in the moment

we carve
initials in the tree
draw
with a finger into
the wet
cement.
take a hand
onto sand before
the next
wave
comes in.
we try so hard to secure
the love
we share,
wanting it to last
without end,
but it's the moment
we're in
that counts most.

as it should be

we wish
on the star zipping
along
the rug
of black sky.
we toss a coin into the well.
we avoid
cracks in the sidewalk.
black cats
and ladders.
we read our horoscope
and have
our palms read. we
look deeply
into the empty
crystal
ball.
we want to know what's
coming.
we want to wish
something into being.
we're a mess at
times, not letting it
all go on
as it should be
and leaving worry behind.

as it should be

we wish
on the star zipping
along
the rug
of black sky.
we toss a coin into the well.
we avoid
cracks in the sidewalk.
black cats
and ladders.
we read our horoscope
and have
our palms read. we
look deeply
into the empty
crystal
ball.
we want to know what's
coming.
we want to wish
something into being.
we're a mess at
times, not letting it
all go on
as it should be
and leaving worry behind.

spin the wheel

he takes his paycheck
to the
casino
has a drink. has another.
puts some of it
on black,
some on red.
he spins the wheel,
rolls the dice,
takes another
card.
it's a life.
it's a death.
pay day is next Friday,
hardly soon
enough.

the worst mistake i've ever made

i married

this crazy woman,

this anorexic

and suicidal angry witch.

this bleached

bag of bones.

a complete narcissistic

psychopath.

i saw the red flags,

the lies,

the cheating,

the married man still

in love with her.

i saw it all, and yet said

i do.

i blame myself.

what's wrong with me

that i would let

such evil person into my life,

into my bed,

my house?

i need to exit, to escape,

soon,

very soon.

all hell broke loose

my gut told me no.

the dark look

in her eyes.

her lies.

my relatives,

my friends,

my therapist, my dog

even shook his head

and said no,

don't do it, don't marry

this woman.

she's not who she pretends

to be.

she's a fake.

she's a demon ready to destroy

your life.

crazy as a loon.

all the cards said no.

the stars were misaligned.

there was no luck in

this venture.

no joy. no future.

the pain and sorrow was about

to begin.

and did i listen?

sadly no.

i said i do and then all

hell broke loose.

into open arms

I fill the empty space
with what
can't be bought
or borrowed,
or stolen.
I find it where it can't
be found,
where it must
find me,
when i'm ready
with open arms to
say yes.

yes. me.

who needs a cake,
a gift
a balloon or card.
who needs
things to mark
the road
to bend the corner
of a page
to remember
this day.
who needs a kiss
or warm hug.
who needs a candle
to blow
out.
or a song sung
to celebrate another
year
on this good
cold earth
in the month of
February.
who needs a party.
yes. me.

the black crow

the loud crow,
in mourning,
black as an omen
perches
at the highest point
of a bare tree,
the grey
arthritic branches
tangled
skyward.
what does he know
or see,
what can be told
by this single bird
so high
above you, above me.

night walk

a blood orange
moon
unbitten shadows
this snow
in vague light. we
walk,
our steps left
behind us
in puddled ice.
our tomorrows before
us.
the bloom
of cold from our
warm lungs
telling us we're
still here.

forward

the swallow of time.
the gulp
of hours
and minutes, fleeting.
the wind
of it all.
the dry thirst
quenched in love,
or not.
the spasm
of rush, the linger
of sleep
and dream.
how uneven and sure
this
life goes towards
its certain end.

why not

we all
want the golden egg.
the ring.
the watch.
the pile of retirement
dough.
the lake house
with a porch swing.
we want our feet up.
the sway of stars,
the melting moon. we
want
our backs rubbed.
we want
hot coffee, warm
food,
to be loved
without conditions.
we want nothing,
we want everything.
we want the golden egg.
why not.

so far away

the slush
of night. the pound of wipers
as the trucks
roll
by so close.
the snarl of traffic.
the dotted lines
of the wet road.
the wind
seering through
the cracked window
as the radio plays
carol king.
the destination so far away,
our head lights
muddled
in the falling sleet,
our bones
weary, our eyes tired
and red.
we dream of sleep.
we dream
of sleep. so much road
behind us,
so much more to go.

the fast year

where did the year go.
the days
and hours
flying
into the wind.
swirling away
like so many leaves,
so much
paper,
flowers unleashed.
where did
the past go,
the laughs and tears,
the small
moments of joy,
the tenderness,
the fear.
where did it all go,
what place does it
land and rest,
living on
in memory.

stored away

a box
of yesterdays
goes
into the attic.
that happiness done,
now stored
away
forever or
for a time when a smile
or memory
is needed.
taped and sealed,
wrapped tight.
the secrets
forever resting
in shadows in the cool
dark
light.

the old job

the circus
needs workers.
the bearded lady shaved
her beard
the other day.
the cannon ball
dare devil
wants no more of it.
he limps
around in a cast.
a broken leg.
the midgets
are tired
of being small.
cramped into trailers.
the trapeze family
are fighting,
no longer willing
to catch each other.
one has cut a hole into
the net.
the clowns are sad
and smoking
cigarettes in a bar
down the road.
the hunger artist
is
fat. there's
barbeque sauce all
over his face.
they've all grown
old
and tired.
there has to be a better
way
to make a living
than this they all
agree.

get there from here

the window
left open for the night
lets
in the cool
air.
fallen leaves
scratch at the screen.
the cat wants out.
a fox
in the woods
with it's baby
cry
wants something else.
a moon
says nothing.
the stars
jumbled
like broken
glass
are far away.
we can never get there
from here.
though we
want to.

rare fruit

how sweet her fruit
is.
the first bite.
the juice on my chin,
the drip of it
down my arm.
how nice it is
when ripe, when
picked in season.
right from the tree.
I could eat a basket
of her fruit.
so rare
these days. that
kind of love.

the buzz of silence

go away food.
beat it drink.
hit the road sunlight.
give me
rain.
give me wind and sleet
hail storms
under a darkened sky.
no books.
no television.
no computer.
my knees ache.
my hands
hurt from being pressed
together
for so long.
give me the buzz
of silence.
the dream
of yesterday.

the itch

the itch
returns. but I can't get
to it.
my arms don't
reach.
my fingers are too
short.
the spot escapes
me.
I need someone to help
me with this.

condo association

they tow
and tow and tow.
one car after another.
the condo board is cruel
and efficient.
don't park here.
or there,
hang your pass where
it can be seen.
no refunds. no pay backs.
no remorse
or worry. too bad for you.
don't park on the line.
don't have
a flat tire, or a crack
in your windshield.
don't leave
your dome light on.
inspections, registration,
all must be
on time.
all night the parade
of cars
on hooks roll out the lot
by the predatory trucks,
while the president
sleeps with a crooked
smile on her
happy elected
face. what fun.

a poem

what isn't
a metaphor. take that rock
for example.
your heart, perhaps.
that cold
stream
emptying into the wide
blue
sea.
your dreams?
what about the gulls,
the black birds
solemn
in their
wired rows?
what can't be written
and turned
into something more
than what it is.
a poem?

the beat

the work
is hard. the road
too.
the car won't start.
the tires
are gone.
we take the bus.
we walk.
we put out
a thumb.
the beat, the beat,
the beat.
goes on.

the hearts

the world
is filled with hearts.
broken
unbroken. sad and
defeated, some blue,
some red
some filled with joy
and hope.
you can see
them dotting the open sky,
floating
like balloons up
into the blue
towards a sun
that will embrace each
and every one.

the long book

farther
into the book.
I see the plot unfolding.
I see
what came
before
makes sense to what's
happening now
on this page
in this chapter.
I ear mark
the page, and close
the book
in my lap.
I like where it is
right now
and what's to come.
there's no need to
reread or go back
to the chaos
of chapter one.

my therapist

my therapist
is quiet.
she lets me do most
of talking.
nodding sweetly at my thoughts
and words,
a stream of consciousness.
I settle into the long couch
and begin.
often it sounds
like confession,
without the forgiveness,
without the metal screen,
the dark booth.
the smell of candles burning
on the altar.
she asks
if i'm in danger, or if
anyone I love is
in danger.
I tell her no. I don't
think so.
she says good.
there's a long pause
which means something.
how's your mother,
she finally asks,
breaking the silence.
dying, I tell her.
we all are she says.
we all are.

coffee talk

I've been to jail
he tells me.
I ain't afraid of being
incarcerated again.
I survived the jump,
but he won't
survive jimbo. no siree bob.
it makes
no never mind to me.
someone messes
with my money, then it's
lights out
for that dude.
you hear what i'm saying.
I sip my coffee
and nod.
i'm in the middle of a book
of Buddha quotations.
lingering on
the ones that strike
home.
don't look for the path.
be the path.
yes. I tell him.
taking a bite of my crumbly
blueberry scone.
I smell what you're cooking
brother.
i'll bust him up good
if he don't pay me by this
Friday.
I've got a 32 inch wood
bat sitting
inside my vehicle right now
just waiting to pop him.

