no secrets anymore

the word gets out
on the street. onto
the grape vine.
monkeys swinging from
the trees know too.
even fish
are going upstream
with this secret
on their lips,
stuck to their fins.
everybody knows.
drums
beat the message
through
the trees beneath
the sweaty
canopy of branches
and leaves.
the word is out.
it's on the street.
on the tongue of loddie
doddie and nearly
everybody.
names are being named.
places
and times.
it's all out there.
whispered from one ear
to another.
everybody knows
what's going down.

under the grey rock

she hides the key
to the house
under a grey rock.
it's to the left of the porch
she says
in her message.
there are a hundred
grey rocks
though.
I turn each one over.
one by one
searching for
the key.
there are other keys.
I try them in the lock.
they don't turn.
I keep looking.
rock after rock.
soon it's dark
and there's one last
rock.
it's there.
I find it.

the party

I dream about
barry white.
he's an enormous
chocolate man with a long
braided silver
chain around
his neck.
he's in the kitchen
drinking wine,
talking in his deep
baritone voice.
a crowd is around
him.
I can hear the music
as he begins to sing.
people are doing
the hustle
in their polyester
clothes
and chunky shoes.
they are eating cheese
off of crackers.
someone brings out
a dish of shrimp wrapped
in bacon.
I take three, lifting
them with toothpicks.
I find my pina colada
in a long glass,
then I begin
to dance.

in the cloud

the electronics
baffle you.
the technology of fobs
and plugs
chargers and screens.
speakers.
the wireless,
the wired.
where is this cloud
that knows everything
about me?
and how do I blow it away?
it's a tangle
of pamphlets
in Chinese.
you just want things
to work,
open the box
click
on the power and
voila.
like a toaster.
I miss the toaster.
put the bread in, push
down. in a mere
two minutes you have toast.
no fuss or muss.
no need for a phd
degree.

that new car smell

I remember
that new car smell.
that vinyl
scent of fresh from
the factory.
the clean windows
snazzy dials.
not a scratch to be found.
ah, that smell,
but it wore off at some
point.
the tires thinned
down, we spilled
things on the seats.
broke the handle.
the lights dimmed,
the battery died.
the oil burned
and leaked.
what happened?
too many miles,
too many hard drives
down one way
streets. too many
pot holes
and snow drifts.
detours and crashes.
maybe it's time for a new one.
a new ride.
something sleek
and swift, something
we can go the beach
with, or down a blue
highway to nowhere.
a car to get us
to wherever it is
we need to get to.
a car to finish the ride
with.

the flea market

the flea
market is open for business.
the cups
and glasses.
all lined in rows.
unpacked again
for the show.
old shoes and suits.
postcards, hand written.
the ink now smudged
after a hundred years
of handling.
vinyl records. a dentist's
chair.
whose lamps were
these.
what hand wore this ring
in love
or friendship. what story
is there behind
that dress,
yellow as a hummingbird
hung beside
the drab rest.
the tables serpentine
under the domed
roof. the vendors
tired from the day,
counting their coins,
their folding
money.
looking at their watches.
opening boxes
to pack once more
and go on their way.

this does

the father
loves his daughter.
holds her
as long as he can with
each short visit.
he whispers
to her his adoration.
the glow of both
brightens the room.
nearing the end
of life
it becomes clearer,
what matters most,
what doesn't.
this does.

more than the game

the boys
at court are old.
but still boys.
the white hair, the limps,
the bandages.
the braces on knees.
still young enough
though to run,
to dribble and shoot
to rib one another
about
life. each with their
own nick name.
all is fair game.
and the love we share
for one another
has little to do with
wins
or losses, or who
scores.
it's more than that.
much more.

put it to bed

my fingers are tired.
so I tuck each one into bed.
enough
of this.
enough typing for one day.
there's only
so much ink in the well.
and story has grown old,
grown sadly stale.

rose colored glasses

I see the valley
of rose
colored glasses.
it's getting fuller
by the hour.
I take mine off
and send them flying
into the broken
piles of metal frames
and lenses.
I get it now.
what wasn't seen is seen.
everything is as clear
as it should
be without those
tinted shades.

