iron and silk

she's made
of iron
and silk, her day is long.
there is a line
out the door
that needs
her care.
her
eyes look into
mine
and say when.
a glass of wine, a book
a show to watch
in the quiet
of her home
at the end
of a cul de sac
nearby.
soon, I tell her, soon.

out of the hood, yo

it's a gated house
on a normal road
lined with vanilla
low brick ramblers built
in the early 60's.
but this house is grand.
three stories with an
elevator.
roman columns.
a fountain. a butler,
a maid,
a housekeeper.
a special code to let
you in.
Caligula would be happy here.
it's a cavern of
opulence. a magazine
layout of new things.
white and grey, white
and black.
fireplaces are lit.
wine and caviar are being
served.
a well behaved pair
of long chinned dogs
sit with diamond collars
at the head of the stairs.
chandeliers light
the Persian rugs
the crystal vases.
llama covered couches.
there are cameras
everywhere.
I smile and wave.
i'm there for an hour
get the job done
and go back to the hood
where I feel much more
at home. yo.

start drinking heavily

my doctor
stands back from the table
and sighs.
he has a green mask
on.
surgical gloves
and booties around his white
sneakers.
a white smock covers
his green
loose fitting hospital
garb.
he doesn't want
to get near me, not
even to look into
my mouth or
to listen to my heart.
you've got it bad,
he says. my oh my.
I haven't seen a case
like this
since Richard
burton and liz taylor
got married for
the fourth time.
I pretend that i'm not
that old, that I don't
know what he's talking
about, but I do.
I don't know what to tell
you he says, but my advice
is to start drinking
heavily. he laughs, sorry,
that's from
animal house after flounder's
car was demolished.

chopping wood

all day
the man stands in the yard
splitting wood.
cord
after cord.
he swings the heavy
axe down
and breaks each
new piece into two.
he grows weary
in the cold sun.
his wife stands at
the door and smiles,
she wonders how long
he can go on like this.
when will his
happiness end.

the enormous bug

a brown bug
of unusual proportions
finds his way in,
crawls slowly
across the laundry room
floor.
the cold has
staggered him
as if he was on
a pub crawl
in the streets of
Georgetown.
it would be easy to
snare
him in a bag or by
broom
toss him into the cold
flush
of water, but why.
how long can a brown
bug's life be
anyway.
let him go for now.
I don't think he bites.

who's that?

I see on
the social network
photos from the past.
i click the pages over,
ones
I've never seen before.
they are dusty
and torn,
yellowed
with age,
the faces are different
the weights
and lines
have changed.
the thinning of hair,
new colors,
the gravity at play.
how young we were
back then,
how fast the years
go by.
how quickly we
fade
into the future,

poison apple

the well
is poisoned. a single
rotten
apple
has fallen into
the water
with a cold splash.
no need
to draw the bucket
up
anymore. let's wait
for rain.
open our mouths,
our hands
and wait
to start all over
again.

a new place to live

there is no new world.
not here,
not on mars,
or venus
or mercury.
this is it.
the good
and bad together.
strange
how we think that distance
will change
us.
that a new locale
will save
us from ourselves,
our past,
that our dark
and sinful
sides will disappear
with a new land
to live on.
how foolish we are
in not knowing
that the true place
of change
is within.

slight of hand

I hold my tongue.
I don't
show my cards, my slight
of hand.
I wait it out,
letting more rope
fall
into hands.
I sit and watch
as it unfolds.
all in good time.
all secrets all lies
will
one day be exposed.

the race track

in the late 70's i lived
behind
a race track.
it lay just beyond the woods,
a slight stream
and a parking lot.
the cloud like glow
of light reached my windows.
at night i could hear
the thunder
of hooves, the call of
the race. the shouts of
a happy, unhappy crowd.
i thought about the horses.
their lives
arranged by others, unable
to run free.
always, beneath the weight
of others,
always rushing, rushing
towards some finish
line. i had to move.

getting ready for the day

i fasten
on my dark sunglasses.
attach
blinders to the sides.
i stuff
my ears with cotton.
stich my
lips together
with twine, I
erase my thoughts.
i'm ready for the day
now, wiser
and at peace
by saying, hearing,
seeing
and knowing
nothing.

a light

i'll get past this.
I always do.

there is always a light
at the end
of this

dark
tunnel.

I can see
a blue sky,
a warm white sun,

two arms awaiting
me,
saying it's okay
now.
it's over.

just breathe

a plate full of hours
is on
the table.
the white cloth holding
the black
handed
clock.
the sun has shifted
through
the trees
the shadows
bend over the roof,
the fence,
against
the umbered rainbow
of fallen
leaves.
I have places to be
in time
but for now i'll
sit here
and close my eyes,
just breathe.

in the early morning rain

traffic
in the rain is
barely moving,
inching
forward.
the soft sparkle of tail
lights,
the street lamps.
the dashboard
aglow
with amber numbers.
I breathe
and open the window
just so.
a song
comes on,
something I know the words
to from
so long ago.
mister lightfoot
and his guitar.
I begin to sing.
I know this song
by heart.

let's make a deal today

I ponder a new car,
but I hate car salesmen.
I don't need one, but i'm a moth
attracted to the flame,
see the last
nine hundred poems if you
doubt me.
but I fancy a new set of wheels.
I desire the smell
of freshly minted factory
plastic and vinyl.
those new tires, not a crumb
on the floor or seats
to be found.
not a single drip of coffee
on the dashboard.
oh, if not for those salesmen.
how they pester me with emails
and texts.
phone calls. they have me in
their cross hairs with the slightest
bit of interest.
one simple question leads
to a firestorm of
when can you come in to test
drive. can you make a deal
today? we want your business.
we have balloons and coffee
to help your stay.

hanging on

it's been awhile.
been too long
too many days and nights
have gone
by
the world
keeps spinning.
i'm hanging on though,
trying not
to be that feather
in the wind.
it's been awhile,
been too long,
too many days and nights,
but i'm ready,
i'm more than ready
to be happy
once again.

here to stay

having second thoughts,
I cancel my trip.
unpack my bags.
I wave the cab away.
i'm staying put.
going nowhere.
this is where I was
meant to be.
I tear up the maps,
the tour books
the new currency.
I cancel the cruise,
the train,
the bus.
I put the camera away.
i'm here,
going nowhere. i'm
here to stay.