as it should be

the neighbor
with her baby bump
is bright
with joy. the first born
now five no
longer crib or stroller
bound
but in ribbons
and dresses.
a small flower
in the winter sun.
they
walk as one
towards
the pathway that winds
between
the houses, into
the grey woods.
so quick
we take their hands,
then let go.
letting them find their
own path,
as it should be.

the weight

there is solace
in prayer.
in reading. in kneeling
with head
bowed.
forgives
and compassion so rare
in this fast
world.
what we do
and what's been to us
by others
weighs us
to the ground, but
opens our
eyes, our wounded
hearts to becoming
better.

just like that

the men
in the rain, jack hammers
pounding
the pavement.
the brittle noise
echoing
off the houses.
white hats,
green bibs,
boots laced high
covered
in yellow mud.
hammers at their side.
wheel barrows,
picks and axes.
the streets come
up in chunks,
in irregular stamps
of earth.
what seemed
forever is gone, just
like that.

the pale sun

the illness of others
brings you
to your knees.
loved ones
or not,
the humbling way
we crumble
over time with no one
getting out alive.
it reduces
all else to pebbles
in our shoes,
the x ray
the blood
the testing all
blotting out a pale
sun with
bad news.

that look

at the wedding
when Jesus turned
the water into wine
there was
jimmy
at the table shaking
his head
taking a sip.
I can't drink this
red wine
he said, wiping
it off his beard.
white goes with fish.
then Jesus gave him
a look.
that Look.
and he said, oops.
my bad.
okay.
red is perfectly
fine.

the cave drawings

if you do the things I want
you to do
i'll be happy.
if you don't
i'll have to punish you
in some sort
of passive aggressive
way.
silence,
or short answers
without ever looking
at you
directly.
i'll come home late
and slam
the door.
watch tv all night
while you go to bed.
it's what we do.
what we learn
from
the cave men and women
who were
our parents.

the new world

the next thing
we need
to do is
this.
then after that.
that.
but we will go through
the list
like a lumber jack
in a forest
of trees.
clearing the land
for a new
world.

every inch of your love

the scratch of a needle
on the old
hi fi reminds you of
the hours lying
in your room
listening to stacks
of wax.
the bands of your era.
credence.
the doors.
led zeppelin's
whole lotta love.
learning every line,
hitting every note,
strumming your
air guitar,
banging on drums
called pillows
until someone, perhaps
your mother,
pounded on your locked door
and yelled
turn that down
and open a window
those cigars you're
smoking
is smelling up
the whole house.

bullets

once out
of the chamber
with the squeeze
of an angry finger,
and in the air,
you can't
put the bullets
back in gun.
the death or wounding
with words
of a loved one
has happened,
the damage is done.

light starch

the dry cleaners
with
their squeaky wheel of a rack
that takes
up the whole
store.
a world of clothes wrapped
in the thinnest
of plastic.
the odor
of chemicals in the pink
air.
shirts
and dresses. pants
suits. all made new,
crisp again
for wear.
alterations.
adjustments.
a seam sewed tight again.
your ticket brings you
what you left
three days ago
and someone behind
you
tosses down his ball
of clothes.
and says, light starch

press on

guilt
is a bitter
taste. a rotten fruit
in one's mouth.
the harm
we do to others
stays with us
beyond
reason or logic.
we can't spit
it out,
ever, though
the taste lessens
over time
with confession.
no words can soothe
either soul.
press on.

in colors

she wants pink.
the brightest pink on the chart.
one wall.
one long wall for
accent, for punch,
for pizzazz.
so you pour the can into
the tray
and roll it on.
three coats.
when she arrives home
to see
it.
she screams with joy.
it's perfect she says
I love it.
thank you.
some needs and wants,
desires
come easy
and in colors.

the black bull

the matador,
is old.
he sits in his spangled
costume,
the tilted hat,
the shoes,
glittering gold.
blood on his sword.
the roar of the crowd
at the black
bull
kneeling towards
death in the middle.
his eyes
uncertain.
the ache
in his back.
so many bulls to kill,
so little time
left
to do so.

this way

a troubled world
spins
on.
the restless night.
the ice
under our feet.
the glare of a low
sun
making us wince.
the coffee
bitter and luke warm
on our tongue.
it wasn't always
this way,
this
hard,
was it?

not a pretty cat

it's not a pretty
cat.
this black long hair thing
with
bottled green
eyes,
a tail like a feather,
black
and slick as a crow's
wing.
she's loud
and needy, cautious
between the cars,
under,
around
the wheels, then coming
to you
to slide between
your shoes and legs
telling you
about the world she lives
in,
which is so
unclear.

boxes

they arrive
in threes, these men
in dark
suits
boots,
hats and gloves.
their world is full
of boxes.
tools and knives
to cut
and open.
they park anywhere
they please.
they want it out
then in,
to get to the next
house
then leave.

the long road

we slow
down to see the cows
in the pasture.
brown and white,
slow to move, to look
up.
mouths chewing sideways
to a slow clock.
unencumbered
in the early sun.
the fence rails go on forever
on this road
that leads
to the blue ridge mountains,
the bent posts and wire
keeping them in,
keeping us
out.
so many fences in our
lives.

coming out the other side

it's too hard
to see
when in the storm,
the flood
or fire
what it all means.
what
the blessing of
brokenness could be.
only
on the other side,
when the smoke
has cleared
when the water
subsides,
when the wounds
have heal
can we understand
or begin
to know what should
be.

we fall

we fall
we land hard.
we bleed
we cry, we get up.
we move
on.
we fall again.
then again.
in time
others reach down
with a hand.
it's there if we
want to take
it.
we need them
to keep us upright.

the black leather coat

he takes
the coat gladly
from my hand.
feels its weight.
it's yours, I tell him.
I haven't worn
it in years.
the last time I was
in a winter storm,
snow up
to my knees.
I remember leaving
home,
looking back at the yellow
square of light
from the kitchen window,
the door already closed
behind me.
it saved my life
that coat, I tell him.
being untruthful
but
dramatic, to give
the coat
more life.
it's black. it's leather.
it's
been in the closet
for so many years
that I've lost track.
he puts it on,
buttons it.
zips it.
puts his hands in the
pockets,
then turns up the collar.
I like it
he says.
it's yours, I tell him.
wear it well.

a month of birthdays

the month
of birthdays has arrived.
the coldest
month.
the white month of snow
and ice.
blue wind.
how the trees bend.
how the candles burn,
the flames
kneeling
in a circle.
so many years of cakes.
so
many blessings.
so many sins,
mistakes. but I've
changed. so
slice me a piece,
not small,
not just a taste,
but one to fill the
plate.

no forwarding address

a letter arrives
in the mail.
the thin narrow
sealed
envelope of standard
proportions.
stamp in the corner,
a liberty
bell.
no scent to speak of.
no clue
as to who from.
no forwarding address.
the handwriting on
the front
unfamiliar
though a hand has
written my name
upon it.
my address too.
why open it?
why know
what's been said,
what's to enter my head.
what words
will be there
to make me change course.
to alter
my tomorrows.
perhaps it's nothing.
so often that's the case
these days
with mail.

a wrong turn

I remember the bat
that flew
into the house. a small
clump
of hair
and claws, mouse
sized, brown
black.
the zip of it's canvas
wings
spread
veined and thin,
frenetically flapping
from room
to lighted room
seeking
the shallow cool
of darkness.
I remember sweeping
it from
the low
sky he was trapped
in,
the stark whiteness
of walls
and ceiling,
moving him
towards the open door
until finally
he was
no more.

form over function

is it form over function?
or practicality
that we need.
what serves us,
what gives us pleasure,
soothes our
minds eye,
saves
us time,
or both.
what are we storing
up so
many minutes for
to begin with?
let's go with form
this time.

light over dark

some days
are without shadows.
we keep
it bright.
light.
our feet walk with
a spring.
our eyes
are wide open,
our hearts
alive.
we've left as
many yesterdays behind
as we can.
we savor
this day.
we want it to last,
to become
all of our tomorrows.
light over
dark.

in the cave

they find
the skull in the bottom
of a shallow
pool, inside a cave
inside a mountain,
inside the earth.
the bones
follow her out
into the daylight
of blue
skies, a sun
not seen for a
thousand years.
they find what there
is to be known about
her.
give her a name,
give her
a place a time,
a reason to be where
she wandered,
then died.
how fast we live.
how quickly
these days disappear,
as we do,
in time.

what now

he looks at his gold watch.
his
rings.
his house, the one here,
the one
at the shore.
his fourth wife
in the yard
on the phone,
stretched out in a chair
doing her nails.
he looks at his boat
in the driveway.
the three cars in
the three car garage.
the sub zero fridge is empty.
water beer
leftovers in sterile
white boxes.
the Viking stove, cold
and clean.
he sees himself
in the black glass
of the patio door
and touches the lines
in his face.
he stretches and yawns
at the sun
peeking over
the pool.
it's early too early
in the day,
but too late
to figure out what
went wrong. what to do.