getting out

it's nice to get away.
to go
to some foreign port
where you don't know
the language. where
the people are strange,
where they cast their dark
eyes upon
you and flick ashes
in front of your path.
the houses
look different.
the tilt of red tiles,
the broken chimneys
and gates.
even the dogs that wander
the street
have a look about them.
the smell of food
cooking, what is it?
it could be anything.
what's in the wind.
how did the ocean become
that color of blue?
nothing is the same
as it was
from where you came.
you could live here
forever
and forget the past.
be done with all the things
you know.

the oil painting

the painting
at the museum
is less in person than
in a book.
so small.
so underwhelmed I am
in its presence.
once unknown
to my naked eyes,
I stand back
to take it in.
unseen so close it's
diminished
now in luster.
the promise of its
glory
unfulfilled.
are we not at times
to one another,
the same.

nearly every year

I disappear
into the soft fold of fog
along the water

of Huntley meadows.
i see the blue tips
of heron.
the thatched backs
of turtles,
afloat like metal
hats in slow parade
the red winged black birds.
deer, as still as the trees, aware.
across the boards I go.
my feet striking the wet
wood that creaks
with my weight.

i return in times of trouble,

nearly every year.

and now i'm back again.

six months since your last visit

the dentist
calls
leaves a message.
sends an e mail.
texts.
it's been six months
since your last
check up.
your last cleaning.
I relent,
and say okay, okay.
i'm coming.
I prepare myself
for the flossing beat
down.
the lecture
about brushing
and grinding, and
rinsing, and
all the other things
they want me
to do.
I check my bank account,
I guess I can
skip
rent this month.
I go.

i smell what's cooking

it's a mumbled response.
I hear it.
I write it down.
make a note of it.
there is static
on the line.
morse code is clicked
across the wire.
there are words
written in the sky.
I see
the headlines
on the front page.
I see what's written
in the sand.
I smell what's cooking,
but still,
still, I resist and
refuse to understand.

the empty house

out of breath
I reach home, I've run for miles
to get here.
my arrival
goes unnoticed.
there is no one to greet
me. no bark from my dog.
he's not here.
the blinds are closed.
the doors tight.
the locks have been changed.
the mail box is empty.
I peer through the window.
the rooms are dark.
no lights are on.
the furniture is covered
with sheets.
the floors are full of dust.
I see no one.
as I stand there,
then go from window to
window.
the weather changes.
spring has turned into
fall.
I am in my shirt sleeves.
shorts.
I am not prepared for this.
I sit on the porch
and try to remember
the life
I had before this one.

the circus 1962

she was there.
her son too. Jackie
and John,
Caroline. small
and smartly dressed.
all three in the front
row
minus
her husband, who
was busy
with the country
and other things.
but there they were,
three rows in front
of us at the circus.
guarded by dark men
in dark suits.
I remember my mother
pointing to them,
and whispering. look,
it's Jackie and her
children.
how my mother loved the mythology
of Camelot.
the handsome prince,
his smile, his
grace.
his humor.

quickly this life
moves on.
from the sawdust
and clowns,
the elephants, the high
wire act.
I can see them still.
royalty among
the littles,
the smell of grease paint
and cigars,
the animals. the cotton
candy and hot dogs.
all the sites and sounds
that a circus come to town
can brew.

I wonder if my mother
remembers too, as she lies
curled in a dream
in a bed she'll
never get out of.

don't touch

the mother
puts the cookies into a large
glass
jar
on the counter.
don't touch she says.
they're warm
and delicious, but I
don't want you to have
one before dinner.
now please,
don't touch.
I've put them into
the far corner of the counter.
they're for later.
okay?
okay.
now i'll be outside on
the phone with your father.
she leaves.
the boy approaches
the counter, pulls
up a chair
and touches the lid
of the jar.
he wants what he cant
have so badly.
he can almost taste
the cookies.
she knows this and watches
him through the window
as he takes the lid off
and takes one.
bites into the soft
warm dough, freshly baked.
the lesson has begun.

the green

an inch of rain
falls
in the middle of the night.
the dogs
are quiet.
birds too.
I can hear the stream
now a small river
cascade against the rocks
outside the window.
I can feel
the wind whip through
the old windows.
bang the shutters.
tomorrow the yard
will be full of flowers.
the trees will
magically
go green.
each storm, each heavy
rain
brings us out
of darkness, then into
a new spring.