too thin a word

so good to be home
for lunch
this early in the day.
the rain
a curtain of wet cold
coming down.
no sounds
but that. the percussion
on the panes,
the roof.
the tin house of birds
below.
so good to be home
in the comfort
and bliss
of quiet and warmth.
blessed beyond measure
with love
from others.
having been given so
much for so long.
forgiven too.
grateful is too thin a word
to name this feeling.

let them be together again

I wish I wish
not upon a star or on a coin
tossed into a well,
no I wish
in the form of a sincere
and giving prayer to a much
higher power,
let's call him or her God
for now
and send it there.
I wish for the two
star struck lovers
to be together again,
that they could
reunite and find the joy
they miss so much.
no longer hiding in the shadows
whispering their many pet
names to one another,
no longer
deceiving the ones they're with
with lies and denial.
it is a love like no other.
keeping track of every anniversary,
every moment captured
in a camera, a video, a card
or letter,
a simple napkin with a heart
and their initials inside.
the carved trees, the hearts in
the sand.
how they miss one another and long
to be together.
let them have what they want.
the past can become the future
for them once more.
let the light shine on them
and let no one keep them apart
any longer.
let them be happy and free.
they were meant to be with
one another. a luminescent
light together. a force to behold.
true loves from the moment
they first kissed
so many years ago along
the wooded path. the electricity
of their feelings still
alive inside of them.
such love should not go
unrequited, should not go
without a happy ending.
it would be a tragedy
of Shakespearean proportions
otherwise.
I pray on both knees
and wish that they will
be together again
and live out their lives
in perpetual bliss, this is
my wish for them. my prayer.
my thinking has been all wrong.
but now I see the light,
the truth of what should be.

good times

by morning I had chewed
through the straps of my straight
jacket
and was able to breathe
through my mouth.
at last I could talk out
loud.
I struck up a conversation
with a neighbor in
the padded cell next to me.
hey, I said.
are you up yet.
he was recovering from a failed
lobotomy
and electroshock therapy
but was quite lucid and
awake.
hey there old chap.
he said. they have me chained
down here to my
bunk, but I can chat if you'd like.
quite a night, wasn't it?
he said.
all of that dreadful screaming
down the corridor. I do
wish they'd put some carpet
down, or drapes to absorb
some of these ghastly howls
at night. hard for a bloke to
get any good winks, if you know
what I mean.
I know, I said. spitting out
chunks of leather and strands
of nylon thread.
I could use some breakfast, I said.
ham and eggs would be nice.
I agree, he said. perhaps a hot
spot of tea would be delightful
as well. maybe a nice butterpie
to go along with it.
how long you in for I asked him,
swinging from the hook contraption
I was attached to. I was trying to
get some feeling back into my legs
having been wrapped up for the last
ten hours in a cocoon.
well, I hope to go home soon, he
said. I actually feel quite well
today. feeling like my old self.
I drift in and out personalities
at times. it's all quite annoying
to family and friends as you can
well imagine. and what about you
old sport. in for long?
I came in for a head cold a few weeks
ago and that mixed me up with
someone else. it's seems to be a
a paperwork thing, or should I say
a computer glitch, but I hope to be
home for the holidays.
well.i wish you the best my good man.
I hear the orderlies coming down
the hall, so mum's the word. when
we get out of here perhaps we'll
meet and have a pint or two,
reminisce old times.
sounds great, I tell him. by the
way, where are you from anyway.
Kentucky, he says, but I prefer
to speak in the king's English most
of the. cheerio.

what i know to be true

in another life
I would
have put up a shingle
outside the clapboard
house i'd probably be in.
poor as poor can be.
but telling the future
and knowing
so much when lightning
would strike, I could
see and know for certain
what others could
not see. come in and sit.
look me in the eyes. give
me a minute or two.
it's not a hunch or a guess.
it's the left hand
of God
pushing me towards what's
true. why do they even
bother lying to me?
it's scary at times
and I fight it, but I must
do what I must do.

the willow tree

I am easily fooled,
duped.
I believe everyone
no matter
how untrue I know
things to be.
or at least pretend to.
I forgive, I compromise.
I am
in the wind,
in any storm
the nimble trunk and
branches of
a willow tree.

unstuffed

the cranberry sauce in
a can
was a surprise
having been promised
grandma's secret recipe.
as was the boxed
stuffing
and tin packaged gravy.
the tofu
turkey I must say did
raise some eyes,
as did the carob
cake
and raw celery.
all washed down with a
glass of bottle
capped wine,
but no one gained an
ounce of weight, no
one fell asleep or
felt the slightest
of belly aches
and there were leftovers
galore
for the tupper ware
to wrap
and take.

the ones that love us

the ones that truly
love
us
aren't here.
they're far away in miles,
with tears.
how they long
to have us back,
to hold us in their
arms.
safe and warm,
embracing us in any
storm.
it's how life should
be.
not a lie
not a struggle
not a game of cat
and mouse, of pretend
and fear.

house is not a home

the house
is not a home if there
is no
love
to be found.
no kisses shared
in any room
by window
a fireplace, or stair.
the house
is less than
a home
without laughter,
without joy.
it's empty
and for sale now,
welcome.
better luck with
you
and yours as you
move in
to make it your own.

wake me when it's over

i used to care,
but things have changed.
I've lost heart,
lost my way,
lost my mojo, my swag,
my sway.
i'm teetering on my
feet.
unsure of which way
to turn,
who to trust. who's
lying, who is full of
deceit.
it's a shadow world
i'm stuck in.
gaslighted while i slip
and slide
on the cobblestones
hoping for hope,
treasuring sleep.
wake me, wake me
wake me
when it's over, please.

the expert on everything

the expert on everything
is here.
he knows
so little about so much,
just
enough to hold court,
to rail
and rant, to speak loudly
as if
he needs to be heard.
in his mind,
they hang on every word.
the places he's been,
the things he's seen.
he knows the history of nearly
everything.
no need to speak
when he's around he'll
answer and ask all the questions.
just sit there
and listen.
the expert has arrived.
let's listen.

what's to come

the birds
are on me. pecking
at what they think is dead.
sure,
I haven't moved
in a while.
eaten or slept
in days.
and yes, i'm lying
prone
in a dry blank field
of cut
hay,
but i'm not dead yet.
so let them
peck, let them
find out the hard
way
of what's to come
when I arise.

the horizon

the scales fall
away
from my eyes. the fog
disappears.