the late letter

the brother
over seas, in the war.
in the trenches
sends a letter.
it's mud caked. blood?
there is the smell of carnage
in the words.
the heart felt
scroll scratched out
in ink.
the mustard gas
in tightening his throat.
the screams
of the dying
and the undead
barely alive drip
upon each page. i'll be
home soon the letter says,
between shells,
between the narrow line
of bullets
searing by,
but he'll be gone
before it gets here,
boxed and draped
in red white and blue
before a tear can fall
from his mother's
eyes.

waiting for the sun

the ragged
clouds.
the spit of night ice.
the black lines
drooping
heavy
after the storm
but the black birds
that are still around,
still here
don't think twice.
they sit
in army lines across
the long
stretch of
wire,
beat their wings tight
and wait out the day.
wait for the sun,
as we all
do.

rainy day money

with a little extra
cash on hand
I feel the fire
in my pocket.
it needs to be spent.
but on what?
what do I need that I
don't have,
that I can afford?
so little
comes to mind.
a warm
fire, a cold drink.
a good meal.
arms
around me.
most of what I need,
has nothing
to do with price
or purchase,
maybe i'll take
the cash
and give it away,
or save it,
save it for that rainy
night.
that rainy day.

the carnival date

we were having way too much
fun
at the carnival
eating candy apples,
caramel corn,
cotton candy and drinking
sodas,
going into the fun house
to stare into
the curved mirrors.
so it wasn't unexpected
when
she lost it all
on the ferris wheel
as it spun high above
the crowd
and fluorescent lights.
the date was over at that
point.
but she seemed less worried
about me, and more
concerned what her
mother would say
about her pretty pink
dress.

cow milk

i'm done with milk.
i used to love milk.
we've been
going steady since
birth.
mother's milk. cow milk.
skim, low fat,
whole.
half and half, light
cream,
heavy.
i just don't have a desire
for it anymore
despite how much i loved
a tall
cold glass with a
slice of cake.
so many things change with
age, but
it's a slow go.

sleep walk

i used to sleep
walk
when i was young.
walking
into closets,
going down to the kitchen
to forage.
my mother
would
see me in the shadows
of the hall
and get up
to guide me
back to bed.
taking me by the shoulders
and steering
me
to my room.
goodnight, she'd say
again
and tuck me in.
not saying a word
to anyone.

what to sell

i'm running out
of things to sell on
craigslist.
the ladders, the sideboard,
the orange chair,
the three lamps
without shades.
one snow tire.
one bird cage.
one small dog kennel
with a rubber ball
still inside
ready for chewing.
I stare at my collection
of shoes.
brown and black.
some loafers,
some with laces,
some perfectly fine,
but I just never liked
them enough
to wear them in
daylight.
after dusting and polishing
them up,
I take a chance and
take a photo
of six pairs of slightly
worn dress shoes.
I throw a tie or
two into the mix,
one argyle one striped.
no charge.
i'm back in business.

wood for the fire

we gather wood
for the fire.
we break sticks into twos
and threes.
we gather around
in a circle
as the flames
rise
and warm our hands,
our feet.
the snow is around
us.
the trees are bare.
spring is far
off in the distance.
we gather wood
for the fire, it's
what we need to do.

never enough

the salesman
knows everyone. shakes
hands
has a smile
and quick word
and laugh
with all.
he's working the crowd.
selling.
selling.
selling.
it's the bottom line.
the tally
at the end of the day,
the year.
life.
how much do I have
now,
he whispers
to his accountant,
not enough
is the answer,
not enough.

the funeral chit chat

some are crying.
bent over
in sorrow, grieving
the loss,
the memory of a loved
one.
some are
social,
slapping each other
on the back
saying things like
nice to see
you again, it's been
too long.
it is what it is.
so what are you up
to now?
are we heading over
to the house
for lunch?

into rain

we
dance.
we sleep.
we eat.
we work and find
time
for
talk.
make love.
the days slip
away
like water
down
the stream
into the bay
the ocean
then up
again
into rain.

white rice

i can't even look at a roller
coast
these days
without getting dizzy
and sick
to my stomach
i tell my friend jimmy.
he says that he feels
that way too
when he sees a wedding
going on.
i can't even look at white
rice anymore, he says,
without almost fainting.
after four short
sprints
to the altar
he's done with marital
bliss.
his girlfriend
betty, who's
hanging on his arm
and chewing a massive
wad of gum
sighs and shakes
her head
and says
we'll see. we'll see.

itemize

I ask my tax
lady
if I can write off
shoes.
lunch.
shirts and pants.
she
takes a look
at my paint splattered
clothes
and laughs.
and your hat too
she says.
have a seat
and let's
itemize your life
dear boy.
so where did you
have lunch today,
she asks.
did you take a client?

crayola sunset

it was a Crayola
sunset.
a box
of crayons melting
on the palette
of a pale blue sky.
it looked religious
in a child like
way.
the lines wavy and off,
the crude struck colors
smudged,
green where it should
be red.
the sun too white
for winter.

what did we eat last night

i can remember
the phone number i had when
i was
ten and the phone
was black and
hung from the kitchen
wall
with a thirty foot
gnarled cord, but i
can't remember where
i put my
keys an hour ago, or
what i had for dinner
last night.
some things i choose
to forget,
but other things just
don't stick.
it's not dark yet,
but it's getting there.

animal food

i couldn't kill a cow.
or a chicken.
or any animal
unless it was attacking me
and i had
to defend myself.
the thought of trapping
a rabbit and making
stew with small
potatoes
seems crazy, unless of course
i was starving
and just
got off the mayflower
in my pilgrim
outfit
and musket.
famished
after months at sea
without a shower
or a hot meal.
i feel bad enough as it
is pulling
a fish out of the river.
how that hook
must hurt.

the spoon of you

a teaspoon of you,
a small taste,
a dollop or drop
of you
makes
me want
the gallon jug,
the barrel,
the whole factory
that churns
you out.
don't tease me
with
the spoon, I can't
walk straight
with that.

break out

there's been a break out
at the zoo.
giraffes are running
down the street.
monkeys are on the phone
wires.
elephants
are stampeding down
Connecticut avenue.
I see a gorilla
on the cross town bus
wearing a hipster hat
and shades,
reading the paper.
he slouches in his seat.
laying low as he makes
his escape.
a small bag is at his
side. an umbrella.
he sees me looking at
him and nods
good morning. tips his hat.
he's out and not looking
back.
I nod back,
maybe it's my turn soon.

waiting on a friend

my man,
my main man
is outside the seven eleven
waiting for his
ride.
a lucky between
his lips.
a thermos.
his thin leather jacket
barely keeping
him warm.
his paint pants blow
wide in the wind,
bleached white,
streaked
in old dried paint.
his boots speckled,
his gloves torn.
his beard rides off
his chin
in blonde red
curls. he strokes
it patiently while
I arrive on time.

blabber mouth

I hear a secret
and promise
to never tell a single
soul what I just heard.
I vow to never repeat
what has
just come into my ear.
I put my hand
on my heart,
I swear on a stack
of Bibles,
I swear
on a loved one's
live
to never ever
tell anyone what I
just heard.
this last about
ten minutes
before i'm telling
someone on the phone
asking them
to put it in the vault.

a bright red hat

I know
things I shouldn't know.
and don't
know many things that
I should.
I have a cluttered
brain,
an attic of old thoughts,
webbed
memories, distorted
facts
and ideas
that don't get lost.
I know
who I am, by now.
where I live, what
my needs and wants are.
I know
each fault,
each wrong turn that I've
made along
the way.
I know this. I know that.
I know
that you look fabulous
beneath the sunlight
in a bright red hat.

tax season

it takes less
time each year gathering my
papers together
to take to betty,
my tax lady.
I have the annoyance down now.
she says the same thing,
how we'd do
as I plop my stack onto
the counter.
her little business
is in a small cape cod
cottage
next to a farm,
or what used to be a farm,
on the outskirts of
manassas.
she lives upstairs.
cats roam everywhere.
a window hasn't been opened
in years.
I've seen the same
coffee cups and ashtrays
for decades now.
the magazines too.
ancient.
liz taylor on the front
of People.
burt Reynolds on Us.
a few weeks go by and she
calls.
they're ready, she says.
come and get em.

hot tub

I slip out of my
clothes and slip into
something more comfortable.
which
is a hot tub
of water.
the lights off.
the phone off.
the world off.
the water steams
the room
as I slide down
to my neck and chin.
I am back in the womb.
back in
the safe place
I started from.