yesterdays news

I buy the paper
for some news. it's Tuesdays
edition, not todays,
Wednesday.
I don't return it.
bad news keeps.
it's still news so I sit
and read under
the arcade,
the rain is falling.
I watch a woman pushing
a stroller. her hands full.
I see her husband.
holding a bag, then kissing
her blushed cheek.
his arm goes around her
as he whispers into the thick
brush of her hair.
they are in love.
I turn away, go back
to the news. yesterdays
news.

then rise

the sweat on the window
rolls
down the etched pane
of glass,
the glass is fifty years
old.
not as old as I am.
fourteen years
have gone by.
I know who's been
to this window.
who has looked out onto
the same
woods.
has seen the same seasons
change
with time.
I wonder when it's my
turn. I touch
the tears of condensation.
then rise.

falling fast

I let go
and fall. what seemed
important
is no longer
important.
I've been wrong
all along.
I stare at the blood
on my hands.
the callouses.
the twisted grip
of my fingers still
in place.
I let go and fall.
I wonder
why was I holding on
so long.
I feel the air
in my ears, against
my back.
I am falling into
light
away from the darkness.
my heart beats
with anticipation,
and relief.
I let go and fall.
my hands unfurl
and fold
upon my chest. I am
smiling.
at last. falling
falling falling.
falling fast.

ironing

I see my mother
at the ironing board.
the baskets of clothes
at her feet.
I hear the steam
from the iron.
I see her slowly,
methodically
press the hot metal
down upon a shirt,
a blouse,
pants, making a crease.
she is quiet.
the children
are asleep in the small
rooms
above the floor.
the husband is at sea.
I see my mother ironing.
her mouth closed.
a pair of black framed
glasses
pressed against her nose.
she is never so still
and at peace
as she is now, ironing.
folding.
standing on a small
rug on the cold floor
in her bare feet.

the end of life

I see the end of my life.
I see my body
stretched out
in a white coffin.
the flowers are everywhere.
I can smell them
and know instantly what life
isn't, what life is.
I see people crying.
I see the hall is full
of mourners.
I wonder where they were
when I was alive.
I wonder about the suit
they have placed me in.
how my lifeless body
swims in the black fabric.
but it doesn't matter.
it's what I will wear
until I dissolve into
what I was before this life.
the bones I leave
will turn to chalk.
nothing into nothing.
my teeth. the cross
around my neck.
a ring on my hand
left as proof of love
once given.
I feel the absence
of worry.
the relief of no tomorrows.
my eyes are closed, but I see
and know everything.
I see the end of my life.
I see the beginning.

about tomorrow

some
moons sing
with color.
blossomed
in fall, or
the starch white
face
of rock
in sunlight.
we can't go there.
but we
are there.
we have always been
a part
of that thing
above us.
so far, so close.
so white
and pure
it makes you look
and wonder
what else is there
to know
about tomorrow.

it's about to rain

it's easy to see
when it's about to rain.
the leaves
turn towards the sky
in green
cups.
the wind rises.
paper on the street
circles
flies.
it's easy to see when
it's about to rain.
but true love
and honesty, that's a
whole other
thing.

so they say

I see the bones
of me
in the mirror.
the absence of food
has tightened
my face.
deepened the lines
as if I've been made
wiser.
which I haven't.
I seek refuge
in red wine.
in sleep.
in books about
another land,
a place
far from here,
across a calm sea.
everyone has a cross
to bear,
so they say.
so they say.

enough about me

I whine all
day about the trouble I've
seen.
who hasn't?
but it's all about me.
my woes,
my trials and tribulations.
I bring
the house down.
throw a wet blanket
on the party.
I spike the drinks
with my
gloom
and doom. too bad
for them
having to listen,
but so it goes.
I hate being this way,
but sometimes
i'm a child
lying in a crib
wanting
warm milk and a hug,
a slap on the back
to burp me.

quiet bird

a quiet brown
bird
without a chirp
lands
on the sill.
looks in at me
at this machine,
my fingers
quiet on the keyboard.
we stare
at one another.
him with wings,
me with hands.
both doing pretty
much the same
thing.
getting by,
making a nest.
digging
worms
to keep us alive.

