away from it all

come with me
to this other land.
to this other place
we can get to.
you know it.
we both know it.
let's buy a one way
ticket.
pack light.
leave every care
or worry behind.
the muck of life.
let's get warm
get wet in the surf.
let's eat
what the earth
brings to us.
let's be in love
far far away
from it all.

diving for pearls

I find the deepest pool
of water
to dive into.
there I will go and sort
out
my life.
decide on what is wrong,
what is right.
in the dark blue
depths
of a quarry.
i'll let my body slide
down
inside the envelope
of icy water
and find my true self
once more.
with each struggle of no
air or light,
i'll come alive
and rise again.

start again

when there is nothing
left to do
when the words have all
been said,
the emotions expressed,
when the weariness has
set in,
do nothing.
let go.
let go and start again.

hands together

take this roast,
for example, how it
takes me
back to childhood. to my
mother's table,
her hand ladling
the soup, the potatoes.
setting out the bread
and butter,
pouring milk from a glass
jar.
how the warm scent
of meat rises, thick
in memory.
the oven heating the house.
the celery and onions.
the salt shaker next
to the pepper.
our boned arms on the table,
anxious to begin,
our hands together
for prayer.

why go there

there was life
on mars
once. I was there.
I was in a café having
coffee.
reading a newspaper.
the ground was red
and it was hard
to breathe.
the dust was tremendous.
but it was no
different than here.
no different at all.
people lived
and died, they fell
in love and had children.
they had full lives.
just like here.
so why go there.

the silvered night

a small moon
is out tonight.
see how she shines.
the station lit by
the watchman's light.
see the trains.
the glisten of track.
see the man
in his seat
at the window,
alone,
looking out into
a silvered night.
hear the owl
in the trees.
the clack of wheels.
the rumble
of steel.
a small moon is out,
showing everything,
revealing nothing.
see how she shines.

angels

once. not once upon a time,
for it's true.
I felt
the heat of God within me.
the flame
of Christ.
a forceful spirit
that swept me into another
realm of light.
the warm glow
coming from within.
it spread inside my body,
through my heart
until
tears flowed.
I was not touched.
no hands
were laid upon me.
but three strangers came
out of the rain to say
to me the same thing.
bless you they said.
in the street, in the shop,
in the car.
one after another, all within
minutes of one
another. angels, who's to know.
I look back upon it
and have no explanation,
except
that I was willing.
I was surrendered to this
world
in perfect grief.
i'm willing once again.

the missing piece

the puzzle
has a missing a piece.
it can't be finished.
we look
everywhere for it.
under the table,
in the cuffs of our pants.
down our sleeves.
we move other pieces in,
but they don't fit,
but perhaps
there is an empty
spot in all of us,
waiting to be filled
with just
the right piece,
the perfect match
to complete one's life.

he's arrived

he loved the game
of golf.
the long green fields
trimmed just so.
the eighteen holes of bliss.
no matter
the slice
or swing, or sand trap.
he played
all day and talked about it
all night.
I see him
still, banging his cleats
against
the sidewalk,
his face bronzed with sun.
his shoulders wide.
his large hands
swinging a putter once
more before
going home.
he's arrived.

the tall oak trees

in the end.
she heard voices. saw things.
had conversations
with invisible
souls
long gone.
she was rattled and confused,
the clothes
hung on her bones.
her once blue eyes now grey,
sunken in.
she lived
behind the store
in a patch of woods
and would come out at
times
to hold a sign beside
the road. a red hat.
I knew her when. who
hasn't
known her or him,
now
wandering in the shadows
of tall oak
trees.

to wait. be brave

this puddle
I step into, holds me.
the long shadow of me.
I see in its
shallow mirror
my grey
face, my slender limbs.
my mouth is dry.
my stomach empty.
I am alone
and quiet.
the weight of rain
pulls
me deeper into my
soaked shoes.
my bones ache with cold.
there are no words
to say.
there is no one to
turn to. no tender heart
to take my hand,
telling me
to wait. be brave.

sleep come upon me

in my dream
my wings,
my arms begin to move,
upwards and down,
a wide winged owl taking
measure.
I start to run
slowly across the field.
then faster.
after a short distance
I am in the air,
taking flight.
I begin to soar.
soon i am in the clouds.
I remember this feeling
from childhood
when I ran with my wagon
throwing newspapers
onto the porches
and lawns of neighbors.
breathing in the chilled
morning air. embracing
the stars, the violet stripes
of a new day.
I am free in flight,
free from the weight
and gravity of a world
that holds us down.

the onion in hand

the sweet onion
when peeled, comes off
in layers.
the sheet
of skin
stripped by your hand.
over and over
you continue
until there is nothing
left to hold,
no pit,
no center.
no understanding
of what you were told.

the train is off the tracks

too fast,
the train is off
the tracks.
the whistle silent.
the steam
and gristle of the stack
seeps
what's left of embers,
black coal.
the passengers are strewn
across the cinder,
the engineer is dead.
the sky is an awakening blue.
birds
are still flying.
I pick myself up, dust
myself off, grab a bag
and go on,
this is what I do.

the tilted stones

the ground was too hard
and cold
to dig, so they placed her body
with the others
in a bricked mausoleum
on site, beside the tilted
aged stones,
grey, iced white.
an iron fence around it all.
in time. by april it was her
turn
to go under. to be taken
to where
the ones of same blood
were taken before her.
the name etched deep and clean
in the stone.
the mason's chisel
efficient in his thick hands.
the date of arrival
and departure made clear.

like Amelia

silence.
the quiet of night.
the bitter
sigh
of lost winds.
the flap of wings.
the infrequency of touch
with home base.
of love,
and small talk.
the chatter of the air waves.
off the radar,
the scope,
the world map
of who we are.
flying solo like
Amelia,
never to be found
again.

through the glass darkly

of good cheer,
he laughs at your plight.
quotes Dylan Thomas,
do not go gently
he says in an Irish brogue.
he gives me a hearty slap.
he's a friend you don't
need
at the moment.
what could he possibly know
about love,
about death
about the wounded soul,
the broken heart.
so full of good cheer
he means well. he pours
another drink for himself.
one for me.
how different you
are from the world, I think,
staring deeply
into the glass darkly.
how different, indeed.

on the same page

instant
gratification. like a child.
we want
pain to stop.
for hunger to be filled.
for
our tiredness
to end.
we want the rain to cease,
tomorrow
to begin.
how little patience
we have
with ourselves and others.
wishing all
of us were in the same book,
on the same page.

under my skin

this other
thing. this other pebble
in my shoe.
sharp against a toe.
this thread
unraveling,
the lost button,
a belt that won't
hold. this space
unfound
for the car.
this burn in my eyes.
this thorn in my side.
this
cut on my finger.
the long line,
a rain without
a coat.
the lamp gone dark.

the long walk

this flat desert
we walk on.
waterless, under a flat
blue
wall of sky.
no green to be found.
no bird afloat,
no soul
dancing on this sanded
ground.
what we think we
see, or know, is not there.
what was behind us is gone.
what lies ahead
we turn into an oasis
of life.
of hope and love.
we keep at it,
walk forward
knowing that at some point,
it will be true.

what can't be seen

we find
a penny. we wish upon it.
tossing it
into the bricked well.
we listen to the splash.
we look
up and cross ourselves.
we pray for pain
and sorrow to go away.
so much
of what we do and hope
for depends
on what can't be seen,
or heard.

what i hear

I hear the branch
etch
against the glass.
I hear
pins drop. I hear
the last
car arriving in the lot.
a door close.
a fox in the woods.
small drips of water
against the chrome drain.
I hear the light tap
of my pillow
as my hand pushes down.
the closing of a book.
a sigh.
a tear slide against
a weary cheek.
the light switch turned off.
I hear
what one rarely hears,
it's all that comes
into my ears.