I see
clearly now what
was so unclear
last year. once blind
my vision
is right again.

the horizon is mine.

the sail
of my soul is in
the wind
and off I go.

the happy man

he's happy
with that hammer,
that saw.

those nails in his
pocket
can hardly wait to be
driven
into wood.

how the drill sits
idling,
the lamp on it all
as dark
approaches.

the lines draw
as to where to cut.
a plan
made.

how happy he is
for the simple task
of work
leaving behind
tomorrow.

the ocean rises

it was a mission of
sorts.
that emotional brass ring.
that heart
drawn in the sand,
that
forever thing.
how the ocean
rises
though
doing what it wants
and changes
everything.

her meal

i remember
the olives my mother would stuff
with cream
cheese.
stalks of celery too.
the gravy bowl.
the fat turkey glistening
from the basting of
juices.
i see the mounds of potatoes,
white
and topped with pads
of butter.
the hot rolls from the oven.
i see
the cranberries in a bowl,
the greens,
the squash, the stuffing.
i see my mother, sweating
at the stove.
everyone but her eating.
how happy she was
in these moments. all together
as one
like it used to be.

the window

not smart
enough to understand
or to figure
things out.
to make decisions based
on fact
not doubt
I climb the wall to
look out
into the yard.
I hold onto the bars.
I see the blue
sky
full of birds.
I feel the warmth of
a kind
sun.
I hear children laughing.
I see her
beyond the fence,
waving.

i want to sleep in

I want to sleep in.
but can't.
I hear the cars out in the lot.
the birds
in the trees.
I hear
a truck and a man
coughing.i want to sleep in.
but I can't.
too much is going on
in my
attic.
too many bats and mice
are alive
and well in
the shadows of my mind.
I want to sleep in,
but I can't.
the bed is so warm,
the sheets soft,
the pillows hold my
head in comfort, but
i'm up. i'm up and into
the day.

tough cut

it's time
to swallow what's been
chewed,
what's been torn
from itself
and eaten.
no spices will do,
no pounding with a mallet
will make it
more tender.
no extended stay
on the stove
in the oven
will change the gristle
and the bone,
the hide of this thing
i'm into.
it's a rough cut
of meat this meal.
the knife is hardly sharp
enough to cut
through.

waiting on the past

the night
is longer than expected.
no stars.
no moon.
the streetlights are pink
to deter crime.
I get up
to look out into the woods
and hear
the fox cry.
whether pain
or in pleasure, who's
to know.
there are things to do.
so much
is left undone.
and that keeps me awake,
waiting on
dawn.
waiting on the paper
to slap
against the porch.
for the milk to arrive
in glass bottles,
for someone to holler
down,
come back to bed.

next

we passed the last gas station
an hour ago.
we should have filled up,
but we were in the middle
of an argument
about gun laws
and global warming,
then went off into a deep
discussion about the best
way to make turkey gravy.
but I had a good feeling about
this.
she was soul mate material.
she was the one
I would take home to mother.
i end up pulling over
and let her drive
for awhile. my trust
and affection is enormous for her.
I start counting cacti
along the road, fast slithery
things moving
from rock to rock.
I squint my eyes in the
blaze of a desert sun.
I had broken my ray bans
when I fell asleep
in the back seat
and then rolled over on them,
snapping the frame in two.
we're almost on empty
I tell her, my girlfriend
that I met in vegas ten hours
ago.
really? she says, staring
at the amber glow on
the dashboard.
we should have gassed up
when we had the chance.
how much water do we have
I ask her, thinking of
survival. no clues, she says.
I ask her her name.
she says V, pointing at
blue green tattoo on her neck.
I'm Joe, I tell
her. boring she says.
I stare at her. at the lizard
tattoo that goes down
her arm and then disappears
under her torn pink t-shirt.
the word next in blood
red ink on her arm.
her lips are a shade of black.
I wish we had some drugs
she says, turning the dial
of the radio finding nothing
but country. or jack daniels.
I find a warm coke in the back
seat and pop it open,
sending fizz everywhere.
what the hell she says.
now i'm all sticky.
I take a sip and hand it to
her, she takes a long gulp,
then the car dies. it chugs and
stutters until it stalls.
she guides it into the sand, slapping her
hands against the steering wheel.
that's it, she says.
what? I ask her.
i'm done.
i'm leaving you.
okay, I tell her. it's been
a pleasure. can I have your number.
no,she says.
she grabs her one bag from the
back seat and starts walking,
thumb out.
I watch her as she walks, her long
shadow jerky on the side
of the road. the spikes in her
jet black hair pointing towards
the pale blue sky.
a truck comes up and stops
to let her in, then she's gone
just like that. the love of
my life.

we swim alone

we swim alone.
we dive
into the deep end
and start kicking.
start spinning our arms
churning
our legs.
the other side
of this is there,
we've seen it before.
but the water is cold.
what lies below is unknown.
there is no time to rest,
no time to catch our breath.
we need to get
there,
to the other side.
we swim alone.

boneless hams

the line at the honey baked ham
store
is wrapped around the block.
the blue
pulsating lights of cop
cars
spark the cold night
as
we stand huddled
against one another in
the slow
snake like queue, coupons
in hand.
traffic is slowed and halted
for the carvings
of pig and turkey. parking
is limited.
credit cards
and lists are at the ready
in mittened hands.
a woman passes out in
the middle of the line,
tumbling onto the velvet
rope that keeps us from
being a riotous crowd.
some eager patrons step
over her. then a good Samaritan
places a slice
of honey swirled ham
near her mouth, the salt
and brine of it wakes her up,
arouses her from her
winters nap. we get
her to her feet
and hold her as the line
progresses.
the wind picks
up
and we hunker down.
we make new friends.
we learn each other's names
and share pictures of our
loved ones. we feel safe
to offer up our secret
recipes of cranberry sauce
and stuffing.
we sing along to the music
piped in from overhead.
there's still time, still
time. the counter is oh so
close, so close. we need,
we want
our hams. with or without
the bone.