it's only monday

we chain
ourselves to the white
house
fence in protest to the long
work week.
we want the three
day weekend
to be permanently
part of our lives.
we made our placards
on sunday afternoon
after
going to Michaels
for a sixty per cent
off sale
on markers
and construction paper.
but we aren't really
chained
to the ancient wrought
iron fence.
we have Velcro
wrist bands
that can easily be
removed
and large coffees with
scones.
we yell out our complaints
across the manicured
lawn.
three day weekend
we chant over and over
again.
others join in.
a throng of like minded
tourists
cheer us on.
this lasts about five
minutes
until we're tear gassed
and dragged away
getting a wood shampoo
by the cop's baton.
and it's only
Monday.

no land in sight

in the ocean
I swim.
one arm after the other.
I kick my legs
and feel the cold
water burn
within me.
the sun is above
where it's always been,
the ocean is everywhere.
once blue,
a sweet azure
holding the wisp
of white clouds,
I look at it differently
now. I see it as
something that can swallow
me whole.
take the air
from my lungs, dissolve
the skin off
my bones.
I swim.
but I don't know where
i'm going.
I just know that I am
as alone now
as I've ever been in
my life.
tethered
to nothing, to no one.
no boat,
no raft,
no land in sight.

the light

I can see the light
of day
outside the narrow
window
of my cell.
I see the placard
of blue,
of grey.
the essence of clouds.
I can smell
what blooms beyond
the walls,
of this
barbed cage.
I can almost taste
the lips
of a loved one, feel
her warm arms
around me,
her sweet voice
telling me your safe now,
everything,
everything is okay.

i don't know

I sweat
and swallow
into the night.
cringe
at the light,
lay low
and be quiet.
words
are silver,
unpolished but
holding
what needs to be
said,
to be made
right.
not now though.
maybe later.
maybe never.
I don't know.

some days you need a friend

some days you need
a friend.
an objective friend
with a moral compass,
a faith,
a person of truth to
go to.
you need an ear
to spill what ails
you.
someone to bare your
soul to
to share your fears
and hurts.
someone to wipe your tears
away, or let
you cry in pain.
a person who will listen
with compassion
and love,
then tell
you whether you are
right or wrong.
give you advice
and steer you towards
the right path for
the rest of your life.
some days you need a friend.
call soon.

bring water

the air
is tightly woven
hot
above the flat sand.
the heat
shimmers.
cacti
reach out to the
white blue
sky.
prickly
and cold
in their green suits,
fat.
single vultures,
black
stripes of hunger
float
over the dead.
we shoo them away
with our hands.
not us,
not yet.

an angel appears

an angel appears
out of nowhere. she or he,
it's hard to tell
with angels,
sits down beside me.
what's the matter he says.
I see his wings,
white as white can be
folded behind him.
his hand is gentle
on my shoulder.
the other hand takes mine.
what's wrong, he says.
tell me why are you suffering
so?
but you know, I tell him.
you know or you wouldn't
be here.
so true, he says. so true.
close your eyes.
now breathe. quiet your thoughts.
now listen to these
words I've been sent to tell
you.
trust in the God
that made you.
all of this darkness,
all of this sorrow
and anxiety,
all of this worry will pass.
trust me. your suffering
is to bring you
to your knees,
and when you're ready
to let go
of all these things
and surrender to me,
happiness and contentment
will arrive,
they're closer than you
ever could believe.

the suggestion box

the suggestion box
is full
of little notes I've written
over the course
time.
do this, try that,
or maybe it would be a good
idea if you
didn't do that.
or perhaps we can do something
different
for a change.
mostly the notes
are directed towards
myself or a significant
other.
small adjustments trying
to get to the same place.
they haven't changed
much over 50 years.
each
one written in the same
vein.
wanting trust and love,
building
a quiet nest of peace
and harmony
to grow old in,
to stay young in.

ghosts

the ghosts
of loves past
rattle their chains
in the attic.
I can hear
the floor boards creak.
the sighs,
the groans,
the pages of time
being ripped,
boxes full of yesterdays
being thrown.
I can hear
the wind seer through
the creases
of old windows
bent frames,
tiles broken free
from nails and wood.
we too are ghosts,
alive
and here,
but unseen.