let the world go

how bright
the light is when one let's
go of
worry.
of concern for what
one can't control.
how sweet the birds
sound,
the wind chimes.
how friendly the world
becomes
when you've surrendered
and let
the world spin as it is,
letting go.

the weight

bent
over with an early
season of
old age.
the satchel
is heavy with secrets.
lies.
we look left
then right,
under the bed.
the hedges outside,
hidden from
light. who knows what
we know.
few even care.
the bitter taste
of regret
for mistakes made
are difficult to wash away.
deception and dishonesty
are served
cold and hard
throughout his life.

above the sea

the sea
of us. the certainty
of tides.
the spread of so much
below
so far
so wide.
the shells of crabs
washed
onto sand.
how we skim the tops
of these oceans,
the freckled fish,
silvered like spoons,
the whales,
their mouths like enormous
doors
opening and closing
for so little.
their eyes weeping.
the turmoil
of storm.
the froth of green.
the grime of salts heavy
in wind.
we need to get there
again.
find some meaning in
this life.
this life above the sea.

the hand of love

what a gentle rain it is
walking about
at this late hour.
the cars fast asleep on
the roads.
the lights, one by one
blinking off
for the night.
how kind the world seems
when walking
alone to the sound of rain.
to the soft petals
of water
falling against my face.
my heart.
what's to come, I don't know,
but in this moment
i feel the hand
of love upon me.

at least i thought i did.

i didn't see the knife

behind her back.

the rain

it smells like rain
is on the way she says from
the porch swing.
she points to the sky.
and I agree.
I remember watching the storms
come in
across
the long stretch of street
and field.
the smell of it
before lightning.
before the first drop fell.
waiting
on the concrete steps.
staring up into the open
roll of clouds,
blue as blue can be
going black.
and then it comes. it comes
hard and swift.
but we don't want to get
up, or leave.
we want to stay put
in memory and make a new
one now.

finding love

some birds
light
upon the lawn. grey
fat mourning doves.
pecking at the bare
black soil.
rich
from dead leaves
now raked away.
how gentle they are
to each other.
nuzzling.
doing what birds do
in spring.
finding love
in the simplest things.

on the outside looking in

the doors are locked.
the windows
slammed shut.
I am on the outside looking in.
I bang
I knock, I ring the bell.
there's a light on
in the upper room
so I know there's someone home.
but I can't get in.
there are no keys.
no code.
no secret passage way
inside.
I stand out on the grass
and yell.
I throw pebbles at the glass.
I call on my phone
it rings and rings.
i'm on the outside looking in.
I am alone.

nothing going on here

the knob
is loose, the key won't fit.
the door bell
won't ring,
there is no one home
to let me in.
the ceiling has a crack
in it.
the faucet leaks.
there's a hole in the wall
where the mice
slip in.
the window is broken
from a pellet gun.
damn kids.
the bed is cold.
the stairs creak.
she's fast asleep.
the phone rings,
wrong number once again.
there's someone at the window
looking in.
there's nothing, I want
to tell him,
there's nothing in here to see.

the gunfight

high noon is no time
for a gun fight.
how about 7 ish after
dinner and dessert.
a strong cup of coffee?
can we have the shoot out
then?
can we stand in the street
without the sun in our eyes,
with a full belly?
in fact, can't we decide
this some other way?
a card game, arm wrestling.
rocks paper scissors?
maybe we can go to a bookstore,
and browse books together, or
go see a movie.
i'll get the tickets, you
get the popcorn and the junior
mints. deal?

in circles

trust is a hard
thing
to arrive at.
on what shore does it sit and wait.
past betrayals and lies
creep in
to make you disbelieve
even the one
you love.
such a mystery these emotions
are.
to float about
in a boat on a lake in
the middle of nowhere.
no map.
no compass, no stars to
guide you.
just the pitch black world
of unknowing,
stroking at the cold
water with an open hand,
going nowhere.

live stock

my doctor takes a look
at what ails me.
tells me to look up.
so I do.
he takes my pulse.
my blood pressure.
weighs me.
there are no personal
questions.
I am live stock.
his white coat is crisp.
the one pen
a black stripe in his
pocket.
his hair is parted on
the side
and has the gleam of
water in the thick
part.
he stares into the screen
and reads
to me what he's seen.
I say nothing, then leave
with a sleeve
of papers.
he points to the door
and says be well.
pharmacy is on the ground
floor.

the chevy

I have a photo of my father's
59 turquoise
Chevrolet Impala.
four doors.
he's at it with a chamois
cloth.
a bucket beside wheel.
a hose
curled at his feet.
he's putting a shine on
the hood.
the doors are all open.
the radio may be on.
he looks happy.
his blue eyes smiling.
his curled brown hair,
nearly blonde in the sun.
he was happy, very happy.
maybe we all are when
unaware of what's to come.

left behind

the skin
of the snake is clear,
a translucent
image
showing you that it
was once here.
the stripes of it,
the checks,
the braid of its kind
imprinted
on the fine empty
spool,
the ghost of it now
left behind.
but where is it,
this snake,
not this
piece of art, this
cloak of life,
it's this question
that comes to mind.

salt and sugar

what's your addiction
my friend.
is it booze or nicotine,
coke
or heroin?
the green, the gold.
perhaps sugar
or salt gets you where
you need to be
when the hard times
hit,
or when it's time
to celebrate.
maybe it's shopping
for one more thing you
don't really need.
all of life is a trigger
to get one
a little bit higher,
to soothe the pain,
a dip
into the bag,
the spoon,
the internet with its
web
of sand, sinking you
further and further
into darkness.

beauty

his curled hand,
the short arm,
the limp, the bump,
the disfigurement is beauty
in someone's eye.
the missing
tooth,
the ear mangled.
fire scorched or
scarred,
the skin like parchment
on a wet page,
loose with age
the gravity
of it all bringing us
to our knees
in front of an
uncompromising mirror.
how fragile we all are,
misunderstanding
what any of it
means.

this circus

this circus.
this clown car full of clowns.
this big top
with elephants as large
as any
problem
on the table.
this smell of cigars
and straw.
the stench of life,
of loss,
of gain.
of unhappy happiness.
this circus come to town,

what part
have we in all of it,
to fly from a cannon,
wobble from a high wire,
to sit
like the hunger artist
in an iron cage?

surrender

the earth
gives way to wind.
to storms.
the trees
don't fight back, instead
they sway and fall
when it's their time.
the creek flows over,
with no
care as to where or why,
the rocks disperse
and break
into sand.
why not surrender
to all that is
and see which direction
your life
will find.

the right thing

small holes
sink even the largest of ships
if not shored up
patched
and made whole again.
seek out
those little dings,
those bends
and divots
in the hull
where water gets in.
get busy in doing
the right thing,
ship shape, or else.

solutions

never good
at long division. I keep
it simple.
keep
life as clean and as easy
as possible.
I don't want fractions
in the way.
I want answers to problems,
solutions
to equations.
I want
the lines drawn
clean and clear
against the paper.
don't give me words
like infinity,
or indefinite.
take Pi out of the
conversation,
write your answers
at the bottom.
there'll be a quiz
on Friday.

some days

some days,
some days in the city,
when above
ground
boils. when the trees sag
blue,
so long in summer.
some days,
when
the poor don't have the strength
anymore
to beg
at each and every corner,
when the windows
don't roll
down with a dollar or two,
some days,
even the dogs stay
in the shade, no longer
chasing
the car, the bike, a runner
in slow moving shoes.
some days,
the city is beat.
the buildings tall ache
with being tall,
the world is tired.
the sun too hot to look into.
some days,
we just stay home
beneath the fan, a cold drink
in hand. it's a time
when our ambitions
and desires all seem untrue.

make room

the house is so clean.
the dust
gone. the windows wiped
with newspaper
and vinegar.
each thing in its place,
the cob webs
knocked down
with a straw broom.
even the oven gleams.
how the flowers stand tall
in the vase
on this cold
afternoon.
let's take to doing nothing,
lie down
and listen to the birds
make love,
make room.

