somewhere, anywhere
but here, dropping
just enough cold
rain to let you know
that they are there.
they erase what's
left of a sun
as it sinks unseen
towards another
part of this curved
and trembling world.
movement of the sky,
movement of the
heart, the heart
so slow to catch
up to the mind,
but they are all
together now and
swimming towards
a new day.

less being more

as the wallpaper
went up over
the beds, over
the stuffed animals,
the toys, the books
the blankets,
the collection
of things from
everywhere they had
ever been, adding
one more layer
of decor on top
of decor, it was
obvious that there
was too much. way
too much. so much
so that you couldn't
see the beauty
of anything in
particular. trying
so hard to get
to a place that
really is no
place to be, but
striving blindly
to succeed.

ants

i let the gathering of
ants live another day,
knowing that the maids
were coming soon.
i was feeling compassionate
and giving. they found
a lump of sugar or
something on the
otherwise clean kitchen
floor and they had
spread the word silently
in ant like fashion to
their friends, that
the feast was on.
they had formed a long
dark line of jittery
marching bodies, from sugar
spill to the little hole
they found, back out to
wherever it is that
they needed to go. they
seem so industrious,
so absorbed in their
work, their one mindedness
to survive and go on
despite all odds, despite
being so small within
the universe. i
like that.

cake

i baked a cake
tonight.
sort of a celebratory
measure of sorts.
chocolate of course.
with chocolate
icing. it wasn't
from scratch, but
i heard word that
betty crocker was
getting it done,
so went in that
direction. it's
a fat round,
double layered
magnificent work
of art. i'm almost
afraid to cut
into it. i might
put it in the
window for
passerbys to see
and be envious, to
have them
salivate with desire
to have a slice.
to make them wish,
that they too
had such a cake.
but oh no. it's all
mine. i earned
this baby. keep
your grubby paws
off it.

sculpture

in a moment of
creative frenzy
i decide to take
this stone, this
hardend block
of granite, drag
it home and
carefully sculpt
out a exactly
what i thought
i needed.
can you carve
out love from
such a place?
no. you can't.
and my bleeding
hands are proof
of that.

silence

purple blue waves
and a center as
thick and black
as plum pudding
at christmas, while
i swam slowly
in this lake,
head above the water
without light,
except for the candle
that you held on
the shore. you said
nothing. which
said everything
to me. there was
only the sound of
my arms going over
and over, swimming
gently toards an
undiscovered place.
and you in white,
holding some distant
flame of light.

the dream

having lost my wallet
the other day, and
my keys, and my sense
of direction, i found
myself walking alone
across the key bridge,
the wind was stiff
despite the sky being
egg blue and white
with swirls of clouds,
hand whipped like cotton
candy. and i refused
to believe that it was
just a dream, that
i was sleeping. i
enjoyed this lack of
knowing who i was, or
where i was going.
the sense of being lost
felt like the best place
to be, all things
considered. it's okay,
i reasoned in my sleep.
this is fine. this
place where i am, where
i am not.

feathers

there were feathers
everywhere, they couldn't
wait to leave the pillows
that i bought. amazing
feathers that had found
a way out from the thin
soft case they were in.
white feathers, large
and small, slender,
and some thick with
hard ends. i don't know
quite what happened in
the middle of the night
to make this happen,
but i'm hoping that
it happens again
real soon.

balloons

the air was
full of balloons
today, pink and
blue, and yellow.
and a gaggle of
crying kids, held
their arms up
down below, wishing
that they hadn't
let go, thinking
that they would
all float back
down, but no.

lay it down

bring your weary
bones over here.
to the table.
have a glass of
wine, some bread,
lay out your
troubles,
your burdens,
your dashed hopes
and dreams, put
on the table
your lost loves,
your misspent hours,
or days, or years,
the mistakes you've
made along the way,
your sins, real
or imagined. take
everything out
of that bag you
carry that bends
you over. lay it
down. all of it.
and give it to
me. good. now
go, and be free
to start again.

there you go

cut here,
snip, cut again.
now that string.
that rope,
over there,
that twine, and
thread, each
and everyone
of them. snip,
cut, snap. untie.
unknot, release,
unbow, unravel.
roll me over,
unhook, unchain,
turn the key
on all of those
locks. now
get up. there
you go. there
you go.

integrity

i keep hearing
that word.
it's following
me. wholeness,
honesty, doing
the right thing,
taking a moral
stand and not
wavering. staying
true and loyal.
it's a rare
commodity these
days. principled
and fair.
and i have
fallen so short
so often, but have
awakened. i have
the dictionary
wide open, not
unlike my heart
at the moment.