tom cat

the battery on
my father's cell phone is
dead.
I call and call, no answer.
his voice mail is
in Spanish, a language
he doesn't speak, so I leave
no message.
I try the land line.
no answer there either.
he's either napping, at
the grocery store,
in the yard pulling
at imaginary weeds, or
over at the Italian lady's
condo doing god knows what
beyond pasta bread and wine.
at ninety
he still has some tom
cat in him.

fruit cake

I take out last years fruit
cake
and put it by
the back door to hold it open.
the crows
in the backyard
are interested.
they flutter their oily
wings and turn
their beaks
towards what they see.
have at it I tell them,
waving
them towards the brick
loaf
of fruit and nuts.
a solidified mass of
molasses and flour,
sugar and what not.
sparrows come closer.
a wood pecker, who I think
and capable of
such a thing.

the examination

the doctor
is bright with kindness.
her touch
upon your shoulder
is gentle while
your skin slides
upon the crinkle of parchment
paper, feet
dangling off
the table.
the cold outdoors
is forgotten
under her care. she listens
to your heart.
looks
into the cave
of your mouth, two
ears, then weighs
you.
she wraps your arm
for pressure and sighs.
she is sincere
when she asks you where
it hurts.
it hurts right here
you tell her,
pointing everywhere.

the short visit

the industry
of the aged building
homes that aren't homes.
the sticks
and canes, walkers
by the door.
the oxygen if
needed.
the small brown
tubes
of pills, soldiers
on the sill.
the house
too warm for guests
too cold
for those
in shawls, in robes,
in tattered
clothes, slippers
unfit for use.
the television
is a fire full of voices
without meaning.
the gay wreathe
and lights of the tree
are small
wonders.
the few faces who
visit are almost
strangers. spoon fed,
a sip
or two from a long straw.
dinner is served.
how they rock and rock
towards sleep.

morning coffee

I stir
some sugar
into the black cup
of coffee.
I pour a dollop of cream
to lighten it.
I cut a piece
of pastry from
the box, then place
it on a small white
plate.
I go to the window.
sit at the table,
pulling a chair out.
I see the snow icing
the yard, the edge
of the brown fence.
I watch
the bird feeder
with a few sparrows
dipping in for seed.
a red cardinal flies in,
regal against the white.
we have our
breakfast together.
the peace
of the world is this.

hell on wheels

the crazy
drivers are even crazier
in bad
weather. speeding,
tailgating,
zig zagging from
lane to lane,
on their phones,
drinking,
waving, having
conversations with
themselves and others.
lines and signs
along the road have
no meaning to them.
they have no
regard for
cars
behind or beside
them.
you slow down to let
them go on
their merry way.
you'd like to live
and not die in a fiery
crash,
at least not today.

counting

I can't sleep
so
I count sheep.
I count
other things too.
people.
places.
things done
or undone.
I count the slats
on the blinds.
the pillows on
the bed.
I count my fingers.
my toes.
I count the numbers
on the clock.
I count how
many times I've
counted.
I count down the hours.
then the sun comes
up.
so much more to count
and unsleep
about, but work awaits.
I count on that
too.

noon?

I say
meet you at noon.
he says.
one. I say Saturday.
he says ok,
then calls back and says
we'll be out of
town then.
how about sunday,
I offer.
at 3. he says four,
the kids
will be napping
at that hour.
okay.
one day next week?
he says. I say okay.
tell me when then.
what hour,
i'll hover the area
until you
make up your mind.
he says okay,
i'll be in touch.
can I call you tomorrow?
what time? I say.

compromise

we are separated by
time zones.
by continents,
by oceans
and mountains. by
any geographical
boundary
one can think of.
even our beliefs
are different,
our taste in music,
in books,
in what makes us
laugh or cry.
it's just the way
it is. we adjust
for love,
we compromise.

why wait?

it's a round
table
of
those loved and lost.
the seven, or is it
eight now,
the last one won't answer
her phone
and at 95 I think
the worst.
but we
eat, we laugh, we
remember
the joy, what was
once sad.
there is plenty to go
around,
the wine is poured,
the drinks
stirred,
there is more dessert
than
necessary.
we get full on the meal,
on each other's
love.
this would be a nice
rendition
of what heaven could
be like,
or maybe just now,
in this place,
on earth, why wait?

the good sleep

you fall asleep
in the early darkness
of afternoon,
you slip into slumber
to the rain, to the wind.
to the sound
of tires
in the snow,
a plow, a bird,
a voice
calling across
the courtyard.
it all takes you
into a dream.
onto a soft
bed of feathers,
a cloud
where you are in flight,
defying
the gravity of
trouble,
away
from it all
far far away
from this life.

once broken

once broken
there is no further
one can
go
down
into the depths of
proverbial hell.
once crisp
and shattered
in the embers,
turned to ashes,
there is no where left
to be
but up, risen,
restored to new.
and free.

find a heart

don't lose
the hunger. don't let
desire fade
into the light,
into the darkness
of that good night.
keep
the fire burning.
find love,
find a heart that
wants you
keep it close,
hold it to your
chest, let it
renew your life.

in all of us

there is violence
in all of us.
some primitive urge
to protect
what we think is ours.
to slay the foe,
kill
the beast, surround
ourselves with
walls
and fire.
there is a cave man
in all of us.
lurking
waiting to hear a pin
drop
of betrayal,
a drip
of lies,
a sniff of deception
or deceit, then the blood
rushes,
the muscles tighten,
the chest widens,
red
fills the eyes.

out of the blue

I take a cold shower
of truth.

I shiver
in the white porcelain
tub.

I surrender to the icy
world
of knowing
what I've always known.

you come in with nothing
and leave
with the same.