regret

regret
and sorrow
are cold stones,
sharp pebbles
in one's mouth
that you can't spit out.
all day they roll
around,
biting at your tongue,
scraping against
the bones
of your teeth.
they can't be swallowed,
they won't dissolve.
someone else has to come
along and say open
wide your heart,
let me take it out.

the birthday girl

i've made

a mistake, i can taste it in my mouth.

already

bitter

and resentful.

i have sipped

on poison, gulped it with

thirst.

i have

eaten the rancid

cake

made for celebration.

and now what?

what am i to do

with this,

with her? with this

mistake.

bring more

I borrow
a line or two from someone
I know.
I apply it to my life.
swallow it whole.
I tell them
thanks,
I needed that.
bring more when you
have some.
I can use all
that you got.

a world of trees

how sad
and forlorn the trees
are today.
the brittle arms
of grey,
the trunks
of raw umber.
how they lean towards
one another
for comfort.
but get none.
they are alone in
this world,
as we are,
despite so many
so near,
so dear.

the sickness

how wrong i was.

how

blind, how dumb,

how deaf

i was.

how lost,

i was to have let this happen,

to bring

her into my life,

my house.

this

fraud, this demon,

this witch.

this liar

and adulterer.

how sick i was to not

see

the evil that i let lie

beside me.

when morning comes

exhausted
tired.
beat. beyond words.
sagging
as I come up the hill,
up the street.
the empty pail
swinging on my arm.
the dust of the day
in my eyes,
a grey silt on my shoulders.
i'll open
the door, drink
a glass of cold
water from the tap,
search
for a bite
to eat. i'll stare out
the window
as the cold sun
falls over each slanted
roof.
i'll take off my boots,
lie down
and begin again
when morning comes.

not knowing

some things
remain a mystery.
fogged
in.
the facts unknown.
the events
unrecorded.
you'll never find
out what was said,
what went wrong.
you'll never
figure it out no
matter how wise
you are, how long
you live.
you'll struggle
to understand,
to know the truth,
never set free.

the bank robbery

I wouldn't do well in prison.
just to let you know. so please
don't make me
rob this bank with you.
let's do something else to get
money.
sell strawberries on the side
of the road.
but I guess we'd have to grow
them first.
or we could, sing and entertain
strangers who pass
us by on the street. filling
our hats with change.
but who can play a guitar,
or drums. not me, perhaps you.
okay, okay.
let's get a job then, a cubicle
for me, one for you.
we'll sit and grind out the years
until we have enough to quit
in say fifty years. sigh.
okay. alright already.
i'll drive the get away car,
you go into the bank and get
the money. here, I wrote the note
for you.

into the night

the clock
limps towards twelve.
we've been up all night, at it
again.
knee deep
in talk.
sunken into the long couch,
the silvered trees
in snow.
the moon lit stream
alive, and cold.
we could go on all night with
this conversation.
it's a winding
slip of water. it's what
we do best
going forward.
talking it out,
then arriving.

then let go

each child
a balloon about to set sail.
about
to be let go,
untethered by
the hand
that holds them.
cut the string,
let the string go.
they may return, they
might pop
and fall,
and never leave.
but fill them with air,
the life
and breath
of what we believe
we must do.
then let go.

the long party

the spill
of red wine on the white rug
is one thing.
the broken glass
in the sink.
the lit cigarette
still burning in the ashes,
the music still
on, the needle stuck
on the same
song, the same phrase
over and over again.
the house empty, but
the front door wide
open
where a strange cat
peers in.
some parties
keep on going and even
when they're over.

the calm

the calm
is sweet. nice.
the unworried day unfolds
before you.
what is,
is.
what isn't is yet
to be
so why discuss it now
in that
bright and nimble
mind
of yours.
relax in this moment.
nothing can
be done
about tomorrows.
lots can be done about
today.

the jitters

the jitters
come over you like ants
like bees,
like
an itch
that can't be put out.
nerves
jangling
like unbalanced chimes
in the porch wind.
the tingle of
feet and fingers
the ringing of ears.
that flock of blackbirds
in the field
in flight from fear.

the jitters

the jitters
come over you like ants
like bees,
like
an itch
that can't be put out.
nerves
jangling
like unbalanced chimes
in the porch wind.
the tingle of
feet and fingers
the ringing of ears.
that flock of blackbirds
in the field
in flight from fear.

poem in the mail

I get a poem
in the mail.
it's from me to me.
written
a long time ago.
it's about us.
about you.
there is truth in it.
lies too.
it's the summation
of all fears.
i'll sit down and
rewrite it,
take a match to the old,
start anew.

the speed of light

the G force
of life. the wind in our
faces.
the pull back
of our shoulders
against the seat.
we are going faster
than we ever have before.
the speed of sound,
the speed
of light.
we are there before
we get there.
gone before we left.
who we are
is never known.
who we will be is undecided.

yours or mine

we divide the things
we own,
the rooms.
the bed.
we split the rent.
chop
the dog in half.
separate the child
in two.
we do long division
for the bank
account. my beef
her tofu.
take this, leave that.
who cares.
we say.
we are at not at a cross
roads
but a cliff
and a hard place.
is that your catcher
in the rye,
or mine?

house for rent

i'll see you when I see
you, he
tells her
his arms around her,
his lips anxious for a kiss.
but no. he gets into his car,
pulls away
for the last time.
takes a long last
look
at the house.
the stoop, the door.
the bedroom window
above. he
inhales, exhales.
lets the window roll up,
gives a wave to her
standing in the door,
then goes home
to someone who wonders
where he's been.

yours or mine

we divide the things
we own,
the rooms.
the bed.
we split the rent.
chop
the dog in half.
separate the child
in two.
we do long division
for the bank
account. my beef
her tofu.
take this, leave that.
who cares.
we say.
we are at not at a cross
roads
but a cliff
and a hard place.
is that your catcher
in the rye,
or mine?

the breakfast vision

she saw a religious figure
in her eggs
and he in his mound of warm
scrapple.
they stopped eating
and called the waitress over.
she said. hmmm. topping off
their cups with a steaming
pot of coffee. I sort of see
what you're saying.
was it st. paul, or Stephen.
was it moses
coming down from the mountain
with his stone tablets?
they took pictures with their
phones, putting down
their fork and knife.
a crowd gathered.
I see it one man said.
I don't see nothing another one
laughed.
they called in the parish
priest for a confirming voice,
pulled away from mass.
but he said no. sorry.
just eggs, just scrapple,
then grabbed a fork and took
a bite.

the impassioned day

it's the impassion
that clouds our day, makes
our feet
drag
instead of lift
and spring forward.
it's the heart
in second gear,
the pipes of blood
gone slow,
clogged and detoured
with old
issues, unswept fear.
the smile hides
beneath the shadows
of thought,
unable to make
an appearance.

the egg of us

the egg of us.
the embryo of love
and affection.
the shell
of us.
the nest.
the tree we rest in.
the sky
above, the rain we
need
to wet our beaks.
the egg of us.
time to break free
of all that holds
us in
and spread our wings
to fly.

the sinking ship

the ship lists
to one side.
it's going down, but
the captain won't let go.
he's on deck.
staring out
into the wide ocean,
wondering
how deep,
how cold.

brown bird

the fat brown bird
sitting on the snowy sill
is full of air.
puffed
two sizes larger than
he really is.
the iced field
whitened over,
hardly a meal out there.
just the tiny
clock work of bones
and feathers,
wondering
how and why
any of us got here.

the muck of life

the insanity
of it all is mud.
the mud of blood
of thought,
hip high,
of legs
heavy as lead.
the brain in a muddled
fog
of doubt
and worry.
we're in mud.
stuck
in the this endless
swamp
of wet trees
snake vines.
this muck
of indecision.
not a branch to grab.
not an arm or hand
within reach
to get us out.
we need to slug through
this mire,
and get to dry
land.
and soon.