benign neoplasm

in the near dark
of the examination room
he says,
you'll feel a pinch.
I see the long slender
needle in his hand.
his goggles on,
the white coat and plastic
gloves
upon him.
my chin is pressed
into a cup
my forehead pressed against
the cushioned cage
before me.
grip the handles he says.
turn your head to the right,
but look up to the left.
your left.
the needle goes in,
then again. piercing the small
nodule.
a third time, it's more
than a pinch.
several words come out of
my mouth, words
that once required soap
at the hand of my mother
to wash them out.
once more he says,
then a pair of long nose
needle pliers
begins to squeeze the benign
neoplasm free
of whatever debris lies
within.
tears stream down my face.
my hands are red from gripping
the handlebars
of this machine.
twenty minutes later
I'm in shock from the pain.
the nerve that runs
across my face, from eye
to ear trembles.
a trickle of blood finds it's
way upon my lips.
that's it he says. not
so bad, was it?

mercy

this farm,
this field, these cows
and chickens
plump with eggs.
these
goats.
these horses.
the cattle thick
with feed.
pigs.
this barn full
of wheat.
the silo overflowing.
the rusted rooster
still red
in the wind
on the peak.
the lush sweet
land
blessed with rain.
we're good,
we're thankful,
but without it
we bring all sins
to the table
real or imagined,
we throw dust onto
our backs
and beg for mercy.

a place to grow old in

a simple life
would be nice.
a dog, a house
with a small reasonable yard.
birds
in the tree.
a fence
to keep love in.
a fence to keep trouble out.
a fireplace,
a couch.
music
from the corner.
chilled wine in hand,
a wall of books
to read
and a calendar
full of years
to grow old in.

dry land

a cold front
moves in. moves out.
what to wear
each day has become a mystery.
a stretch
of sun,
of eighty degrees
isn't
happening.
boots, coats, hats,
scarves.
the grey wet
of spring goes on
as we
row forward,
two oars in the water,
our shoulders
bent
in pulling us to
blue skies and dry
land.

our plans

the waters rise.
the rough
wind raked sleeve
surges,
goes forward,
down.
down towards the river
the bay
the great
ocean
before us.
the water fills
the world
where it can,
as we do
with our uncharted
lives.
our plans.

true life

the wood pecker
black
and white.
some red in a small
dash
of color
upon his breast
and neck
alights on the fence
beyond the window.
busy with his
survival,
unaware of my eyes
upon him. in
his skittish nature,
going from
board to board,
a seed
or bug
in sight. how we
busy ourselves
with the work before us,
distanced
in short
from
our inside, true life.

friends fade

slowly
your friends leave
you.
they fade
into the past,
between the pages
of year books,
old haunts,
vague connections
from
long ago.
it's hard to even know
as the numbers
go down,
who's to come

and who goes.

the photo

the camera
doesn't tell all. it just
captures
the smile
in the moment when
someone says
are you ready,
then clicks the button.
but what
lies below
the gloss of an image
is to most of us
unknown.
the history of things
so often
untrue.
a mirage
for future eyes and
hands to hold.

the red ball

the church at St. Thomas More
still
stands.
there it is in red
brick
off south capital street
on the ravine,
the walk way to Maryland.
sturdy
and still, dirty
from the years since
built.
the stain glass
still holding the light.
the indigo and blood red.
the emeralds
and yellow.
the washing is inside.
the souls
of lovers married,
bodies
taken to graves not far.
the confessional
packed so tight with spent
and forgiven sin.
I remember the black top,
the nuns
in black. outside with folded
arms,
their crosses in hand, crosses
around
their necks.
and the red ball. it was
all about that.
how it flew through those
cold spring
afternoons,
each red faced boy or girl,
upon it with hard shoes,
kicking kicking,
with so much
of our lives
before us.

the nesting

the songs
of birds outside,
the racket of wings.
the scratch
of existence into the sides
of trees.
the fallen seeds,
the insects
frenetic
in their small world
found burrowed beneath
dried leaves.
how they sing and sing,
without
regard to what's to come,
the shortness of
their lives
unknown, unnecessary.
the nesting of spring.
it's just now.
this moment
this joy of today
in being alive.

baked love

it's a fine
balance
of ingredients that makes
the cake
rise,
the soufflé
go,
the dessert be
sweet but
not too so
that one cannot
finish
or eat. love is
that mix
of tried and true
recipes,
old
worn and torn pages
in yesterdays book.
but in all things
it comes down
to the lick
of a spoon,
the taste of it
to know when it's done,
when it's
ready, or needs to be
tossed away,
and started again, taken
out too soon.