69

the boardwalk
wasn't always this way.
clean
and swept.
the stores aglow
with
what to buy.
there wasn't always
strollers
and families.
it was a different time.
the runaways,
the drugs,
the collection
of miscreants who
hitchhiked there
from everywhere to
sleep on the sand,
to ask for spare change.
to beg
and borrow their
way through
a weekend.
it wasn't always so
proper
and refined.
the Hilton, the Sheraton.
we'd stay at the Broadmore
on Pacific
and Vine
for two dollars and
fifty cents
a night.
a bare mattress,
a bulb overhead,
the window propped open
with a stick, but it
was fine.

the math of you

the numbers
don't always add up
when
I figure out the math of you.
the quadratic
equation
that you are.
I like the angles,
the curves,
each side of your
isosceles triangle.
it's hard to know
when
you're round
or square
or a line broken off
that trails into infinity.
my calculator
is on fire, my abacus
can't keep up. I've tossed
the slide rule into the air.
I need
Einstein to figure you
out at times.

the razor cut

the blood
is on the sheets, the pillows.
it's on my white
shirt. small crimson
drops like candy.
the razor cut
on the chin
won't stop
bleeding.
shaving in the dark
is not my thing,
but a scar there might
be attractive.
I could make up a story
about
the fight I was in
when
protecting a loved one.
or how I stopped
a robbery down at the bank,
saved a dog
from a burning building.
why waste a good cut
on a shaving
story.

back in time

I set the time machine
for ten minutes
earlier
to take back the things
I just said.
mean things about
how awful that person is.
I tell him that he keeps
doing the same things
over and over again
with no remorse.
this time
I don't say them,
instead,
after I get out
of the machine, I smile
and say, yes, I completely
understand
and if there's anything
I can do
to help you,
please let me know.

the water main

the water main
breaks
and the road collapses
which makes
the traffic back up
for miles, for hours.
there is no other way
to get home.
no way to get to our
warm
rooms, our table
of food,
our things
that wait for us
just five miles down
the road.
so we sit.
we wonder. we wish
we had a book
or someone nice to call
and tell them
about our troubles,
not just this one,
but all of them.

at ninety two

at ninety two
she's still picking out
wallpaper,
still shy,
her hair done in a glorious
silver
loaf
upon her wide forehead.
blue eyed in the light.
i want something similar,
she says.
can you find me something like
this? she waves to the room
as if to change it
now. there is subtle
bling on each wrist.
a diamond on her finger.
her nails done
yesterday by a daughter
who
comes by.
she sits on a blue velvet
chair.
her desk is large.
marie antionette would
have loved it.
her penmanship is
exquisite
as she writes a check
then delicately
with her
long veined hand
shakes mine.

the traveling salesman

my acting career began
after my divorce.
I was looking for something
to do that
i'd been doing anyway
the entire marriage.
I played a part that came
strangely easy
to me. i hit my mark. stayed
up late, learning my lines.
my gestures, my
delivery was spot on.
it was a long running
play,
on a variety of stages.
mostly off broadway,
way off.
like in jersey.
my venue was the dinner
theater.
between acts I waited
on tables, served drinks.
if the food was good
I made money, if it was
bad, which it mostly was
they blamed me.
when the curtain opened
again for acts two or three,
my tables would wave
at me and say, look, there's
our waiter.
i'd wave back, blow them
a kiss before delivering my
lines. I was Willy
and sometimes Biff.

remember

it takes awhile
to
forget.
then it's not really
forgetting
but arranging
things so that when
thought of
it has a nice sepia
glow
to it, ready to
hang on the wall,
and be spoken
of in good terms
despite the truth.

the hot meal

some foods are best
hot,
other's cold,
rarely
does the luke warm
meal
satisfy.
the middle is
not where we want to
be.
either burn
my tongue
and set my hair
on fire, or
bring it chilled
with you
to warm me.

sorry, but your dna results are ready

I send in a vial
of saliva
to the dna researchers.
but do I want to know where
i'm from,
whom I related to?
it's bad enough as it
is knowing
who i'm
blood tied to now.
what if someone worse comes
up.
a nut
from a tree of nuts.
all incarcerated
at some point in their lives
for misdeeds.
loons in straight jackets,
lost souls,
miscreants
of the first degree.
I hold my breath and open
the results,
praying for some brilliant
godly
soul to appear.

forty seams

there are forty seams
of ancient wallpaper
to fixed.
grandma picked it out
in the Eisnenhower
administration.
there are stripes
in one room.
flowers in another.
periwinkle blue
in the bathroom,
but the paper is old.
the split
lines are brittle,
not unlike tree bark,
they will
resist any attempts
to lie back down,
to go straight
and together again.
but you try. you give
it a go in every room.
what are the other choices.
napalm?

under the weather

under the weather,
but
not dead,
not yet.
the bug has struck.
the bug
has laid down its
tent,
amassed its forces,
and planted
a flag,
demanding a surrender.
but I don't.
I fall back,
I lie between the sheets,
I engulf
myself
in books
and movies,
drench my thirst
in cold water.
chicken soup.
chicken soup.
chicken soup.
I find comfort in
the sweet sleep
of fever
and wait.

the light goes out

is the light
burning out an omen.
a sign
from up above
that a new day has
arrived.
a portent of things
to come,
or where we have
arrived.
is the bulbs
demise a hint
of some sort
that darkness
has come upon us?
or maybe,
it's just an old
light
whose time has come,
worn out its use.
we look too deeply
into
small things thinking
that the world
revolves around
us.

frozen worms

some days you
got nothing.
nada. not a clue, not
an imaginative thought,
or word to
write.
you're numb and cold.
brooding.
the bird on the sill
shakes his
head. he's
wrapped in an overcoat,
and a lumber jack plaid
hat.
a frozen worm
dangles from
his shivering beak.
we look at one another,
then shrug and move
on with our day.

negotiation

you throw a few things onto
craig's list
to get them out of the house
and to make a few bucks
in the process.
the calls come in. the texts.
the emails.
can you go lower?
when can I pick them up.
how old are those shoes.
those pants?
that mattress?
those black socks, do they
have any holes
in them?
is that toothbrush purple
or blue,
it's hard to tell from
the photo?
what's your best price
on that chipped
coffee mug?

cold aging

the milk
is sour. the cheese hard.
the lettuce
brown.
each apple has dent,
each
orange
a spot of green
where it leaned
against
the rack.
the cold air has done
little
to keep things right.
even the eggs
seem old.
your hand is
curled
and worn
as it reaches
in. your feet iced
against the tiled
floor. you can't
make
things
new again.

cup of joe

the line moves
slow.
but it's okay.
some drinks are complicated.
soy
and whipped cream,
latte
and skim,
double shots of this
or that.
dark or blonde.
half decaf.
extra caramel please.
coffee is a science
now.
we've romanced the bean.
learned
the history
of its travel from
a far away land to here.
gourmet blends
in sacks
on the backs of burros.
it's ground and percolated,
then dripped into a cup
of three different sizes,
all with a special name.

from the same parents

how we
came apart, unglued.
this family of seven is beyond
me.
blame on a divorce,
perhaps, but that was fifty years
ago.
get over it.
blame it on living in
different states,
or being in a different
state of mind.
lack of spirituality,
of education,
or therapy,
lack of something.
maybe something in the water
across the bridge.
what makes
some angry and bitter,
forever victims,
while others live out their
lives
in peace?

cigs

who didn't smoke
back then.
who didn't have a pack of
luckys,
a cartoon of kools
or tarreytons
in the cupboard.
an ashtray full of butts.
who didn't light up
in the morning, one last
cig
before bed.
one after dinner,
after breakfast,
while walking the dog,
after making love.
sneaking one in the boys
room.
who didn't smoke
back then.
a stogie
by the fire
with a tumbler of scotch.
a lung dart with a beer.
a bar full of blue haze.
doctors smoked.
pregnant women smoked.
the movie screen was full
of smoke.
the president smoked.
priests in their cloaks
lit up
behind the rectory.
light em if you got em
the GIs said.
one last puff before
the firing squad let loose
with a flurry
of bullets.

the tunnel

some days
are a tunnel.
a long mysterious
and silent tunnel.
we go slow, touching
the walls
in the darkness,
lifting our feet slowly.
listening
to what's up ahead.
but the flicker
of light, that small
glimmer
far down the road
is everything.
as in every tunnel
you've gone through
in life.
in the end,
you will be where
you should be.
it will be alright.

the stray dog

the stray dog
without a leash, without
a collar
looks happy,
dodging cars
that fly down the street.
his tail wags,
his tongue out.
he sees the woods,
the open field
beyond
the city,
the tall grass,
the lake in the distance.
he sees the sun
rising.
he's over the fence
and free.
let's run with him.

nothing new

the therapist is kind
to my
plight. my tears
and confusion.
she's heard it all before,
but pretends
that it's all new to her
ears.
she smiles, she nods.
she accepts
my tale of woe
with a kind
and open heart.
despite the degrees
on the wall,
the books on her shelves,
she has no answers,
just questions that lead
me to my
own answers.
the clock ticks
on and when it's time to
stop,
we stop.
we stop and move on.
a step closer,
perhaps to peace
and understanding.

what to keep

there are things
left
over from every love gone wrong.
every infatuation
or affection
has some mark, some touch
stone
left behind.
to keep
and wallow in the grief,
or smile
at the joy
is a fine balance.
to toss, or save
so much that will disappear
in time, then
turn to dust
anyway makes for a long
hard night.