the glass road

the donut spare
will get us there. to the next
town.
to the first gas
station on our side
of the road.
we go slow though.
we look at the long dry
desert
on either side,
the cactus soldier
cactus, standing
green on guard.
before us is
the black ribbon of road
shimmering
with specks of sand
gone glass.
but we have water,
we have
apples,
we have each other
in case the worst happens.

grey elephants

the elephants
in the room take up so much space.
there they sit.
enormous
and grey.
ponderous
in size and thought.
trunks and tails entwined,
buying time.
waiting, just waiting
patiently to have
their say.

late winter

we shovel,
we push the snow
to the side.
the wipers crank
hard
and against the window.
we're thinking
daisies though.
we're thinking long
summers strolls
along the boardwalk.
our skin
browned in the new
sun.
but for now,
we dig out, we bundle
up,
boot up.
sip on the hot cup
in our hand
and look upwards
into the soft flakes
of a late winters storm.

let the sunshine in

from nowhere
she resurfaces. the moon face
of my mother
speaking
towards a sister.
let the sunshine in, she says
from her deep bed
as the blinds are hatched open.
she hasn't spoken
in months, nearly a half
year, and now
this.
what's to make of it?
what mystery
there is in life, in dying,
in observing
the hand of God
on her.

the blue plate

it's horse country.
long fences
railed, stone houses
with trails of smoke
sleeved
out into the sky.
the hills roll with
tall grass, the blue ridge
mountains
in the near
distance.
the march wind is soft
as is the sun
on our faces
as we sit facing it.
the bench
cool against our legs.
we go through
it. we talk. we come out
of it, then continue
on
buying little, wanting
less,
settling on a small blue
plate
to set against the light
of our kitchen window
to remember
this day by.

we're so alike

a small
puddle of sunlight
coming through
the open door
on a sunday afternoon
is enough
for the old dog to bask
in.
he knows sunlight
when he
sees it and lies down.
three turns,
tail tucked tight,
snout under
folded arms
and he's gone,
we're so alike.

the itch

I see her scratch
an itch
on her leg. then her hand
moves to her
shoulder,
her neck.
her ear.
I hand her a bottle
of calamine lotion,
then she sits
over there,
while I sit over here.

let's go

her purse is large.
it overflows.
she puts a smaller purse
inside of that purse,
and a wallet inside
of that.
keys, phone, umbrella
are dropped inside as well.
she puts the strap
around her shoulder
and says lets go.
I slip a few dollars
into my
pocket, grab my keys
and we're off.

better days

my friend
who used to be a farmer
sits
now on the porch
and stares out at the barren
field
where nothing ever grows.
the earth
is brown.
the children
are gone, off to their own
lives.
the wife
is in the ground.
a stray dog wanders
down the road
away
from the house.
on the roof of a fallen barn,
a rooster crows.
what was once green
and lush
is history,
but there were better
days
he swears to that.

having doubts

i fear the worst.

my stomach tells me no.
don't do this.

my heart is confused.

i don't know her.
i already feel the anxiety.

she lies so easily.

the married boyfriend still
around.

the ex husband praying with his
priest friends
to bring her home
again.

wedding bells loom.
god help me.

being human

I write a letter of apology
to a dozen people.
all saying the same thing.
i'm sorry.
I deeply regret the way things
turned out
and for saying the things that
I did.
I know how badly
it must have hurt you to hear
the things I said.
i'm not sure what got into me.
I just broke
and it all came tumbling out.
i'm sorry. i'm human and weak
at times too.
signed me.

she gets flowers

she gets flowers
for her birthday. cards. gifts.
hand written notes
of undying affection.
all from
those who love her.
still do.
the old boyfriends.
the ex husband, children from
him, from her.
then there's me.
i'm in the mix too,
but at times it's hard, so
hard to compete, but I do.
I can run
and love with the best
of them.

the train is late

a baby
is crying in the other room.
I don't know whose it is,
but
it won't stop
crying. the women get up
to go see.
they want to help
settle the child.
feed or change him.
hold him or her in their
arms
and rock it to sleep.
a baby is crying in the other
room.
I turn the page
of the newspaper
then look at my watch.
the train is late.

skeletons

the skeletons
rattle in the hall closet.
those old
dry bones shimmy and shake
when the wind
blows,
or the house creaks.
what's done
is done. nothing you can do
about that.
ancient history,
hardly,
but still you want it gone,
tossed deep
into the past.
who hasn't made a mistake.
committed
some deed
in the throes of despair,
or desire?

me too

the joints are weak.
the glue
won't hold, the screws
wobble
out in small turns.
the table tilts.
it won't hold the weight
of what it's meant
to hold.
all things
in time, come undone
if not attended to.
me too.

a farewell kiss

it's the circle.
the round
about way we come back
from
cradle
to the grave.
a mother's first kiss.
the rise
of legs and tongue,
the striving
force of our blood
and bones
becoming what we are
to become,
then
less and less, until
this.
a farewell kiss.

i want it now

i want what i want
and i want it now. don't make
me stand in line.
don't make me
wait, don't delay my
satisfaction one second longer
than absolutely
necessary.
stop with the buffering.
how dare you put me
on hold, make me wait
like this.
give it to me now
dammit.
i'm American.

say what

I remember the time
my phone was tapped by someone
I was related to
by marriage.
I found the large plastic
bag of cassettes
hidden in the trunk of
the car, under the wheel well.
why or how it was done,
I have no clue.
I shook my head as I listened
to the scratchy
voices recorded and laughed.
to this day it's a mystery
why someone would want
to hear the babble
that comes out of my mouth
when on the phone.
I can hardly listen to myself
at times.

the round table

I over hear
the soothsayers
at the table out in front
of the coffee shop.
a round table
of wise men
in addidas pants
and shorts. women
in sweats,
children in strollers.
the world wobbles
with
war
with poverty and pain,
I hear one man say.
hunger.
disease
and pestilence.
who isn't unhappy
is about to be, he says.
give it time.
let the pendulum swing.
your turn
is coming. he sips his
coffee,
adjusts his sunglasses
and smiles. have a nice
day he says
as someone gets up to leave.
see you tomorrow.

tea and toast

if I lived to be eighty
the age
my grandmother was when she
succumbed
to lung cancer,
I could close my eyes
and still
remember her voice,
gravel pitched,
the smell of her perfume,
hear the rattle of
the newspaper in her
hand, her nails
hardened by gelatin,
the tea cup, the toast
spread with butter
crunched down by her
lip sticked
teeth.
damn those kennedys
she say, fist to the table,
on a daily basis.
all of them, crooks,
got their money
bootlegging.
and now look them.

i'll give you a kiss

i'll give you a kiss
she says,
but then you'll want another
and another.
where will this lead,
down what path are we going
with this kissing.
this affection
on this sunday afternoon
before church.
is that your hand on
my knee.
I hope so, she says.
kiss me some more,
I have so many to give,
don't ever leave.

there is that

it smells like
California.
century boulevard.
the coast. the vineyards.
the false
sense of what a blue
sky will do to you.
the warm
air in our eastern lungs.
putting down our
winter coats
to bask in the sun
a beacon of false hope,
of possibilities.
all lies.
but all desirable,
as we bite the orange
of the valley.
take that rose
for example.
the point of a thorn,
and the blood on your thumb.
in all beauty
there is that.

say what you want

say what you want
about these old buildings
about to crumble.
the liquor store,
with its open sign,
lit for
the early morning
drive through.
each rise of sun,
needing
a fix to begin that
day.
say what you want about
the old bowling alley,
its arched roof,
as if to tell a story,
now a thrift shop
of sorts for what others
no longer needed.
say what you want about
the house
we lived in.
the duplex with its flat
roof,
the brick of then,
roughed red
bleeding its color each
time it rained.
a single bathroom with a bad
lock,
the casement window
we crawled out of
and onto
the tin roof when the house
got hot.
say what you want about
the life we lived,
the church food, the absent
father, the new baby always new,
the front stoop we grew
up on,
then left, no longer unwise,
no longer kids.