when the levees break

when the water
rises, when
the levees break,
when the ocean
moves in
and takes away
everything you
thought that
mattered, that's
when life
truly begins.
you have no choice
but to find
higher grown,
or go under,
unchanged
to drown.

what you keep

the kiss that lingers
is the one you keep.
the hug that won't let
go, the eye contact,
the hands holding on
to each other while
a foot holds the door
and the keys are out,
and the wind is in
your hair, and the
stars are brilliant.

one small secret

as moments melt
and fall and slip
into the stream
that leads towards
the great ocean
where all things
are collected in
time, don't harbor
a single thought
of sadness about
what was or could
have been. instead
embrace the joy
of what it still
is within. therein
lies just one small
secret that adds
up to happiness.

icecream

i bought two scoops
of deep dark chocolate
icecream the other night.
went to the bench, near
the water, near the
harbor and sat still and
calm, like the waves
that lapped gently
against the shoreline.
it was a fine love
affair of me and sweetness,
cold licks of good
memories. leaving me
wanting just a little
bit more, but satisfied
for what was in the cup.

in the shadow

i saw a woman
today standing
in the long cold
shadow of her house
spraying from a
garden hose at
her new laid lawn
of thick green sod.
and the wind blew
hard against the
clear stream of
water that rushed
from the tangled
hose at her feet.
she was staring
into the sky,
mindless of the water
that sprayed
outward. lost in
thought. adrift
on this fall day.

splash

one large splash
in the center of
the pond makes
a series of ripples
that stretch out
and beyond your
line of vision. you
have no idea where
these thoughts
and hopes, these
revelations are
going and to which
shores they will
spill upon and
touch the souls
of someone's feet.

the third man

the third man,
at the window
of my truck,
with beard
and crystaline
blue eyes, said
one other thing,
or rather asked
me a question
after saying
bless you. he
asked me why
i was wearing
those clothes.
it took a few
days before i
realized how
crazy it was
that he had even
approached me
in the rain
on that cold
dark day. but my
clothes? why was
he asking me
such a question.
i was dressed
quite normally.
i woke up the other
night and it
was clear, very
clear what he
meant by that
question and
why i was wearing
what i was
that day. and
since then
my clothes
have changed.

perishable goods

i don't believe that
there is such a thing
as perishable good.
how can affection
cease to exist, or
a simple kiss, or
kind word, or helping
hand. the inexplicable
chemistry of laughter
and fun. i don't see
that it's possible
for love to die, or
friendships to slip
away as if they never
were. no, there is
no perishable good
in this world and
certainly not the next.
it's always still there,
perhaps in the shadows
that we make, in
the cold rooms where
we hide, or tucked
deep beneath some
wound we won't let
heal. but all, i
believe all such
good lives on, survives.

silence

there is the unquenchable
drink of silence
that stills the soul.
brings you back to where
you need to be. losing
the chatter, the noise,
the clatter of the pots
and pans that rattle
endlessly in your
contradictory mind. only
silence, only solitude
can work. don't reach
for the phone, or book,
or friend online, or
a neighbor, don't go
anywhere. put the pen
and paper down. just
be still. be quiet. listen
and breath. it is utterly
amazing what awaits.

maid service

i can hardly
wait for the maid
service to come
on monday. whew.
what a mess. the
debris and dust is
nearly overwhelming.
it's not that i'm
a big slob, i just
kind of let things
go for awhile. all
four bathrooms for
instance, and well,
yes the kitchen too.
okay, below the bed
looks like arizona
on a dry, hot day,
full of tumbleweed.
it's worth every
penny to have it
all scrubbed and
cleaned again. i
can hardly wait.
whoo hooo.

2000 nyc

the coldest day
in my life was in
new york city.
the wind blistered
your skin coming
off the water around
battery park, and
straight up
broadway. you had
to duck into a store,
or pub to unfreeze
your limbs. it
burned your lungs
to breathe. it was
almost too cold
to snow, or so you
thought, and it
did, sticking quickly
bringing everything
to a halt, a peaceful
brush of white
drifts leaned against
the buildings
that had no end
as christmas
approached. and when
the snow stopped,
the cold ebbed
and the city was still,
and lit up in every
color for the holdiay
a few days away. and
i remember, with my
son's hand in mine,
he was only ten,
staring into the
shop windows, wordless
at the toys, the
the garlands and trains
the animals alive,
alive with magic.