dividing everything in two

in the divorce,

by law,
we divided everything 

equally

regardless

of whose fault it was.

who lied,

who cheated,

meant nothing.
the house, the money.
the dishes,
the couch. the bed.
we split
it all down the middle.

we were trying to be

reasonable and fair

to one another unlike

how we lived.

all things were torn

in two.

but the dog
and the child
winced and whimpered

at the sound

of the power saw

starting up
as we laid them down

to cut.

make a left at the light

i need directions.
a map,
a pamphlet, a gps
to get me where i want
to go.
i need a gas station
attendant
to scratch his head
and say,
i think you made a wrong
turn back there.
i need
someone in the car
with me,
to say turn here,
go left at the light,
go right,
hit the pedal,
we're almost there.

don't make me say it

you don't get it,
she says.
you're not listening.
how many times
do I have to
almost say what
I really mean to say
for you to get
what I mean.
why do I actually have
to say the words.
write the words.
shout the words
for the world to hear,
for you to know what
the truth is?

the outlet coat

the zipper wouldn't move
on my brand
new Calvin Klein
winter coat purchased
smartly on sale
at the outlet store.
waterproof and warm it was.
stylish too, grey with black
trim. but
no matter hard i
pulled, or greased
or ironed
out the zipper, even
after thirty tries
at up and down, it wouldn't
budge.
i'd have to lift the coat
over my head to get
it off
then stretch the fabric
to pull the zipper free.
finally.
tired of the routine,
with both hands
I pulled as hard as I
could to break the zipper
free from the point where it
was stuck.
it was liberating
to hear the tear of fabric,
the flying pieces of
metal teeth and nylon
spraying across
the room. I liked
that coat for the whole
two weeks I had it, but
happily, now, I balled it up
and stuffed it
in the trash.

the insurance claims

he had some bad luck.
his house
burned down.
the fire starting suspiciously
close
to his new baby grand
piano,
which he didn't know how
to play
to begin with,
then his boat sank.
then another sank,
both mysteriously while
no one was aboard.
a car would disappear.
there were break ins,
accidents when he slipped
on a puddle
going down an aisle
in a large chain store.
but he was always tanned
and smiling.
the happiest unfortunate
man
i'd ever known.

puppets

we want
others to be who we want
them to be.
to be the Gods they are not.
we want them to do things
we want
them to do.
behave in a way
that makes us believe
that they are ours.
we want, like puppets,
to pull
their strings.
to dance when we need
them to dance,
to sing, when
we want them to sing.
how strange we are in
thinking others can make
us happy.

relief

it can't keep
raining like this, can
it?
this wind.
this cold.
the discomfort
of so many things.
at some point it has
to give up.
light needs
to come out
from behind
these fisted clouds
that pummel us
to sleep.

the unseen

it's the black ice
we need
to watch out for.
the slick on the road,
that subtle freeze.
the shadow
in the alley.
it's the unknown
that gets us.
the unwanted call.
words whispered
beyond our reach.
the stalker in
the window.
the eyes in the woods
peering in.
carefully
we need to tread,
to turn
the key on the lock
to get us inside
away from what could
be grim.

work release

they hired men
mostly
from the jump, the county
jail,
the state pen,
the lock up
in the city. they hired
them to sweep,
to mop,
to take out the garbage.
it was a job
to get them on their
feet again.
minimum wage.
grey uniforms, with names.
some made
it. some took a broom
handle and broke
it in half before stabbing
someone.
some robbed
the apartments, or stole
fruit from
the basement store.
they were old men, for
the most part. even the young
ones.
some became friends.
some died, taking their
own lives
with cocaine or drink.
some though, made it out.
got free,
and never looked back.

the first time

the first time you see
the ocean
startles you. the vastness.
the shades
of green, blue.
those ships in the distance.
those gulls,
the waves
repeating on and on
forever
as they unfold.
the first time is the best.
the one
you'll hold
closest to your heart.

start again

don't worry so much
about things
you have no control over.
let it go.
move on to other things.
the small
things will kill you
over time.
don't let your mind
play
that game.
don't let it fill
with darkness.
empty it.
breathe out, breathe
in.
start again.

the work week

i'll leave
the gate unlatched.
come
and go as you please,
i'll be working late,
wipe
your feet.
I've left you a note
on the counter,
next to the other ones
signed
me.

reluctant pear

the pears
out
of season are still
sweet,
the soft
green color
splotched brown,
but the meat
is good,
the juice rolls
down your chin.
it's
a conscious effort
though,
to pick up a pear
and eat.

get what you want

i should get what i always
get and
stop looking at the menu.
i know what i like, what i
don't like
and yet, there's this urge
to experiment, take a chance,
to broaden my culinary
tastes.
it never fails though, i wish after
one bite
that's i'd gotten what i
really wanted, not this.

something else

we are here,
but not here. this feeling,
this
too will pass.
these clothes that hang
against my
skin
and bones.
this hair, these nails,
the eyes
and tongue,
are me, but will disappear.
the bed I lie in,
even that moon
beyond the trees.
all that is
doesn't last,
something else must
be going on.

amy's soup

a can
of soup remains
in the cupboard. I just
can't
get rid of it.
it belongs to Amy.
at least that's what
the label says.
Amy's organic Lintel
soup.
with white beans, no less.
I feel as if I need
to hold onto it.
that I might regret
tossing it away
after all these years.
gathering dust
on the shelf.
so I put
it back, right next
to Ben's rice.
next to the smiling
face of Quaker Oats.
beside
Pete's skinny bottle
of hot sauce.

what good is it

time to purge.
time to strip down
your
links on social media.
time to hunker
down
and go under.
to be free from the webs
of
this tangled world
of wires.
time to smell the air.
to get away.
to be done with the trivial
drama
that we
thrive on.
time to take your hands
off the key
board and put your hand
into another's
and walk away.

it's up to you

we can plug
the leaks in your tires
at a small fee, or
you can take the high risk
of driving on them,
and perhaps having a blow
out
flipping your car
over a guard rail
into on coming traffic,
risking your car going up
in a ball of flames,
or perhaps you can get our
four brand new
tires, which are on
sale this week
for presidents day
that happens next month,
newly balanced,
aligned, with a
three year warranty.
no pressure, but you choose.
death on the highway,
or take advantage of
our once in a lifetime
tire sale. it's up
to you. by the way,
there's coffee over there
near the bathroom,
made fresh weekly.

the vines

these vines
their small clawed nails
digging into
the fence,
the brick. crawling
with a mind of their
towards
no good.
gripping what they find
in their path.
are we like that?
trying to hold onto
things
we shouldn't,
going places we have
no place going?
at the root lies
the problem.

moon set nights

we drink long into the night.
we talk
about
God.
we talk about our sons.
what work means.
we discuss
the meaning
of life.
the question of divine
intervention,
free will.
the drinking does little
to uncloud
our minds.
but we try. we try to
get somewhere
where it all makes sense.
where we
no longer worry about
what the next
day might bring.
we take small steps
into the light as the moon
sets
and the sun rises.

the long ladders

I have memories of these
ladders.
these long extension metal
things
that I climbed
one boot after the other
up the sides of buildings
in the wind
in rain.
thirty two feet skyward,
forty feet.
some fell,
some crashed to the side,
some I tumbled from
when careless and hurried
trying to win a clock that
beat inside.
so many days I pulled
on the braided ropes
raising
the rungs higher and
higher
to get to the highest
point,
then carried buckets
and brushes, tools
to the top
where a bird's nest might
be, where
bats might hang by their
clawed feet.
I climbed into the sky
closer to the clouds,
to the sun,
to a place I knew so well
when I was young.

split life

you live
a split life. one side
good
the other
not so good.
one shoe clean, the other
in mud.
words fall
from your mouth
at times,
spewing
what lies within, while
other times
silence
is what you need to do,
choosing
a higher road,
not sin.

return to sender

there's new mail.
old mail.
junk mail.
trash.
recently deleted mail.
blocked mail.
there's spam,
unable to send
mail,
unable to receive
mail.
mail
from stores, from
banks,
from gas stations.
medicare mail.
insurance mail.
tax mail.
mail from someone
in Russia
named Olga.
it keeps coming. it
keeps pouring in
while my calloused
thumb
leans on the delete
button.

touch stones

we attach ourselves
to things.
that coat, that glove,
a ring.
we want to remember,
to make
the past feel real
once more,
not just a memory
fading
in time. we want a
touch stone,
a card, a letter to hold
in our hands
something lost
that we can still find,
no matter
what the day or hour
as our life
slips by.

the first one's free

the lick of a flame
under
the silver
spoon, heats this
insidious brew,
the crystals,
a fine white powder
melting
into a forever
stew.
how sublime
the light is cascading
through the window,
how soft
the rain sounds
falling down,
how hopeless the world
becomes
with a needle in
your vein.