I've been gone
a long
time, but i'm back,
alive
again.

i'm Lazarus,
a phoenix rising.
left for dead
but on my feet
and out of the blue.

mother love

they miss
their mother. her baked
bread,
her cookies,
her gifts wrapped.

her warm soups and stew.
how nice of her to
send a sweet card
picked especially for them.

they miss
a kiss
upon the forehead,
to be tucked in,
a pat upon the back, her
voice, her hugs.

how they send her letters
and pictures
of where they've been,
postcards of their travels
whether by land
or sea.

i'll call you tomorrow
if you can get free.

they want her to know
when they hurt
or get sick or feel
sad,
or have come unglued.

they want her to know
when
they feel alone,
alone and blue.

it's almost as if
they have no one else
to turn to.

hardly a day goes by
without reminding her
of what's happened
in the past,
what's new.

they miss their mother.

the summer wind

I find peace
in
an apple.
a cup of good coffee.
a nap.
a good nights sleep.
a book,
a poem.
a finished job
with check in hand.
I find joy
in the little things
in life.
the smile
of an old woman.
the touch
of a friend.
the kiss from a loved
one.
a card
hand written.
the caress of

a summer wind.

lines in the sand

I draw a line
in the sand.
then move the line
another foot back.
I draw another line.
make another proclamation,
another demand.
it doesn't matter.
i'm ineffectual when it
comes to lines,
to ultimatums
and promises.
and now i'm out of sand.
out of sticks with which
to move it
in a straight line.
now I stick my head into
the sand, and hope
for the best.

what's been done

it's no good
to have enemies. to think
badly
of others,

to dismiss their lives
as road bumps
in your way to serenity,
to see them as
poison apples
afloat in your wishing
well.

it's not Christian
or even
Buddhist to
let them get under your skin.
to grind your
teeth at night
and cringe at the thought
or sight
of them.

but we do.

it's a struggle to see
the good
in everyone when you know

what's been done.

time to go home

I've been on the road
for so long now, I don't remember
where home is,
or what it's like.
my memory is vague.
who lived there?
was there a dog,
a cat,
a wife?
where did I sleep
or eat,
or write.
are my clothes still
where I left
them
some in the closet,
others tossed in the air.
shoes under the bed.
are there dishes
still in the sink.
dust must be everywhere.
the grass long.
the weeds and vines having
their way.
did I leave a light on?
the stove,
an iron?
are my neighbors wondering
where I've gone?
I imagine
the plants are dead
and the mail is stacked
up
coming through the slot
and dropped
to the floor.
I've been on the road for
so long now.
it's time to go home.

the condo board

the condo board
elections
are this Wednesday
and they need a quorum.
I sign the sheet
and mark no
on everything and
everyone.
they are storm troopers
run
amok
in the neighborhood.
towing cars,
raising the fees,
eliminating
grace periods
and fining anyone
they please.
it's the same five
people
who have nothing
better to do
than make life miserable
for their neighbors.
they run the show.
a club
of egos, an alliance
of witches.
a retired cadre
of old soldiers with pens
and forms.
don't leave your
Christmas lights
on too long. don't park
here, or there.
don't paint your door
a different color,
or hang a flag.
or place a bag of trash
too early on
the curb. you see them
walking around
daring you to break a rule,
waiting just waiting
for you to make
one wrong move.

getting ready

i hear
that Christmas is right around
the corner.
i take out
my Charlie brown tree,
my fruit cake,
my snow globe and a string
of lights.
i'm almost ready.
i clean the chimney
nail a stocking
to the mantel.
i send out some cards
from a list that grows
smaller and smaller
by the day.
it seems like yesterday
when i did this
same thing.
i wait patiently.
i look out window
into the star washed sky.
i hope as i always do
that someone
will appear.

tunnel

I take my ax
my shovel. I place
the light on my helmet and go
in.
the tunnel is deep.
there's a rumor that there's
a light at the end.
I take my canary
in, my rosary
and a tuna sandwich. i'm
there all day.
breaking big rocks into
small rocks.
I hope to be through
soon.
i'll write when I get there.

the hollow

we learn
quickly how to get
our way.

the art of manipulation
and deceit.

to lie, to cheat.
to persuade with a kiss
or word
of kindness.

to double speak
and hide the truth
of what one seeks.

in time, with
practice
the sweets will follow
but in the end,

the joy, the soul
the life will be empty,
a world gone hollow.

a new book to read

i want a good
book to read. a deep
complex story
of intrigue and romance.
a mystery.
i want to get
lost in a thick
tale. a smart story
i can't
put down, but don't
want to end.
i want to burn the midnight
hour until my eyes
burn
and i have to sleep.
i want to escape into
the world of someone
else's life
and mind. i'm
so exhausted
and tired of my own.

he's in there

I see the glassy
yellow
eyes of the red
fox
in the woods.
he crouches in fear,
his legs
slender as twigs,
the fluff of him
is golden
as he darts
from side to side
disappearing
on whispery paws
to hide again.
he's in there.
i'm out here.
we are not enemies
but two strangers
trying the best we
can to live
our lives in peace.

colors

he can get away
with an orange shirt, a
pink tie,
red shoes.
he can dress to the nines
in a rainbow
array
of colors,
but not I.
i'm all grey, i'm all
black.
i'm blue.

the cat and the canary

I see the feathers
in their mouths,
on their lips. the canary
gone.
they know.
I know that they know
everything,
but I don't care
anymore.
let them choke on the bones
of that dead
bird.
let them swallow
the secrets
that's been whispered
into their ears.
let their vows of silence
keep them warm
at night.
it no longer matters.
i'm gone, i'm out.

the clear blue sky

there are rumors
of things
about to change.
whispers
of things to come.
what's hidden will
come to light.
there's
some truth to it
all,
some lies, but
everyone is hard
to read
these days.
even you and I.
at times it's
even hard
to trust a cloudless
and beautiful
clear
blue sky.

the trees clear

the trees clear.
the wind
pushes
against the bark.
there is no where to hide
anymore.
the slush
of orange on the ground,
hills of reds
and yellows.
the lives of others
soon
take what we thought
was ours,
but never was.

painting a room

when i move
the bed to paint their room
i see
the books,
the magazines. the handcuffs
and cameras.
gloves? a riding crop,
sharp pointed shoes.
i cover it all
with a thin sheet of plastic.
then i carefully push
the nightstand
which holds the Bible
and Holy Water
towards the center.
that too gets draped
to keep the splatter of paint
from falling upon it.

it's a start

i burn

a pile of clothes
in
a barrel.