jane

my friend jane,
who taught school
for many years, but
now hustles rentals
for a real estate
company in town
to make her daily
bread is reaching
deep into some
final years, and
yet presses on
with a joy that
makes me smile, her
dogs at her side,
her card games late
at night. her beach
trips, and books.
her life enriched
and happy, and when
she says stop by
for a drink, we'll
all be here, we'll
all be up, i start
to laugh, before
i nearly cry.
but good tears.
delicious tears.

christmas

i'm putting up
my lights early
this year. i have
one string of white
lights that i
plug in and place
upon the side table.
okay. i know. it's
not a big deal.
but this year i
will put up a tree
for the first time
in ten years. put
a candle in every
window. i'll cover
the tree in lights
and tinsel and bulbs
and put a star upon
the top, and i'll
celebrate the joy
of christmas, and
what it means,
and be thankful,
and share my life
and blessings with
anyone that wishes
to enter.

anxious for nothing

i'm craving
nothing at
the moment.
not chocolate
or wine, or
sex, or
affection,
or a kind
word, or arms
to hold me.
i have no
needs at the
moment for
anything
or anyone. i
am quiet in my
soul. content
and anxious
for nothing.
it's a fine
place to
be, finally.

the long drive

i was lost on
the road, and she
was absolutely no
help at all as i
wandered sans gps,
around and around
in this strange
city with no guide
posts to put me
where i wanted to
go. so we circled
while she talked
about God and love
and marriages gone
bad, and i talked
pretty much about
the same exact thing.
and we circled and
went around and
around, through
the tunnel, then
back through it
the other way. it
became more about
us talking about
our lives, our
nature, our wisdom
gained through
trials and the
blessings that
follow. we were
less concerned about
being lost on
the road and more
concerned about
finding a different
sort of home
and the driving
aimlessly was
helping us in
that direction.

baking imaginary cupcakes

i left the stove
on the other night
for several hours
after cooking dinner.
no damage done
and the house was
warm and crisp and
had the feel of
something good baking
in the oven, but
of course there
wasn't. it was empty.
as was the fridge
and the cupboards.
very strange indeed,
but all of that is
about to change
real soon, it'll
be something to see.

rental

the empty house with
bare floors, and bulbs
swinging on wired
string, the closets
heavy with dust,
the smell of old
clothes and shoes.
the fingerprints
of a child on the
back window where
he must have sat,
staring out across
the highway, to where
the neon signs lit
up canary yellow and
red when the sun
went down. and the
broken latches,
and holes in the
walls, where fists
must have punched,
all signs pointing
to something not good,
not happy. and
the thin black
hangers in the
closet swinging
with the slightest
touch of air,
the squeak of
radiators, the one
single, lone chair
in the kitchen with
intials carved deep
into the seat. but
not a box, or book,
or hint of any
name, or person
that may have lived
here. nothing is
left. and i'll paint
it all white, fresh
and clean for the
next tenant soon
to arrive.

moe's rocks

my old dog
had a thing
for bringing home
rocks. it gave
him some strange
comfort to have
them in the house.
all sizes,
all shapes
and forms. he'd
carry them
in his mouth and
proceed to bury
them in corners,
beneath the
couch, or table
or a lifted
edge of rug.
three, four
five rocks could
be found at any
time. they were
of no use to
him, not really,
but the next
day, he brought
in more. occasionally
i'd throw them
all back into
the yard while
he stood there
staring at me,
dumbfounded with
a look of dismay
upon his face.
i tried hard to
see how this related
to my own life,
and came up with
something so
disturbing that
i shook it off,
and left the next
rock that he
brought in from
the yard alone.

out of the maze

i enjoy a good mystery,
whether it be in a book
or a movie, a well done
play on broadway, or off.
but at some point, in
this real world, you
want the shadows to
disperse, you want all the
lights to go on and
the path made clear with
the sign posts bright
and wide in front of
you, you want to be free
of this maze, but ahhh,
rarely does it work that
way without prayer or faith.

if you can

get up and
move forward
with a new heart,
and hope, after
falling hard,
battered and
bruised by what
has happened
in your life,
it's a good thing,
and if you can
rise and put out
your hand to
help someone
else stand up
and move forward
too, well, that's
even better. and
perhaps an added
reason for
the fall.

the horizon

when the light
breaks, and the first
long lashes
of sunlight drape
the flat blue sea
i yawn and sit
and watch it all
unfold, as it does
everyday, not bored,
or tired with the
miracle of it all,
but wanting more
and being patient
for what's next on
my own horizon.
awaiting with
christmas anticipation
for the next
blessing to arrive.