another place to be

we all want
to reach chapter five.
the chapter in portia nelson's
succinct
and difficult poem.
how easily
we slip into holes
time and time
again.
climbing out
as if we had no clue
they were
there to begin with.
some holes
are deeper than others.
some are shallow
full of old rain water.
we repeat the chaos
of our lives thinking it's
home.
some holes you can
never get out of without
divine intervention.
without courage,
without knowing
where the bottom
lies,
but you can, so
let's find another street
to walk on.
another place
to be.

the hair cut

i tell the barber
to leave
a little on the top this time.
maybe part it on
the side.
I've got a job interview
tomorrow
and I've met someone
that really melts my butter.
the other barbers
chuckle
and shake their heads.
okay,
he says. you're the boss.
i'll leave some.
three minutes go by
and he swings the chair
around to the long mirrored
wall.
nice, i tell him. nice.
he splashes
some blue fragrant water
onto my cheeks
and brushes me down.
go get him handsome,
he says.
i'm ten years old all
over again.

vive la difference

she says can you pass
me another vol-au-vent
sil vous plait.
I say what.
you mean the canapés,
no, she says, pointing
at the small dish
of puffed pastries filled
with meat.
those, she says,
her delicate finger
bent in their direction.
so I do.
merci, she says.
more champagne, I ask.
certainment, she says.
oui.
I put down my Budweiser
and leg of chicken
and pour
the bubbly into her
flute.
she smiles, she winks.
she puckers her lips and blows
me a kiss.

the ball and chain days

I remember when the boss
used to whip
us.
he had a long leather whip
black
and oiled
with barbs on the end.
it was office
work. we were hunched over desks
in cubicles,
a ball and chain strapped
to our ankles,
but in the back there
was a dungeon,
next to the copier,
and reams of paper
where we'd be punished
for our many transgressions.
sometimes
they'd lay us out on
the stretching machine and
pull our arms
and legs in four different
directions.
did we work more efficiently,
yes,
did we take shorter
coffee and lunch breaks, yes.
did we drink more
at happy hour, and steal staplers,
yes.

places beside home

there are places
beside
home, Dorothy.
better places in fact.
peaceful and safe places.
most of the pain
and suffering endured
by many
started in a childhood home.
and it's lingered
until they place you
in another home,
the sunset home,
not yours of course,
but one where they feed
you oatmeal
with a spoon.

meant to be

careless
about the bills in my pocket
some fall out.
get caught in the wind.
I watch them
as they curve upwards
into the air,
crossing the street,
the wind
making them swirl, pushing
them away.
a part of me wants to chase
them,
but another part
says let them go, this
was meant to be.

the downed tree

I see a tree down
behind
the fence.
a large old oak.
we had no relationship,
this tree and I
despite passing it daily,
looking out
as it swayed
in the summer,
full of leaves
and emptied itself
come fall.
we were not unfriendly,
or unaware
of one another,
but respectful
and distant
in a neighborly
sort of way.

lava lamp musings

the lava
lamp
with it's swirl
of orange
and purple, how it made
the room
swim in color.
the black light
under jimi
and Janis, their posters
pinned
on the far wall.
the stereo
playing scratched
records.
the thump of pioneer
speakers
churning out a whole
lotta love
by zeppelin.
the bottle of wine.
the candles
slouching in cold
wax. a cloud of smoke
in the air.
wild talk about God,
if there was one,
and the universe.
it was a different
era then,
a different time.

asleep

the line of her
beneath the sheets,
asleep,
the soft curve of her.
the brush of hair,
the arm
over her eyes.
the smell, the taste
of her
on my lips, on my
hands.
how deep she's fallen
into sleep,
hardly moving, hardly
breathing,
away in a dream
she won't remember,
hoping it's of me.

we had words

we had words.
then we had other words.
the floor was littered
with them.
words we hadn't used before
with each other. there were
letters strewn about.
punctuation marks,
periods
and questions,
exclamation points.
there was small print
on our hands.
large case
letters inked on
our foreheads.
at some point she spoke
in French.
and I in Italian.
at times we didn't know
what the other one was
talking about.
but oh the words,
so many words.
some in red, in black.
it was a talk that
went on for hours.
on into the early morning
until we finally
ran out of things to say,
and said alright, enough.
let's go to bed.

no where to run

it smells like
rain.
feels like snow.
taste
like burned ashes.
something's in the air.
there's a fire
burning
to keep someone warm,
or did it start
while we were sleeping.
shovels lean
against the wall.
salt and sand.
the bags stacked and ready.
batteries.
water. dried food.
a pistol or two.
the news on, waiting for
word
to tell us which direction
we should run.

ships at sea

there's a crowd
at the docks. they lean
out towards the sea,
peering across the long water
under a gull
frenzied sky.
they wait.
all waiting for that
ship to come in.
that golden vessel.
the silver liner.
anxious for what lies
ahead.
where the money might be.
waiting for someone
up on the food
chain who might leave them
something, anything
to help them get by.

maid visit

nearly
done after hours
of going
up and down and under.
the maids
are weary.
I've given them more
dust and dirt
than
they're used to.
who knew so many webs
could
form beneath
the beds. so many
places to scrub
that
haven't been scrubbed
and cleaned
in ages.
the house sings
with the smell of cleaning
tonics.
the lemons,
the pine.
the air swims with a
a fragrance
i'm unused to.
a place for everything.
the books so neatly
lined against
one another.
the glasses clean,
the bed made.
when are you coming back
dear maids.
I miss you
already.

truth be told.

if we knew the truth
about everything,
about everyone,
about every e mail, every
text.
every word whispered
when not around,
each phone call taken
in the dead of night.
would it be better then?

truth be told.

if we knew the truth
about everything,
about everyone,
about every e mail, every
text.
every word whispered
when not around,
each phone call taken
in the dead of night.
would it be better then?

judgemental

it's hard to be a judge
whether behind
the bench, or walking the street.
holding
each apple
to the light.
each word uttered, weighed
and examined.
watching the body
language,
looking deep into the eyes
of those he
meets.
to believe
or not believe is a daily
chore.
even when the barista says
it's nice day
today,
he can't help but say,
is it really?

nearly gone

I don't want to say
that I have my father's hands,
his shoulders,
the way
his hair line recedes.
I don't want to say
that I have his sense of humor.
his sadness
and joy.
I don't want to say anything
like that.
it makes me feel
that he's nearly gone
when he's not.

nearly gone

I don't want to say
that I have my father's hands,
his shoulders,
the way
his hair line recedes.
I don't want to say
that I have his sense of humor.
his sadness
and joy.
I don't want to say anything
like that.
it makes me feel
that he's nearly gone
when he's not.

needs

i need little
to be content.
a hot bath, a nap.
some food
and a drink.
coffee.
i need my books, my
music.
my friends.
a hard days work.
beyond that is a blessing.
love
a cherry.

needs

i need little
to be content.
a hot bath, a nap.
some food
and a drink.
coffee.
i need my books, my
music.
my friends.
a hard days work.
beyond that is a blessing.
love
a cherry.

carryout

a man comes
in wearing a green luminous vest.
he's been
outside all day
in the cold.
his face raw, his hair
pulled back,
red and grey behind his
work helmet.
he's not old,
but his body leans
against
the counter as if in pain.
he pulls out
a pair of glasses
from his baggy pants
and reads the menu.
he counts the money that
he has,
letting the bills
unfold in his large in hand
then whispers, tiredly
what he wants
to the waitress.
a beer comes to him.
he doesn't look around.
he's not looking into anyone's
for anything.
he's hungry.

carryout

a man comes
in wearing a green luminous vest.
he's been
outside all day
in the cold.
his face raw, his hair
pulled back,
red and grey behind his
work helmet.
he's not old,
but his body leans
against
the counter as if in pain.
he pulls out
a pair of glasses
from his baggy pants
and reads the menu.
he counts the money that
he has,
letting the bills
unfold in his large in hand
then whispers, tiredly
what he wants
to the waitress.
a beer comes to him.
he doesn't look around.
he's not looking into anyone's
for anything.
he's hungry.

boys in striped shirts

when things
were slow we'd go outside
and sit
on the porch.
when our legs were tired
from running
from kicking balls
across the yard,
when our mouths had no
more words to say,
our arms weary from games,
we'd go out
and sit on the porch.
the bunch of us.
the sun would linger
until nine or so,
then settle behind the buildings
across the ravine.
we were young.
boys
in striped shirts, short
hair,
dungarees.

boys in striped shirts

when things
were slow we'd go outside
and sit
on the porch.
when our legs were tired
from running
from kicking balls
across the yard,
when our mouths had no
more words to say,
our arms weary from games,
we'd go out
and sit on the porch.
the bunch of us.
the sun would linger
until nine or so,
then settle behind the buildings
across the ravine.
we were young.
boys
in striped shirts, short
hair,
dungarees.

are we there yet

are we there yet,
have we done enough,
have we said enough.
have we driven
the long
road long and far enough
to get there.
are we there yet.
have we not gone
to school,
have we not kneeled
in church
and prayed fervently,
do we watch what
goes into our mouth,
measure what
comes out.
have we given enough love
in return.
are we there yet.
have we read enough books.
have we learned enough lessons,
gone past
what was before
that tried to ruin us.
is it ever enough.
how much further on this
road do we need to go.
where and when
can we stop and get out.
and say,
that we've arrived.
we're there.
it's so.