pictures too.

love notes.

the things i treasured
go up
in smoke.

i fix myself a sandwich
and warm
my hands
against the flames.

i say nothing, think nothing.
i free
myself
from all.

i am the ashes floating up
into a blue sky.

i burn

a pile of clothes
in a barrel.

it's a start.

the oasis

his oasis of home
is dusty.
the palms,
the pool of blue
in the middle
of the living room.
the pretend
tree, the stiff
plants that need no
water, or care.
a black kitchen phone
that hardly
rings.
the stuffed
animal
on the wall with
button eyes
and a fearful stare.
the pictures of family
from some
distant year.
a box of ashes
from
rex the wonder dog.
the bed with two ravines,
where love
was made, where books
were read,
where sleep dissolved
the day.
home sweet home.

chameleon

the chameleon
appears, like magic
in shades
of pink and grey.

luminescent greens,
blues like an egg,
or jay. brushed
in stripes, in clear
clean waves.

how she slithers
along the cold
concrete
then stills
herself
for the suns
warm rays.

how
she runs
at the sound of any
foot,
or derisive
tone, or voice
sounding like a
war
drum.

she flits away,
the cool liquidity
of her, quickly
disappearing between
the cracks
of a world
beyond her.

blue and grey

i almost buy a thick
book
on the civil war.
the blurbs are wonderful.
it's the best
book, the most
comprehensive book,
the greatest
book ever written about
the war
between the states.
i pick it up
and feel the weight of it.

it would make a great
door stop should the reading
become laborious.

what don't i know
about the war?
a lot i'm sure, but do i even
care.
maybe later i'll care, but
where i'm at right now
I've got my own trench
to dig, my own rifle to load,
my own bayonette
to sharpen.
i'm just waiting for the bugle
to blow before i charge
over the hill and
blindly into the sunlight.

i flip through the black
and white
photos of the book, not a smile
on any face,
whether dead or
living.
i carry it around the store
for awhile i peruse
other books,
poetry mostly, the thin
racks
getting thinner every day.
then i set it down
among the other never to be
bought books,
then leave.

this

I miss.
I miss.
I miss.
I just have to get
through this.
and then
i'm there.
i'm there.
i'm there.

it's coming

the parents are old.
dying
actually.

the house is dark.
they can't reach to change
the hall bulb.

grumpy with their ills.
limping from bed
to bath,
from table to chair.

half in the old books.
half in
the show. did we already
see this?

forgetful of the day,
the hour.
the oven. the oatmeal
gone cold.

we'll get there too
some day.
sooner
or later. you can't
stop what's coming.

someone will bring us
the paper.
the mail,
pick up our
laundry
and groceries.
on sunday we'll get a call
and talk
about the small
remainders
of life.

sloe gin fizz

they find
him in a snow bank.
half alive.
he's smiling.
drunk on the sweet
peach of sloe gin.
his boots full
of melted ice.
he's happy as he
begins to slip away
from this life.
away from work,
the kids,
the trouble,
the strife.
let me be he says
to the men
who pull him to his
feet.
let me bring the new
year in
right. he finds
the flask
in his coat pocket
and takes another
swig,
they take home
where his wife waits
with arms crossed,
where the Christmas
lights are lit,
the children asleep,
the fire on.
the house warm.
not knowing now, or
ever how much
he will be missed.

then we prayed

at the first sign of
someone sneezing, or blowing
their nose
my mother would throw a chicken
into a boiling pot
of water.
she'd slice up a handful
of up carrots, celery stalks,
then toss in a box of noodles.

the whole chicken once
cut up went in.
neck, legs,
wings, etc.
skin and bones.
the meat going soft,
falling away in the heat.

the house smelled of chicken
soup and vicks vapo rub
for a week
all in the hope of keeping
us in school.

salt and pepper.
saltine crackers,
a caboose of butter,
hard as a rock
with a dull knife beside it.
cold milk and wonder bread
stacked on a round plate
all sat in the middle of
the table. then we
prayed.

fatima on line one

sick of me
I look for a new me.
i'm tired
of who I've become.
what I've done.n
I need a full
drenching of
holy water.
I need Lourdes and Fatima
to give me a call,
I need
saint Bernadette
and a host
of others
with halos to come
a knocking.
regrets. who is Sinatra
kidding?
he's had a few?
come on now.
each day is layered
in some form of regret.
I should have,
could have,
would have if only I hadn't
been such a dope
in that particular
moment.
the trouble is, is that
I've done it my way,
the wrong way.
the selfish
and inglorious mistake
filled way.
I've taken the low road
afraid
and full of fear
that I won't get another
chance
at love. at love on
the high road.

The Liar Wife

she can't help herself.

sick

with a variety of disorders.

anorexic,

suicidal.

borderline and narcissistic.

in love with a married man

who would never

leave his wife,

and a man

who beat her daily

and abused her.

a father figure, twenty-five

years her senior.

she'd lie about work, about

friends,

about money.

about love.

about how she spent her time.

every second she opened her

mouth a lie

fell out.

small or large, her eyes would

shift from

side to side

as i waited for the next lie

to arrive.

dumb as a rock,

she was.

everyone could see what

she was up to

and who she really wasn't.

baltimore jack

i took a wrong turn
and i just kept going, i hear
bruce
sing in his song,
everybody has a hungry heart.
i got a wife and kids
in Baltimore jack.

i took a wrong turn and i
ain't coming back.

who hasn't gassed up the car
with a pocket
full of cash.
the clothes on their back
and kept driving, or tried to.

getting there

it's a long
haul
from here to there.
am
i in, am i out.
how tired am i.
how worn
are my shoes.
i look at the mountain
before me,
the unmapped
road and i wonder
if i'm still young enough
to go there,
to get where i need
to be, finally,
or am i too old.

fade back

i dig out my
old Elton john albums.
mad men
across the water.
goodbye yellow brick road,
nearly all of them
still in tact,
still in their covers,
bent and stained,
corners torn.
i know all the words
of all the songs.
i know where the scratches
lie in the vinyl,
when to pick up the needle.
i know the age
i was when i bought the record,
where i lived,
who i was in love with,
or not.
when i spin
the music now on the ancient
turn table, i close my eyes,
i listen to that comforting static.
i'm that young again,
wishing to go back
and start over, knowing
what i know now
about everything.
i want to set the needle
onto the first track,
to the beginning and hear
it all for the first
time.