third base

the neighbor, mrs butler
and her husband, pearl,
had an old
Volvo, yellow, rusted, with one
flat tire that sat
in front of our row houses
on Dorchester street
in the 1960s.
we used the passenger door
as third base.
by the end of the summer
there were dents
in the door from where our
elbows and hands
collided with the metal,
or a ball got thrown.
in time the car was moved,
or towed, so we found
a lid from a cardboard box
to lay down be our third
base. but it was never
the same, nor has any summer
since then.

she knows what i'm thinking

she knows
what i'm thinking, what
i'm doing.
where i'm going.
she can feel me ten miles
away,
or in the basement,
what i'm up to.
where I am,
who i'm with.
she's impossibly
clairvoyant.
I can hardly say a word
or finish
a sentence, without
her knowing
what's to come out
and off my lips.
I can't hide a thing,
nor do I want to.

sunday morning blues

as we sit

and eat, i look across the table

at her parents.

at her,

her sister and soon to be

brother

in law

and i realize

that i've made 

the biggest

mistake

of my life.

but the snowball from hell

has rolled down the hill

and i'm stuck inside

this icy fright.

i want to run, i want

to hide.

i want to turn back the clock

and calendar,

i want to go back

to my once fun

and wonderful life.

tomorrow is tuesday

with too much
time
on hand. they wander
the internet.
they make new friends,
who aren't friends at all,
but why not.
the circle the the stores.
the fields.
the long paths around
the neighborhood.
they're on the phone.
baking.
looking out the window
for something
that needs
to be done.
they sigh. it's the sigh
of life
near over
and what's become
of the years.
tomorrow is Tuesday,
they think.
Tuesday.

same old

we're on our way,
they say, from the car. we
should be there
soon. the wife is coming.
it will be fun.
we're staying for a few days.
let's
get together, do lunch,
do dinner, shoot the breeze
like in the old days.
let's catch up
and reminisce. figure out
the future of our parents.
see you soon, they say,
we're not too far away.
then you both hang up.
three days go by.
not a word.
not a call. nothing but
the dead silence
of air between us and
the bridge they crossed.
we're going back,
they say when you finally
get them on the phone.
we're driving, so we can't
talk too much. but
sorry we missed you. see
you next time, my brother.
next time. it'll be fun.

forward

how the woods
wind
into the deeper part
of darkness.
the dollops
of light.
the path worn.
the stream
cold and grey beside
us.
how fast our feet
press on, our
hands
intertwined
as we gallop
through
the fallen trees
and leaves.
the stones, forward
into
the future of our
lives.

the first kiss

the first time you see the ocean
you
cant believe your eyes.
the sights
the sound, the smell of it.
the grit of sand.
the expanse of clouds
and blue sky.
the sweeping stripes of gulls,
the boats
crawling slowly along
the blue
curve of earth.
the shell held up to your
ear,
echoing the roar
of waves
into your soul forever.
the first kiss is like that
too.
unforgettable.

the long night

there's a long
argument
that goes well into the night.
drinking is involved.
like
two boxers
we go at it.
knowing when to duck,
to bob
and weave, when to
strike.
but we know each other
so well.
our strengths and weakness.
it's hard to win,
but we know how to hurt
each other.
punching the right
word
in when we get an opening.
we grind it out,
round after round
until the last bell rings,
and the judges
show their cards.
a draw again.

who they realy are

some families
and friends,
in time
just don't get along.
don't communicate
well.
they come
and go.
no words. no hey.
no
letter in the mail.
no call.
we're here, we're
gone.
see you next time.
once you're no longer
of use
to them,
you find out who
they really are.

changes

the trees dance
in the wind,
budded green. fourteen
years
of watching them
from this window, alone.
the old leaves
still on the ground lift
in a swirl.
the stream, silver
along the rocks
ripples cold.
another season is almost
done.
another about to begin.
but things are different
now,
more to come.

heads like coconuts

I tell the caretaker
of my mom
at the senior home, that if she
sees my sisters, the both
of them, to take their
heads and clunk them together
for me.
like coconuts, I tell her.
I demonstrate how that would
happen by using my
own hands and taking
invisible coconuts
and knocking them together.
she laughs.
we both laugh, then I give
her a twenty for
another case of Ensure
that she'll feed my mom with
through a bird eye dropper.
I love them both, but sometimes,
sometimes,
to the moon,
alice.

violin music

my friend,
who is only happy
when he's unhappy
has stopped talking
about his myriad
of problems.
he just puts the violin
between
his chin and shoulder
and plays.
he's done complaining
about work, his wife,
about his age,
life in general.
it's just the sweet
melancholy sounds
of the strings now, and
that pretty much sums it up.

1963

put your head under
the desk
the teacher said
standing in front of the class
with a gas mask on.
when you
hear the sirens
in a few minutes we will
release you
and send you all running
home. we are about to be under
a nuclear attack.
you may hear a loud explosion
and see a giant mushroom
cloud
in the near distance.
try not to look at the white
blast, as it may
affect your vision.
if you run fast enough though,
perhaps you'll make it home
in time to see your
parents and siblings,
your pets one
last time.
but for now, keep your
heads under the wooden
desks and no talking.
don't forget to do your homework
too, if nothing
happens.
there'll be a quiz
on fractions tomorrow.

erase and delete

we try and forget.
try
and smooth over the rough
spots
of our
memory.
the bad things, the awful
said
things, the dismissive
looks, all the wrongs
that we did.
we want to be good.
we want to be free from
all the evil
we've done,
to start fresh again.
to erase the big board
with a sponge,
delete our
permanent records
in the office
with a big black
pen.

what you should do

you ache
from what ails you.
lack
of sleep,
food,
water.
you wander the earth
at times
going through
the motions.
no oar,
no rudder, the sail
torn.
the maps you've used
your whole life
are no longer
useful.
the land has changed.
water has risen.
people turn you
in one direction
or another,
and push.
they say, go there.
go in that
direction. this is what
you should do,
they say.
so you do.

i can't get in

I can't get in
at times.
the door
is closed.
each window
down, the locks
turned.
there is no way
to find out what's
in her mind.
in her heart.
she's shut the blinds.
pulled the curtains
closed.
turned off
all the lights.
she's in there, but
she's gone for now
and I can't get in.

between us

there are shades
of color
of words spoken.
of thoughts
that slide like clouds
between the sun
and earth,
then off the lips.
blue
and bluer. white.
the greys
mixed in.
just words though.
just words
that have nothing to do
with love
or loyalty.
that's a fixed star
between
us.

on the road

we adjust our
seats
for the long drive
across
country.
we may be lost, but
we don't care.
the visor goes down.
the window
is slightly open
to let in the march air.
we turn on
the radio.
open water.
she dozes as I drive.
a book in her lap.
her head rests against
my shoulder.
I look at her,
the good soul that she is,
her hand upon my knee
and wonder where
I was before.

bones

these old
jealous bones come
out to prick
your skin
on occasion,
that fierce green
fear
arrives
with a bang.
a gun shot of angst
to the heart
and brain.
they were packed
away
so long. but
enough with these
dark dry
bones.
back into the sack
and into the cold
damp basement they go,
or better
yet
a roaring all consuming
fire.

everyone gets a turn

how unkind
the world can be.
how mad
and mean
the eyes and mouth.
the strangle
of emotion
caught
in a freeze frame
on each
face
that misses the train,
or slips
and tears a knee.
who hasn't
been betrayed?
how unkind
this world is that we
live upon.
thinking
that we may be better
than another,
be free from pain or
sorrow, and escape
all that's wrong.