are we there yet

are we there yet,
have we done enough,
have we said enough.
have we driven
the long
road long and far enough
to get there.
are we there yet.
have we not gone
to school,
have we not kneeled
in church
and prayed fervently,
do we watch what
goes into our mouth,
measure what
comes out.
have we given enough love
in return.
are we there yet.
have we read enough books.
have we learned enough lessons,
gone past
what was before
that tried to ruin us.
is it ever enough.
how much further on this
road do we need to go.
where and when
can we stop and get out.
and say,
that we've arrived.
we're there.
it's so.

no boundaries

the rabbits find
a way in.
the moles.
the snakes too. the squirrels.
a black
bird sits on the fence
and makes his
noise.
a hawk circles.
a vulture sits nearby
in his black robe.
it's judgement day.
it appears.
they've all gathered
to tell me what
I already know,
which is you can't keep
us out
if we don't want you to.

slow boat

someone gives me a ticket
to take a trip.
here, he says.
you look like a man who
needs a rest.
I look at the ticket.
china
it says.
I go down to the docks
with my suitcase
and look at the boat.
it's a small boat
with a wooden mast and old
yellowed sails.
it looks slow.
very very slow.
perfect.
I climb aboard and go.

forget about it

it's fifteen out there
the weatherman says.
but it feels like thirteen\
with the wind chill.
the wind
is gusting at six miles per
hour,
so button up.
bring the kids in,
the dogs
and cats
and if you have any tomato
plants in the yard,
forget about it.

home cooking

home cooking
would be nice. a meal
at
the table.
a glass of wine.
take the warm bread out
and set it here.
the tray of butter,
the gems
of salt and paper
in their shakers.
bring
the pot over.
the hot steam rising
in our faces.
we could less
than this. this home
cooked meal,
this simple act of
human kindness.

the high bid

the bid
is too high.
he tells me. others are
half that,
some a third.
why
is yours so high.
I want to use you,
but why
can't you go less?
can you do this for me?
I have more
work down
the road.
I promise. you won't
regret.

the get away

she leans back on her hotel
lounge chair
positioned just
so. pointing to where
the sun must go.
white sand, blue water,
a cold
drink in hand.
she just had to get away.
away from winter
to this post card
paradise. but
the food doesn't taste
right.
the beds don't cradle
her to sleep.
the hum of the fan is
a freight train.
her mind is elsewhere.
in a place,
in a far away place where
she wants to be.

stay home

we say
we're going here,
going there. we'll get there
soon.
we fill the car
with gas.
we pack for the road.
we go.
there is always somewhere
we need
to go.
but not me, not
anymore.
I want to stay home.

book ends

the day after
the party we pick up
where
we left off.
things go into bags.
into boxes.
we push the gaiety into
the closet.
the lights come down.
we start again,
these holidays mere
bookends
holding our
lives together.

the furnace

the slow frost
of
dust, the fog of us
gathers
on this new day.
the sun
decides to make an appearance
but provides
no heat.
a different heat
is needed
anyway.
one that radiates
from the inside,
the furnace of each heart.

mid century, like me

I prefer the clean line.
the smooth
surface,
that modern look of things.
mid century, like me.
I prefer
the black and white,
the square
tile,
the simple lamp,
and the George Nelson clock
with a wooden
ball
set on each dial.
give me your Frank Lloyd
Wright
with his falling water.
his flat stone
homes.
a place for everything
and everything in
its place.

the empty suitcase

before I throw
out the suitcase, I look
inside
the pockets, pull back the zippers
along the top.
not much is there.
a torn ticket
to a train, a bus.
small change.
a pen.
a toothbrush. a map.
a room key, or two.
I've been where this has
been,
this suitcase, faded
a cloudy grey,
but not always there.
not always present,
when there without you.

the rage within

the flare
of anger between the man
cutting
wood,
and the man buying
it is
fierce
and quick.
it tells you how easily
wars
begin, how
murders happen.
how
quickly men go
into a primitive
rage,
throwing themselves
into violence.

the rage within

the flare
of anger between the man
cutting
wood,
and the man buying
it is
fierce
and quick.
it tells you how easily
wars
begin, how
murders happen.
how
quickly men go
into a primitive
rage,
throwing themselves
into violence.

see you when you get home

I get a postcard
from my mother. I see her
familiar handwriting
learned
at the lessons
of nuns
in south
Philadelphia.
I see the smooth way
her letters swirl,
the lightly crossed
t's and dotted i's.
even and clear.
she says hello my son,
how are you these days?
my love
for you has never wavered.
don't be so
concerned about me,
i'm fine.
but i'll be leaving soon,
leaving this
old
body i'm trapped in, here
in his soft bed
where they feed me with
a baby's spoon.
none us can fathom
the mystery of why
God is taking His sweet time,
but please don't worry,
take good care of yourself,
i'm fine.
i'll be leaving soon.
i'll see you when you
get home.

see you when you get home

I get a postcard
from my mother. I see her
familiar handwriting
learned
at the lessons
of nuns
in south
Philadelphia.
I see the smooth way
her letters swirl,
the lightly crossed
t's and dotted i's.
even and clear.
she says hello my son,
how are you these days?
my love
for you has never wavered.
don't be so
concerned about me,
i'm fine.
but i'll be leaving soon,
leaving this
old
body i'm trapped in, here
in his soft bed
where they feed me with
a baby's spoon.
none us can fathom
the mystery of why
God is taking His sweet time,
but please don't worry,
take good care of yourself,
i'm fine.
i'll be leaving soon.
i'll see you when you
get home.

the student loan

i get the daily call
about my student
loan.
we can help you pay it off,
the woman says, stating
first that we're on a recorded
line.
i wait for all
the small talk to go away,
for an agent to come on the phone.
we can help you,
she says. she's kind, she's sweet,
compassionate in her
predatory way.
how much do you owe?
i don't know, i tell her,
you called me. I was hoping you knew.
what's your name?
you don't know? i ask her.
again, you called me.
we can help you pay off your
loan, she repeats.
but i don't have a student loan.
I've never had
a student loan. i finished
college thirty five years
ago.
perhaps you've heard of it.
Faber College.
they made a movie about it.
I spent the best seven years
of my life there.
well, she says, clicking a pen
against her desk.
is there anyone in your house
hold that has
an outstanding student loan.
a son, a daughter, a wife, or
relative?
let me check i tell her.
hold on.
i yell out across the house,
does anyone here have a student
loan?
my voice echoes back,
bouncing through the empty rooms.
there's no answer.
the dog barks.
wait, i tell the woman.
there's someone here who wants
to talk to you
about your payment plan.

floss more

the dentist is relentless.
floss,
she says.
you're not flossing enough.
your brushing
is fine,
real good, but i can't
say enough about
how important it is for
you to floss.
we've gone through this
so many times.
don't you care about your teeth?
your health?
my mouth is full of cotton,
while a hooked tube
sucks
saliva out of my cheeks.
my eyes water, but i nod
yes, in that meek trapped
sort of way.
okay,
she says.
your x rays look great.
mindy will finish up here
and i'll see you in
six months.
she taps me on the head
like a small child.
floss she says.

green peas

i have a bone to pick
with you
she says to her husband
while leaning over the table
with a fork
and carving knife.
every stone
in the chandelier above
the table
captures their faces
in the reflection.
we can talk it out now,
or we can
talk about it later over
coffee
and dessert.
what about tomorrow morning,
he says. sliding green
peas onto his fork.
call me,
i'll be on the golf course
shooting
eighteen holes.

at seventy eight

he wants to tell
his story.
I try to add in my two cents.
my own
connected
tale
to match his, or top his,
but I give
in.
he doesn't care so much
about what
i'm saying.
he's starved to let out
his well told words
to a new set of ears,
so I let him have his way.
we go on like this for
hours.
me silent, him
reminiscing
until the cows come home.

at seventy eight

he wants to tell
his story.
I try to add in my two cents.
my own
connected
tale
to match his, or top his,
but I give
in.
he doesn't care so much
about what
i'm saying.
he's starved to let out
his well told words
to a new set of ears,
so I let him have his way.
we go on like this for
hours.
me silent, him
reminiscing
until the cows come home.

the news

some news
you need to sit down for
to hear
so that you don't
fall down.
while
other news
makes you run
through the streets
to shout it
out, to let everyone
know
what you know now.

no worry

there's not a line
of worry
creased
on a birds face,
there is
no slouch in his
shoulders,
no angst or anxiety
about
today or tomorrow.
no lingering
thoughts of where
he flew to
yesterday. he
stretches his wings
and finds
a tree
to builds the nest.
he doesn't wonder if
the other tree would
have been better.
he finds
the worms, the berries
that his family
needs.
he does what he's able
to do,
and lets God do
the rest.

the other world

there is reason
and structure, there are rules
to follow,
instinct
and intuition.
logic.
but there is something
else going
on here too.
something beyond what
we can see
or feel or
even know, unless
you let go
of this world and let
the other in.