pushing at the wall

I see the crumbling
wall
behind
my house.
the wall that holds
everything in place,
the wall
that keeps
all things
from sliding down
into the ravine,
into
the stream below
and I want to save it.
I see the cracks
widen
over the years,
the stones falling out,
the bricks
turning into soft
red dust.
I put my hand against
the wall
and push.
I push with all my might.
I brace my legs
against the slant
of the soft browned earth
and push.
I think that I am that
strong,
it's the foolishness
in me,
as it is in all things
coming out.

the frenzy

my mother
and her turkey dinner.
her lasagna
and fat ham, spiraled
and sweet,
her potatoes.
and squash, her peas
and carrot,
her rows of olives stuffed
with cream
cheese.
celery stalks.
the pies and cakes
on the screened in porch.
how the room heated up
with children,
and guests.
sons and daughters
their lives in tow.
dogs. her blue parakeet
in a cage.
nowhere to sit, or go.
someone gets up
for gravy or a roll
and the seat
is gone.
but there in the kitchen,
sweating
in her holiday dress.
her apron
wrapped around her,
her hair done
just for the day,
how happy and anxious
she was
in the frenzy, in the joy
of all being
together, at peace,
snapping another and another
picture
to savor the moment,
to cherish the day.

soft fall

as work slows
and winter appears
I watch the trees
in their
final
fling of color.
letting go of their
youth,
their middle years
and now into this,
the soft
fall
of autumn, surrender,
which is a kind
sort
of bliss.

the road ahead

my loss
is upon me.
I
see no beauty in the rose.

no glory
in the clouds.

I walk
along the green
hills
of the cemetery
and feel
nothing for those
below the tilted white
stones.

I let the wind
fly
against my open
collar.

the road ahead is
not
clear.
the road behind me
is where, again,
i don't want to go.

it's all okay

October has always
been a dramatic
month
for me.
I've moved four times
on Halloween.
been married divorced
in that month.
started
therapy in October,
quit too
and started drinking
heavily.
I lost a dog in that month.
lost my
keys.

I stare at the pumpkin
on the porch
and wonder why.
but I know there's no
answer.
it's not the time about
to change.
or the wind,
the rain.
it's something else.
autumn after autumn.
the death of leaves.
the lack of light,
the disappointments
all gathering
to be burned in a barrel
before the new year
begins.

but it's all okay.

right?

five poets

they've rearranged
the books
at the book store.
it takes me an hour to find
the meager
shelf of poetry.
it gets smaller with each year.
one would think that
there are only five
poets in the world
when looking
at the line up on
the shelves.
plath and Bukowski,
Dickinson and billy Collins.
oh and mary
oliver too.
in time i'll crowd them out,
she tells
me.
making me laugh and laugh
and
go to the keyboard
to write that down.

murphy

she tells me about her cat
murphy.
long gone.
three years, four?
how we took him to the vet
to end
his sweet life.
i ask her about the radiator
in her
apartment
above the zoo bar.
if it still clanged all day
when seasons
changed.
did the elevator work?
remember how you locked
your keys inside
and it was snowing
and we had three dollars between
us to eat
and drink
on that long cold February day.

what gives

i feel lucky
so i buy seven lottery tickets.
but not a single
number shows up
on any of the stubs.
i decide to no longer
rely
on my feelings for
luck
or love.
but to just wing it
and see
what gives,
or doesn't.

once mine

i lose her.
this love.
this star.
this shine.
but there is no choice.
with life
in the balance.
i'll regret this now,
and
in time.
i'll look back and wonder
where she is.
with who.
this love, this
person,
once mine.

this weight

finally
I set the weight down.

I've been carrying it for so long
that at times
I've forgotten that
it's on my back.

at the shore
I undo the straps,
pull it off my shoulders,
release it from my body.

my muscles ache.

my skin is scarred
and bruised
from the weight of so
many years
and miles carrying this
burden alone.


I have gone nowhere with
it and I am back to where
I started.

I place it
on the sand, in the sun,
before the relentless
ocean.

there is no blame.
no regret, no sorrow
or shame.
but it's finished.
I leave the weight
and walk away.

I don't look back.

crab world

at the beach
they insist on putting
crabs
into everything.
the drink,
the eggs, the fish.
the potatoes.
they come in from Thailand,
from
Indonesia,
from
anywhere but here.
crabs.
fresh and unfrozen.
legs
and shells.
their crusty pointed
lives
ending at captain bob's
buffet,
sprinkled
with bay seasoning.

the unseen sun

i untie
my shoes, stare out
at the ocean 13 floors below.
against the sand
it rages.
it roars.
the rain comes down.
the gulls are grey
and slow to wing their way
into the water.
the earth is cold.
so easy it would be
to float
to leap and leave
to reach for the clouds,
the unseen sun
and go.

the wheel

under a harsh blue
sky
this wheel
on the playground

keeps spinning.

round and round.

my hands grip the cold bars.
my legs splayed out
on the iron
platform.

i feel the grit of sand
in my mouth.

the wind blows
back my coat,

my teeth are exposed
as I go faster,

my hair goes white
and thin.

round and round.

but I hang on
while others fall off.