let me know

I could lick
ice
cream all summer with you.
if you'd
like.
our feet in the creek
behind
the house.
the trees full
and green.
our troubles behind
us.
I could lick
ice
cream all summer with
you.
if you'd like.
let me know.

embrace the flame

the candle
goes down in the slow
melt of a
yellow flame.
the plate it stands
upon
is cool,
a puddle of dried
wax upon it.
only so many
matches to go,
so little
candle left
to be burned.
so
let's light the wick,
embrace the flame,
go slow.

at eighty nine

when her
eyes open to see me
standing
there.
there is the slight
flicker
of recognition
before the lids go down.
her lips
are dry.
her hands wrapped in cloth,
the blankets
found,
wrapped tight up
to her neck.
her silver hair,
the pins,
the band,
an angelic crown.
she's in some dream,
I hope.
she's young, she's holding
her child
up to sun
or moon. she's free from
where she is,
trapped
inside this grey strange
room.

not just words

some words fall out
of my mouth
or get written through these
curled hands
that surprise me
as well her.
untethered by
reason,
they are careless balloons
sent aloft.
I cringe
at the thought of causing
anyone
pain, whether friend or
stranger.
at times I slip,
and the sound
of my voice
is heard,
the ink hardly dry,
as to what I've written,
or said.

the lake of love

the lake
of love we
swim in
is deep
and wide. it's
a risk
to take your hand
and go under.
to open our
eyes
in the glassy depths
of green
and blue
and
see what's what,
what each
dive
together will bring
up.
something old.
something new.

now when

I remember my knee
on her
linoleum floor.
touching the cold soft
tile,
the words
tumbling from my mouth.
my heart
aglow
and trembling
with percussion.
I remember saying what
I said,
and waiting for that
split
second for an answer.
then rising and saying.
okay.
now when.

time for a change

things change.
move.
adjust.
even the clouds overhead
can't help
but change their shape.
we can't sit still for
long,
eighteen years
was enough.
time to move on,
get a real life,
grow up.

what's coming

the birds
won't be quiet. you
can't get them
to settle down
no matter how much
bread you
toss out the window.
we're trying to sleep
in here you yell out.
but no.
they fill the tree,
excited
about what's coming.
flapping their
wings,
chirping. ever
on the alert for
bugs
and worms
for breakfast.

a long days run

I circle
the bed like a tired
dog
who's been out on a run.
a long
run through the woods
before dark.
chasing shadows among
the silvered trees.
I scratch
at the pillows.
douse the light,
nuzzle into the blanket,
give one
last howl at the moon,
then curl
against your warm
body. so nice at last,
to be home
with you.

the fallen tree

we see the priest out
in his black
vestment and collar.
the wind
in his silver
hair. his Irish eyes
wet with
cold.
his fleshy cheeks red.
he points up at
the power lines, twisted
and sagging
from a fallen tree.
three days
without electricity
he says.
we've been in darkness
too long,
but it's almost time.
Easter too is not far off.

wisdom teeth

there must
be a large can of teeth
at
the dentist's office.
how the wisdom teeth
once removed
keep filling it up.
not to mention the compassion
teeth.
the serenity molars,
the kindness
incisors,
the canine teeth for
finding
and knowing
what truth is.
at times it seems we
are in a toothless
world.

violet

my daughter violet
is
a gem.
a little flower
blooming.
she's bright and full
of herself.
her mother's
child.
saying carefully what
needs
to be said,
and little more.
her wry smile. her
brown
soft eyes.
the gold of her hair.
my daughter
violet
is in my imagination,
but she's
out there,
somewhere.

back on earth

back on earth
I
get to work.
the usual.
coffee, shower. clothes.
one shoe
at a time.
I dip my
head out the front
door for a weather
check
then find
the right coat to wear.
the lights
go off.
I smell the light
whiff of
perfume
in the air
lingering in the space
where she stood
ten minutes ago. i
inhale, then go.

last flight

her death
at midnight in seattle
startles
me awake
at four a.m.
eastern time.
I hear
her in the house,
coming up the stairs
in her way.
shaking
me awake to say farewell,
the next life
awaits. this is my last
flight.
see you when you get
there.
bye bye.

ignorance is bliss

ignorance
is sublime bliss,
not to know what you
want to know,
but do.
better to let things lie,
let things
rest where they are,
whether in
the open or hidden
in some desk
or drawer.
land needs boundaries
as do lives.
each to their own
country
to live in.
yours and mine.

we can do this

I shake off the dust
of yesterday.

all those yesterdays
lying behind me.

stamp my boots onto
the cold ground,

tighten my belt.
button the coat to my neck.

I feel the unshaven
bristle against my chin,

squint into the sun
and look at where I've been,

where I don't want to go again.

I take her hand
and move on. we can do this.

everything

it's not what
to confess as you stand
in line
in church, it's more about
if there's
enough time,
and how exactly do you word
your digressions
in a palpable
forgivable form.
you want to go in and just
say the word
everything
through the dark screen
into a waiting priest's
ear.
what penance do you have
for everything?

come home

a day off is a good thing.
to lie
around
in your books, in your wide
bed.
the wind
alive in the trees
beyond the fence.
the cars
all gone.
the house warm.
the coffee
hot in your hand.
it's nine a.m. but
already you're
waiting
for her to get home.

at the diner

he's a large man
sitting at the diner.
red suspenders hold
up his high waisted pants.
he's placed a napkin
into the collar of his shirt.
it's a blue color.
pale
and soft like his eyes.
the plates
surround him at the table.
pancakes
with butter and syrup.
eggs over easy.
bacon, sausage, toast.
purple packs of jam.
his hands
touch a knife and fork,
then he sighs.
he can't decide
which way to go.
he sips his coffee.
slipping his
finger into the small
circle of the white
cup. he stares out the window
at the morning traffic
rushing by.
they know him well.
call him by name.
they approach him with
their hands
on their aproned hips
and ask if everything
is okay.
he nods. it's fine, he says
smiling as best he can.
it's all good.
just some trouble
at home.

amiss

something is amiss
you can
feel it in your bones.
the tingling
of a spider
crawling
up your spine,
the startled
jump
at three a.m.
something is awry.
there is a door
open
somewhere.
a window
ajar, a black bird
about to fly.

her music

as she sits
beside
the piano.
she closes her eyes
and puts
her hands upon the keys.
she begins
to play.
she begins to cry.
it's her own love
story
that makes her weep,
makes her
sigh.

a different road

the bum
in the park is not
a bum.
not a bum at all,
but homeless
by choice.
he has discarded
the ways of others,
of us.
snubbing his nose
at the mundane tasks
of work
and love,
children and marriage.
he has found
his own way
more to his liking,
for better or worse.
with no clock to punch,
the trees
and shrubs
suit him well as each
sun rises above
his small
secluded camp
below the highway.
no one there to tell him
to take
the trash out dear,
go walk the dog
wear a different tie,
don't
forget your lunch pail.

ironing

when I iron
a shirt. a pair of pants
i think
of my mother standing
beside
a filled basket
of clothes.
I see her glasses
at the end of her nose.
the steam
button pressed with
her thumb.
the weight of the iron
running
back and forth
against a white sheet.
I can almost hear
her sing,
hear her hum.

water life

there's
a light on in the room
where
she used
to live.
but she's not there
anymore.
someone else
is in there now.
how quickly
things change.
how beds disappear.
cupboards
become bare.
boxes get filled
and emptied.
life being water,
finding its
own level of comfort.

maybe tomorrow

I find the largest
rock
I can pick
up and throw it
towards
the water.
it barely makes
the edge of sand
and gravel,
hardly a splash.
the ducks
don't even look up
from
the bread they're
eating, tossed
in by an old man
with a plastic bag.
I need to hear
the splash, so I look
for another rock,
but there isn't any.
it would make my day
to ruffle
some feathers,
ripple the lake,
cause a disturbance
of some sort.
maybe tomorrow.