the other world

there is reason
and structure, there are rules
to follow,
instinct
and intuition.
logic.
but there is something
else going
on here too.
something beyond what
we can see
or feel or
even know, unless
you let go
of this world and let
the other in.

the paper route

when delivering papers
before the sun
came up
I would run with my
wagon.
dog beside me.
each paper folded
into a baton,
for easy throwing.
with a gentle toss
I'd watch the papers
land on porches
or sidewalks
of the addresses
I knew.
my hands would be black
with the soft
ink of that days news.
not a soul
out.
just the yellow
white lights
from a room here and there
along
the streets
of early risers.
the lingering stars
above me.

one of a kind

we are glass
figurines at times.
fragile
and small in our
ways.
we break easily.
we drop
we fall, we get
tossed aside,
thrown away.
handle with care
these hearts.
there's only of
of us.
just one of a kind.

to the other side

who doesn't want calm
waters.
a clear sky.
who doesn't want
to sail
into the sunset
or sunrise
with a steady boat
a tall
sail
and you.
throw down the map,
set the sexton
aside.
just let the wind
take us,
take us far away,
to the other
side.

clean house

I can't
vacuum fast enough
this dust
and debris that lies
within.
I can't sweep hard
enough,
dig deep
enough into the corners
of my mind
and pull out
the webs, the broken
latches,
the doors
and windows.
I can't toss the junk
far
enough away
to keep it out
of sight,
to keep it from
coming back,
but i'm trying.
good lord i'm trying
and in time,
will succeed.

clean house

I can't
vacuum fast enough
this dust
and debris that lies
within.
I can't sweep hard
enough,
dig deep
enough into the corners
of my mind
and pull out
the webs, the broken
latches,
the doors
and windows.
I can't toss the junk
far
enough away
to keep it out
of sight,
to keep it from
coming back,
but i'm trying.
good lord i'm trying
and in time,
will succeed.

stop the clock

the day
the day
the day.
another follows
another.
it's what
we do.
where is Friday?
why
do the weekends
speed by
so fast.
stop the clock.

stop the clock

the day
the day
the day.
another follows
another.
it's what
we do.
where is Friday?
why
do the weekends
speed by
so fast.
stop the clock.

clean glass

let's clean
the windows. wipe
the glass.
let's undo the smudges,
the fog
that blocks
our vision.
let's put the past
behind us.
you need to look
in at
me,
and me at you
with no obstruction,
let's take
the glass away
and go eye to eye,
heart to heart.
speak
freely
saying what we need
to say.

clean glass

let's clean
the windows. wipe
the glass.
let's undo the smudges,
the fog
that blocks
our vision.
let's put the past
behind us.
you need to look
in at
me,
and me at you
with no obstruction,
let's take
the glass away
and go eye to eye,
heart to heart.
speak
freely
saying what we need
to say.

the smith cake

the smith cake
from St. Michaels
reminds me of you.
the sweetness, the layer
upon layer,
baked just right.
the high cake, the round
and iced
cake.
the delicate nature
of it all
when served,
so rich, so thin.

let's go up

it takes
some time to get to the high
road.
the low
roads are
easy. how they wind
and circle
without any fear
of falling,
how they hug the mountain.
wide and familiar.
it takes
a while
to go up,
to leave what we know,
to go up and stay there.
to see
what's really out there,
the broad view
of what life
can truly be.
let's go up.

the breathing of two

a fire would be nice
on this cold day.
sleeping in would too.
a hot cup
of something on the
night stand.
books waiting to be read.
the quiet of everything,
but the wind
outside,
a heart beside you,
the breathing
of two.

taffy

one arm
goes this way, the other
is stretched
in another
direction.
her legs too,
move
left, one going
right.
she's being pulled
like
taffy
towards places
she doesn't want
to go again,
everyone still
wanting a taste,
a bite.

still working

the lamp is old.
stained
with whatever has
floated
in the air.
the inside singed
with heat,
the outside
fuzzed
with lint.
the base
is bent,
but the light still
works.
the light goes
on
with a click of the switch.
like us,
we keep
bright, keep working
at it
despite
what the mirror says.

the king's chair

he had a recliner,
an oversized stuffed mauve
chair
that could be
moved backwards or
forward
electronically or manually
with a wooden
handle on the side.
it felt like velvet.
there was an oval spot
on the arm rest
for bowls.
two inserts for cups
or cans.
a webbed pouch on the side
for remote controls.
a phone,
a guide.
he sat
there for decades.
as time flew by,
the children grew
and moved,
his wife turned grey,
finding a life on her own,
but
this was where he wanted
to be,
in his king's chair,
a king quietly
growing old.

it's all the same

the children
don't know a Ming vase
from
a lamp
bought at target on
the discount,
discontinued table.
they
don't care
if they take the marker
and write
boldly on the silk wallpaper,
or etch into a table
with
a key their names.
drawing
cows
or dogs, who's to know.
unaffected
by value,
by the price
we've placed upon things.
they think it's
all the same.
and truly it
is.

let me know

less is more,
unless
the tank is nearly
dry, or empty.
then I want it to
overflow.
I want extra
to get me through the night.
call it affection, call
it love,
call it what it
is,
but bring it on,
let me know.

thirty minutes

thirty minutes
the driver
says, calling again for
the third time.
you just called me, I tell
him.
you told me thirty minutes
ago,
that you'd be here
in thirty minutes.
thirty minutes, he repeats.
I will be there.
I hear the grinding
of gears,
the rumble of exhaust
as his big truck
pulls away from a
light into traffic.
i'm here, I tell him.
i'm waiting.
knock on the door
when you arrive.
okay, he says.
thirty minutes.

bleeds through

despite so many
coats
of paint, the words in ink
come through.
the script on the wall.
little can mask the message.
the large
letters formed
into words
still bleed through,
as transparent thoughts
in us,
most often do.

the vision

the vision
comes
at any time, but only
to the chosen.
the child,
the woman, a person
of divine intent.
Mary in
blue and white,
her hands
open
with compassion.
listen to my son
she says.
only in He will
you find
true life.

finding felicity

we find
ourselves in felicity.
a small
town
outside
of nowhere,
on the border
of somewhere,
away from
everything we know.
we find a white house
made
of stone.
a bare yard
with a small
wall and garden beside
it.
in the distance
there are mountains
capped
in snow.
we string white
lights
upon the walls.
we paint,
we throw down rugs,
hang pictures.
we make it our own.
during the day
we look out,
hand in hand at
the cloudless sky
and smile. at night we
hold onto each other
under the dense array
of stars
and wonder why
we didn't do this
sooner.

doubt

he was strung
as gossamer,
so light
upon a slight breeze
blowing
to and fro
barely holding on
to what,
at times,
he truly believed.

oblique methods

they are feathers,
soft tickles across
a neck,
small
tear drop kisses,
oblique
methods
of getting what one
wants.
they fly
under our radar,
we assume
the best of intentions
in the shape
of gifts laid
forth, unknowing
purposely,
perhaps, what they really
mean.

the session

the therapist
is warm.
her soft eyes,
glow
like gems.
she's in her blue sweater today.
a white scarf
wrapped
around her neck.
she holds her pad
and pen,
her legs folded beneath her.
the room is gentle.
pictures of friends,
books
and posters saying things
like
true love never ends.
what brings you
here today, she asks,
as you sit across
in your coat.
your hat still on,
your hands
trembling from the cold,
what should we talk about
today?

word play

words
are dangerous.
they're strong,
they carry
weight, they have
sharp points,
but they can ease
the pain as well.
they can heal a broken heart,
or break
it again.
words
are everything
when spoken plain,
said
together, face to face,
or written and sent
from some far away
land.

the world outside

a day off.
a day
to do what?
to go where?
to sing, to write.
to sleep.
to indulge in things
that bring
a smile.
the options are wide
open.
the world
outside is white.

the pipes are frozen

the knob won't turn
to the left or right.
the water
runs and freezes in
this
cold spell.
soon the pipes will burst.
soon,
the sea
of water
will envelope the floor
rise
up the stairs.
soon we
will be floating along
towards
the river
to the bay to the ocean,
out the door.

light and easy

the house
sags
with the weight of books.
the ink
heavy
on the page, the covers
thick,
the markers
stiff in place.
the house
bends with the knowledge
of so much
fixing
of hearts, of pain.
bring me
adventure,
bring me mark twain.
bring me
something light and easy
for a change.

the dark light

it's a bitter taste
in one's mouth
to be misunderstood, to
be looked at
in a dark light that
truly isn't there.
where can one go
if even those dear
to you, see so little
of the love
and compassion
that dwells so
strongly
within your soul?

that happy whistle

his whistle
reminded me of my father's
whistle.
if you heard it,
you knew that things were
bad.
something was amiss.
he'd whistle and whistle
some happy tune
and we'd wait
for that foot
to fall, for
the tree to crash,
for the earth
to quake.
we'd run for cover
and wait
when we heard
that happy whistle.