reckless speed

when the front
wheel of my bike
hit the wet boards
along the bridge,
still soaked from
the morning rain,
and i realized
that i was going
down, taking a fall
as the world went
upside down and
the trees with
their turning leaves
all stood in golden
silence, and while
i spun in mid air
i thought
about how blue
the sky was, how
crazy it was to
be riding so hard
and fast on this
curved trail with
wet leaves along
the way. and i
thought about how
effortlessly time
presses on, whether
we are here or not
and that if i
live through this
crash i will never
again, when healed,
move with such
reckless speed
when it comes to
bikes or love.

my father

pacing back
and forth, strangely
chewing gum
with a nervousness
i haven't seen
before, as his
friend, sat there
smiling, thin, guant,
a wig lopsided on
her small head,
i understood the
quickness of this
life in that brief
awkward moment
of unsaid words.
i felt that i
would not return
again with both
of them there
and hoped that i
was wrong, and not
letting my own
small cloud
darken the day.

spilled milk

as the milk
went over
and it poured
out onto
the table,
soaking the
paper, the
book, the set
of keys,
onto the floor
it trickled,
and streamed
towards the rug
and wherever
else gravity
would let it
go. i went out
and found
three cats
sitting on the
stoop, patiently
licking their
paws, they
seemed to know
that they
were needed
and so i let them
in to help me.
labella, cat
and theresa.
and i won't soon
forget that
what they have
done to soothe
my soul.

s

each wave
a whisper,
each cry of
the gull a
song. each
breath of warmth
from the sun
as it rises
higher into
the sky tells
you all you
need to know
about tomorrow.
believe it
and take it
home with you.

race for the cure

as i came out
of the hotel, seeking
coffee from the
starbucks a block
away, i was surrounded
by hundreds and hundreds
of women who were about
to run in the race for
the cure. all of them
in some sort of pink
garb, or hat, or ribbon.
and as i moved, stuck
in this throng of pacing
people, stalled, unable
to go back, or forward
awaiting for the gun
to go off so that the
race would begin, i
thought about how
wonderful this outpouring
of love and caring was,
and i pondered the idea
of needing my own personal
race,my race for my
own cure. and laughed.

the bath

she can't get warm
so she slips into
the tub for another
hot bath. she lets
the heat rub up against
her bones, her heart,
the deepest part of
her soul. she sinks
down into the steam,
down into the boil
of hot water that
spills clear from
the silver spigot.
she closes her eyes
as the tub fills
to the brim. and
she thinks about God's
love and how he
does the same.

come over here

move over here.
slide your body,
warm and soft
next to mine. let
yesterday go.
leave tomorrow
alone, savor
this moment, and
come over here
and let me
whisper into
your cold, left
ear. there are
things still left
to say, love still
left to be made.
there are more
hours on the clock,
more days on
our calendar.
slide your body
over here and let
me whisper into
your cold, left ear.

shoes under the bed

there's a taxi
out front.
i see the yellow
light aglow
on the roof. i
left you a note
on the table.
it explains
everything,
or maybe nothing.
i'll leave
that up to
you. i did put
something
under your pillow
though. and
i left a pair
of my shoes
beneath your
bed. that
should tell you
something
when you arise
in the morning
and not find
me there. i'll
be back.

purr

another black cat
poem is rising
to the top.
i can't see her
from here. but i
can hear the soft
purr of her new
heart, like it
was on the pillow
next to my ear.

fresh coat

a fresh coat
of paint. down
soft and white
glistening wet,
drying slowly,
softly through
out the night.
and tomorrow
when the sun
hits it, rising
with wintry
light, there
will be a new
shine, a new
glow, to what
was once rusted,
stripped cold
and bare to
the harsh bone.

waves

the long blue
beach, covered
in the cold sand
of october,
washed clean
of shells. it
lingers still
in my bones,
as i sit here
three hundred
miles away. i'll
take it with
me into my
day tomorrow
and the next.
and when i lie
down to sleep
i'll let the
waves of it
sweetly rock
me towards a
warm new dream.

to the ocean

in an hour or so
i am heading to
the beach to get
away. to leave
this house for
awhile, where it
has grown dark,
and quiet. i will
immerse myself
in the autumn
ocean, in the cool
absence of love,
the memory of
love, and i will
take another
step towards where
i truly need
to be. i will
find a white shell
or two unbroken
and bring them
back to remember
what was good
and whole at one
time, and will
be again.