her red high heels

i start to tell my therapist
about recent events
when she interrupts me
in mid angst sentence
and holds up her hand.
these shoes are killing me,
she says.
my boyfriend insisted i
get these red pumps and
my toes feel like their
being tortured.
i nearly broke my ankle
coming into work today.
she takes one off and holds
it in front of me.
it's a beautiful red shoe
from nordstroms. a nice
glossy red with a long heel.
i can see the blisters
on her feet. do you mind
if i take them both off,
she asks, as she does so.
no, i tell her. please.
make yourself comfortable.
okay, she says, grabbing
her pen and pad while
stretching her legs
out on the chair beside
me. i wish i had a pan
to soak them in. anyway.
where were we?

indecision

I see him
on the bridge, the water below.
the road.
the trees
that reach where he's standing.
a crowd
gathers.
he hangs on with hands
in back of him,
touching
the crumbling
marble of the ancient
wall.
someone comes up
asks him if he's
going to jump
or not.
traffic is piling up.
the crowd
is making it impossible
for people to go to work.
he looks around
at the waiting faces.
they just
want to get on with their
own lives,
not caring too much
about
what's to come, or not
come.

the pressure

the barista in his green
apron, with his earrings
and lip piercing
glimmering in the low
light of the coffee shop
tells me to have a good day.
same to you
I say
taking my coffee in hand.
licking the overflow
of vanilla foam
off my thumb.
all day I think about
what he's asked me
to do, to have a good day.
so i keep at it.
I smile. I forget my
troubles. I am conscious
of making this the best
day possible.
but it's hard. so
tomorrow i'll make
my own coffee at home
to not be under
such pressure.

nothing to say

exhaustion sets in.
lies
next to sadness
and futility.
wearily
I move over and let
grief
and sorrow
into the bed as well.
we lie
there beside one another,
still as stone
and say nothing.
what more is there
to say. what more can
be done.

there is work

it's work.
this glue, this binding.
what holds
the book
together.
the pages worn, earmarked
and stained.
it's work.
this day into another year.
the boots on.
the splattered shirt.
the dusted hat.
we find
what we need to find
and eat.
we settle into
our chairs,
our bed at the end
of the day. we wait
for sleep and sigh
into the darkened air.
tomorrow
there is work.

the gas

the furnace
won't stay lit.
the gas
seeps out into the air.
misting
into rooms,
into our lungs as
we sleep.
we need the fire
to burn
it off.
we shiver
in our bed and listen
to the vents
empty
of wind.
we wonder what the house
is telling
us,
whispering to us
about who once lived
here.
we take a match
down the dark
steps and pray.

wrong address

I get a photo in the mail.
carefully
I open it. afraid
these days of any
envelope
that reaches my house.
it's a horse.
a small horse
in a field.
there's no one else
in the photo.
there's a red barn
in the background.
hills.
trees.
a small white chicken
in the yard.
I want to give
some meaning to the horse.
to the photo.
the empty field.
but I've
got nothing and let
it go.
I tear the photo in two
and drop it into
the can. then I look
at the envelope.
it's addressed
to the neighbor next door.

today

the future is not
what it used to be.
the unknown
stays ahead of us,
a vague figure
in the fog.
the past is
so far behind.
nothing to do about
what's coming
or what came.
it's the moment
that counts.
the shoe striking
the pavement.
the air
coming in, going out.

the palm reader

the gypsy laughs
as I give her my hand,
palm up.
boy oh boy she says.
would you look at this mess.
ain't you seen it all,
she says
laughing. she yells to her assistant,
jezebel, who's making chicken
soup and nursing a baby
behind a beaded curtain.
get a load of this dude's
palm. she says. jezebel comes in
and they both
slap their foreheads and shake
their black mops of wild
hair.
this one's free, she tells
me.
sit down you poor poor man.
this one's on the house.
oh the trouble you've seen.
jezebel get this man
a cold drink. make it a double.
gin and tonic, I tell her.
Tanqueray, she yells through
the curtain as it sways
between rooms. get the cheese
and olive tray too.

make it go away

you despise them
but sometimes you need one.
a good lawyer?
someone who can cut
to the chase.
a man or a woman in a sharkskin
suit who can
see the light at the end
of the tunnel.
someone who can make it all
go away.
let you sleep at night,
penniless perhaps,
but well,
whatever.

the crazies

we need lines
in the sand.
walls of brick and mortar.
barbed wire.
chain link.
tall fences
with mirrors and wires,
cameras.
we need barking dogs
and alarms.
we need protection from
the crazies
of the world.
from the ones who want
in,
who can't let go.
who tunnel
into the earth to get
to where we are.
look how they swim
across the moat with
torches,
with arrows
and bullets.
they are relentless,
unmedicated and lost.

all yours

I show her my scars.
the old bruises.
the bumps,
the redness of muscles.
I show her
how my finger was twisted
from a long
ago injury. the broken
bone that healed.
I lie down on the floor,
take off my clothes
and stretch out my arms,
my legs.
I open my mouth.
I let her peer inside.
I tell her to take a long
good look.
I tell her to put her
ear to my chest
and listen to my heart.
I ask her to listen
to my lungs
as they grow and diminish
with each breath.
I tell her that I have
nothing to hide.
no secrets. no lies.
look as far into my eyes
as you can, I tell her.
i'm yours. all yours.
what's on the outside.
what's within.

should have had the meat lasagna

I get the lemon
veal
with artichokes.
penne pasta
sprinkled in parmesan cheese.
sprigs of parsley.
it's a mistake,
but I wanted to prove
that I could
try different things
in my life,
that I could be
spontaneous and free
from my
long engrained
habits, not stuck in
my ways,
but after one bite
I know,
as I do every time
I try eat out of
the proverbial box,
that I should
have had
the meat lasagna.

to kneel and pray

we kneel
to pray
and listen as the priest
goes
through
the stations of the cross.
the pews
are scattered
with mostly
older men
and women.
they've been catholics
their whole
lives
never straying once,
but making
every mass,
again and again.
you can't say the same.
but you're trying.

stop the bus

the bus is crowded.
we are
meat in a rolling
sub sandwich
of metal
and fumes.
the driver is in and
out of traffic
like a drunken
sailor
on leave.
it's Friday.
everyone has the look
of a long week
on their faces.
we just want
to get home. get
off this bus,
but there are miles
to go,
stops to stop at
while we spin and creak
down the city
streets.

when you marry an evil person

how easy

we are fooled by affection.

the smile,

the sex,

the kindness handed out

in large

doses.

it's a game of sorts.

it all ends

once their in and have

a set of keys.

the broken winged bird

needs a nest.

needs

food, needs 

all the things that are never

quite met.

one night

with your eyes open,

staring at

the black ceiling

and the future

with her, you have just

one regret.

wishing you had never met.

now to get out.

we have the room

it's hard to be mad
for too long
at the field mice
that find a way in.
so small.
so brown.
their long tails
behind them.
the thin whiskers
alive
with worry.
why not let them in
to burrow.
to wait
out the snow and ice,
the wind.
we have the room.
why not?

a plate of hours

anxious to get out
into the yard, she looks out
the window
to the vines,
to the weeds, the fence,
then up to a grey
wet sky.
maybe tomorrow.
maybe the next day. we
need flowers, we need
to see the red
and pink blossoms.
we need sunshine.
a large unburdened
plate of weekend
hours.

the white cake

a sliver
of her cake is left.
the white
icing hard,
the morsels of sweet
batter
now cold but moist
under wrap,
on the shelf
next to butter and milk.
shame to see it go
so soon,
so fast.
it was a good cake.
one
to be remember.
one that will always
last.