the burning

there is a fire
in the north woods. we
can see it burn from here.
so far away.
we are safe, we hope,
from the flames.
it's not our house,
our land,
that burns.
we watch as the smoke
rises,
the flames
paint the sky in ribbons
of yellow,
spikes of red.
we hear the scream of engines.
the sirens
bellow down
the canyon road.
we pray for the best
for them.
we can only watch so long,
in quiet,
before we go inside.

a higher power

when all else
is done.
when all the words are said.
when anger
has had its day.
suspicion,
jealousy. all those
dark emotions that rattle
around within,
after every drop of
angst
and mistrust has been
wrung out of the wet
sheet you've
become. then there's
a chance
to move forward
and let a higher power
take hold.

red roses

it's not
like you to fall like that.
to faint
away
and land in the rose bushes.
picking out
thorns.
wiping off the blood
that tears
upon your skin.
red roses at that.
the flower
of love.

tomorrow is a long ways away

tomorrow
is a long ways away.
today.
is
always here.
yesterday
is beyond saving.
where do we start.
where do we
begin
again.
where do we
draw that line upon
the dirt
and let
the next life start.

so many birds

so many birds.
of so many colors.
so many wings and beaks,
claws,
so many nests and eggs.
so many
thing afloat in the sky.
so much we learn
and know about so many things
upon this earth,
but at times so little
do we know
about our own
or other's lives.

before dusk

there was time,
when I had time, and tools,
and a better back.
and I was more limber,
there was a time
that I would open the hood
of my car
and begin to fix whatever
it was that needed
fixing.
oil pump.
water pump. shocks.
points and plugs.
filters and tires.
small stuff, but things
that I could do
on a Saturday
under a tree,
in the hot summer shade
with a drink in hand,
as the radio played.
trying to get
the car on the road
before dusk.

the fear

a fox appears
from the woods, daylight
receding in
a grey wash, before the rain
begins.
he slides on soft
feet to where the stone
walls is,
peering
over.
his coat a burnished
blonde.
the fear in him
equals the fear
in me.
rightful caution.
what's out there?
what can get us, is
there anything real
that we see?

the fence

the broken fence
leaning
in the wind,
almost over,
flat against the ground.
the posts loose
in the soft
dirt.
the way in is
the way out.
what wasn't seen
is obvious now.

around we go

the carousel
moves slowly around.
the grind of
rusted edges screeching
below
our feet.
the strange plastic
horses
with smiles, with eerie
melted frowns.
once white or black
they're muted now by age
and sun. broken stirrups
that flap.
the music
is warped,
a kaleidoscope
of sound.
the keeper holds his
hand
on a greased bar,
to stop and start our ride.
a knot of keys looped
through his
blackened jeans.
around we go. around we go.
around, never knowing
where it might
stop,
where it might end.

smudges

the blue ink
smudges
on the note.
my finger pushes against
the words,
the name,
the date.
I erase yesterday
with a simple
swipe
of a wet thumb.
though know that
life is never easy
that way.

the old sailor

my father
in his garden on old knees
with his
thick hands
tending to wobbled fences,
beans
and weeds.
his shoulders browned
by the sun.
his hair
as white as milk.
how lovely
and sweet this old sailor
has become.

just tired of war

I retreat
behind the lines of fire.
i'm not a coward
just tired
of war.
tired of these bullets
these cannons
these
swords.
I tunnel down into
the soft trench of earth
lying
in other's blood,
of those who died before
me.
I see the crimson
steam of their
lives
rise into the fog
of morning.
I fall back,
no longer answering
the bugles call.
i'm not a coward,
just tired of war.

seconds are hours

the night is long.
how slow
the hours move on this stranded
raft.
what clock
is this
that has no feelings
for time,
no movement forward.
no end
to these weary hours
that crawl
across my troubled mind.

the yellow bird

I see the fence.
the stone wall.
the guards. the guard dogs.
I see the rifle
in the tower. the glassy
gleam of the scope.
I can almost feel
the barbed wire in my hands.
I see the cold tray of food
being slid into my cell.
I turn on the hard
bed I sleep upon.
I ache with
the emptiness of
no human touch,
or kind word.
I see the sky. t
he squared patch
of sweet blue.
I see the small
yellow bird on my
barred sill.
I am happy for the bird,
for his wings
and life in the air.
I smell the flowers in
bloom beyond the walls.
I hear the splash of a
stream full of melted
snow.
I imagine all that is
beyond where I am,
all that could be good,
then start digging.

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.