the busy hens

the ice man
with his horse. his
old
chestnut
horse,
sagging under the weight
of blocks
of ice
squeaks up the street.
his wagon
worn
and splintered.
the wheels in need of repair.
the early morning is coolest
to deliver
the ice.
he whistles.
unbothered
by his task.
people need ice. what
would they do without me.
the drinks
not cold?
he snaps the reins and up
and over
the hills he goes.
waving
and nodding to the egg man,
the paper
boy,
the roosters crowing,
the busy
hens.

sunny inside

the radio
tells us about the weather.
a siren of sorts
wails
across the air waves.
wear a coat.
boots.
tie down a hat.
it's going to be a rough one.
beware listeners
the man says,
but we don't
listen.
we're in a sunny
frame of mind.
a happy disposition.
love has warmed us
to the brim.
let it rain.
who gives a damn.

the ping of contact

it's a slow
drip
that won't stop.
the ping
of contact
keeps me up.
the constant
tap
of drop
after drop.
it won't let go.
there's
nothing I can do
at this hour.
I close
the door, put
a pillow over
my head.
in the morning i'll
forget about
it.
or try to.

come home

the dog is lonely
in the window.
his bark is just a yawn.
he stretches in
the sunlight, ignores
the mail man
as the mail falls
to the floor.
what's the point?
he looks down the street,
listens
for your car.
circles again
on the pillow, scratches
at the feathers
and shrugs.
what's taking him
so long.

give her room

her sleep
is long now. her dreams,
are they
dreams,
or something else
beyond
what we know.
the glimmer of stars
in her
eyes
is fading.
the shallow breaths
she takes
are numbered.
let's hold her tightly
one last time,
then let her go,
give her room.

the love within

I remember her differently.
not in this state
of skeleton
and skin,
hollowed out by the cruelness
of how
all life must end.
I remember what
thrived inside, the sun
the storms,
the clouds
and rain, her ice. and
When she finally makes
out,
i'll remember her for all
the good
she brought
to this world, all
the loved she shared,
and was given.

some people

some apples
never make it to the hand.
never
get tasted for the glory
that they
are,
though perfect
red
and round,
or green as bright as any
leaf
on a tree.
some just ripen
and wait,
then
fall to the ground,
never to be bitten,
to be found.

the stage mother

the stage mother
can't wait for the role to come
in.
she's aglow with what
it could mean.
she imagines
her self in the front
row
as the Oscars come in,
the Emmy,
the life time
achievement award.
she's patient and tells
everyone
about how well
the boy is doing. one
day, she says, you'll
see, you'll see,
he's only thirty three,
then she sits down
to sends him a check
to pay
the electric bill.

the picnic

we take the kids
out
on a picnic. we pack
the big basket,
full of sandwiches,
cookies and drinks.
something there for everyone.
we fold the checkered sheet
to lay down
upon some stretch of
hillside
grass.
we bring the dog,
his leash.
the kids bring a ball,
the wife
a radio,
a portable tv.
grandmother
brings her phone
in case
she gets a call for
a new prescription at
the pharmacy.
I bring a book or two.
the chairs.
we jump into the car
and drive.
we drive for two hours
until we see a spot
near the river.
it's there we park
and take everything
out of the car.
the dog runs off, the
kids chase him.
the sun slips behind
a cloud
and it begins to rain.
there's lightning
and thunder, but then it
clears up. we gather around
on the edge of red and white
sheet and eat. we should
do this more often I tell
the wife.
but she's lying on her
chair. the soft sun on
her beautiful face,
asleep.

where have you been

she'd collect
sand
from every land she
went to.
Timbuktu,
rhode island,
ocean city,
istantbul.
she kept the handful
of grains,
dirty blonde or white,
golden,
even black,
in small mason
jars
in the cellar.
marked clearly
with tape
and black ink
the places time
and dates.
if someone came over
she'd march them
into the basement
and say there you go,
this is where
I've been,
how about you?

the long distance call

they were married for
thirteen years.
from 1950 until 1963.
the mother, the father.
unlucky 13?
she was a phone operator
in Philadelphia.
he was a navy man making
a long distance
call to boston.
she was going to connect
his call,
ready to plug in the wire
when he said
with a twinkle in his
sea blue eyes.
hey. let's meet for a
drink.
so they did.
seven children later
they were done.
the marriage was over.
off he went. off she went.
what fell between those
years is hard to put
down on paper.
each finding his or her
own way in life.
for better or for worse.

i've made a mistake

i knew

i knew. i say that now

in hindsight.

four days after

saying i do,

i knew that she was dark.

sick.

a liar. an empty soul.

i knew that she was

trouble.

and yet, i said

i do.

possessed

with some vague hope

that she'd

be someone different

than what

she was.

i fear what's to come.

this will be

the hardest and strangest

year of my life.

i can feel it coming.

and i can't stop

what's coming.

not yet.

secret ingredients

I can tell you everything
about this recipe expect the last
few
ingredients, my friend
jimmy tells me
while he stirs a giant pot
of grey stew.
my grandmother swore me to
secrecy
on her death bed
about revealing the ingredients
of her venison
stew.
the key is to slow cook
and to find
a deer that hasn't been on
the road too long.
salt and pepper?
I ask him.
who told you that? i'm
not saying those are the
secret
ingredients, but i'm not
saying they aren't either.
now give me your word
that you won't ever tell
a soul though.
I promise I tell him,
then call in for a pizza.
hold the meat.

gun control

if everyone who
owned a gun shot everyone
who owned
a gun
would that solve
the problem
once and for all
about gun violence,
the woman asked
at the community
center
talk
on violence and gun control.
perhaps, the man said,
a politician
with an NRA button
stuck to his
lapel.
but then,
he pondered out loud,
wouldn't innocent people
be dying
for no reason?
next question.

doing laundry

I wait on the washer
at the blue iguana laundry mat.
I watch the slosh of suds
and grey water
splash against the glass.
the line of machines shine
in the morning light.
the dents
seem natural.
the rust, the lint, the open
doors
are just fine.
there's a basket in the corner
full of dark
wet clothes.
they've been there for
a week.
left and forgotten,
I suppose.
I see the same people
each time I come. we talk of
small things.
leaving out the big things.
we're doing laundry.
but now I come early
before they do.
before they start their
loads
of whites and coloreds.
carrying in their bleach
and detergents.
I want this time alone.
to hear
the spin, to hear the coins
fall into the slot.
to say nothing to no one.
and have nothing
said to me.
I want to fold my warm clothes
on the counter
without a word said,
then go home.

doing laundry

I wait on the washer
at the blue iguana laundry mat.
I watch the slosh of suds
and grey water
splash against the glass.
the line of machines shine
in the morning light.
the dents
seem natural.
the rust, the lint, the open
doors
are just fine.
there's a basket in the corner
full of dark
wet clothes.
they've been there for
a week.
left and forgotten,
I suppose.
I see the same people
each time I come. we talk of
small things.
leaving out the big things.
we're doing laundry.
but now I come early
before they do.
before they start their
loads
of whites and coloreds.
carrying in their bleach
and detergents.
I want this time alone.
to hear
the spin, to hear the coins
fall into the slot.
to say nothing to no one.
and have nothing
said to me.
I want to fold my warm clothes
on the counter
without a word said,
then go home.

nine pages

the angel on my left
shoulder
bickers all day with
the angel on
my right.
do this one says, don't
says the other.
write this,
say that, you deserve
to let others know
how you really feel.
how dare they,
how little they know
of you, or walked
in your shoes.
i breathe in and out.
exhale
slowly.
i come to my senses
shoving
the devil
out the door.
deleting the nine pages
of feelings I
wrote to get even.

nine pages

the angel on my left
shoulder
bickers all day with
the angel on
my right.
do this one says, don't
says the other.
write this,
say that, you deserve
to let others know
how you really feel.
how dare they,
how little they know
of you, or walked
in your shoes.
i breathe in and out.
exhale
slowly.
i come to my senses
shoving
the devil
out the door.
deleting the nine pages
of feelings I
wrote to get even.

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.