I see my father disappear,
my mother.
friends become shadows,
then nothing.

it's a world of leaving
when on this wheel.

since childhood
I've been doing this

waiting to be pulled off
and saved.

near love

the father
is washed away in his grief.
whitened
from
his loss. which wasn't true love
at all,
but resembled it.
who's to know what it really was?
yes, there was dancing.
yes. there were meals shared.
shows watched, walks taken.
but not a firework went off
and exploded in the air.
there were no bubbles
in that champagne,
but now
the bathing and feeding of a near
loved one grown old
and feeble,
says everything.
no cards, no flowers, no flourish
of words are
needed. no hearts carved
into a tree.
it's the whisper into the ear,
the hand on the cheek,
the arm,
the heart of one
lying there beyond life,
beyond belief,
the tilt of a bottle, or spoon
towards dry lips
waiting for the lights
to close that says it all.

a slow death

strange how

i once loved this person.

at least the person

she pretended to be, and now

as she lies beside

me, half asleep,

i actually despise her.

i've never felt such hatred

for a human being.

and i'm married to her.

how could this be?

the lies, the betrayal.

the adultery.

the evil is so thick within

her i can smell it

like a sewer in the street.

i look into her eyes

and see nothing. i see

no one. no heart,

no love, just a skeleton

waiting to die.

the pull

this white
wafer
in the air,
unbitten and full.
waiting, watching.
being something it isn't
to help fulfill
our poetic attempts
at understanding love,
or us.
we feel it's presence,
the pull of tides,
of blood,
the incremental rise
of hope,
or despair.
we can hardly take
our eyes
off such a thing,
this full white moon
within the hand of a black
unspeaking sky.

the carrying

we speak of death
in whispers. small cups of
breath
leaving our mouths,
our lungs,
our hearts. we possessed
learned
sadness.
the culture of being somber
in its face
becomes us.
death is near, death is far.
we reach
into a place
where we love
and fear their departure,
whether surprised,
or not.
father, mother.
son
or daughter.
friends.
they never leave us, or
us them.
the weight is there.
the memory
imbedded. attached.
but
we become more somehow
with their absence.
our souls expand,
carrying, taking
them with us
into the day,
down into the night.

Holy Help

the priest in his long
shiny gown
comes calling.
he's dour
as usual.
he brings me a box
of guilt.
sprinkles me with
holy water
and assigns me penance.
three hail marys, five
our fathers
and sixteen jumping jacks while
i hit myself with a whip.
repeat
and rinse, he says.
hell
is at the end of the road
you're on
if you don't change
your evil ways and repent.
i smile. I put
a twenty into his ever
present basket, and tell
him thank you
for coming over
and cheering me up.

going full Hazel

i take down the crosses
the platitudes
of thankfulness. I
toss
the self help books,
i purge the cards, the letters,
the gifts.
the sweet nothings
which are exactly that.
i bag and burn
the lot.
i delete the emails,
the texts.
i erase and smudge
what was written in faux
love.
the vacuum comes out,
the broom.
the dust rag.
i go full Hazel on it all.
it's how i move on.
how i survive in this
world
of impermanence.
it's how i heal
from
this ephemeral beast
called love.

lost and found

a stranger knocks
at the door
with something in his hand.
it has a slow beat.
a tell tale thud.
I believe this
might be yours he says.
and hands
it to me.
I found it outside in the snow.
it looks broken, he says.
but I found it that way.
no problem, I tell
him, I understand.
I take it from him and press
it back into
my chest. it slips out
every now and again, I tell
him. but thanks
for bringing it back to me.

black bottom cake

it's a large cake.
black bottom
cake.
chocolate on chocolate.
the balloons are
black.
the streamers white.
no gifts allowed,
but lots of wine and
gin and tonic. let
the music play.
b.b. king
and tom waits.
let the saxophone howl.
there will be dancing.
singing.
reminiscing.
open the door and let
everyone in.
raise the roof.
let the party begin.

the farewell party

my old friend
who wasn't all that bad,
but
a criminal at heart. He
stands now on the hatch door
of the gallows.
the noose around his neck.
someone says a prayer.
his family cries
for him. a man of cloth says
a few mumbled words
in his defense, or something.
his hands
are behind his back,
tied tightly.
his legs together, rope
around his ankles
to keep him from flailing
once he begins to swing.
but he looks fine.
he looks at peace.
i think for a moment that he'll
get out of this too.
but no.
he sees me in the crowd
and smiles, nods his head,
he winks his wink.
the black hood drops over
his head, then
down he goes. down he
goes.

the fix

the addicts
in the alley. needled
and deboned
of ambition but that
of next
fix, the next high,
they are shadows,
ghouls
bitten by the vampire
of ecstasy.
at time I join them
and lean
against the cold wet
wall
of memory.
how quickly we succumb
to what
makes us feel good.
whether the ding of the phone,
the kiss,
the drink,
the drug. we chase forever
that high
of love,
that pinnacle of pleasure
that the world
offers falsely.
in time
the champagne goes stale,
goes flat,
the bubbles subside.

awaken and rise

the Lazarus in
me
awakens.
the flesh and blood
once cold
and blue
go warm.
I am nearly in the pink
again.
I brush off the dirt
of my grave,
rip off the shroud
that covered me.
I dry the tears
of those who stood by
and loved me
when I was under,
when I was gone.
together we lift
our glasses,
our hearts to life
and love.
we toast tomorrow
once more.

i need a parade

I miss the city.
the iron of it. the steel
blue
water
off battery park.
the up of it all.
the cacophony of horns,
the swarms
of yellow cabs,
tourists from texas,
florida
and france,
bundled trying to stay
warm.
the cart of chestnuts.
the faux watches
and chains, pictures
of the empire state building
framed and wrapped
ready to go. fools gold.
the insanity
of times square.
the sailors, the soldiers.
the broadway lights,
the tarnished glare
of it all.
never quite the same,
never different.
from the Hudson to the village,
to Washington
square the thunder
of the subway deep below. the
whistles
of cops. Chinatown and pizza.
a cross town bus will take
you there.
littly Italy.
St. Patrick's,
central park, the zoo.
The Met.
fifth avenue. I miss
the city, I need a fix.
I need a parade,
and soon.

a winters story

the cold comes
not
a moment too soon.
the boots come out.
the scarf and gloves
go on.
everything appears
that needs to worn.
let there be frost in
the air.
let it snow.
let the wind blow.
let the sky
full of grey clouds
lie upon us.
let the next winter
story of you and me,
others
be told.

to be home

the new house
needs
love.
the new floors need dust,
need dirt
from the steps
of boots and heels,
slippers
and bare feet.
the new house needs
crumbs
on the counter
a dish in the sink,
a glass left
on the table.
clothes on the floor,
a wet towel
draped
on the shower.
the new house needs
an unmade bed.
plants that need
water.
books left
opened, waiting to
be read.
the new house
like us needs to be loved
and felt
a home.

the horses pull
all day
at the plow.
the earth
needs to be dug.
things planted.

another blue bird

I scratch
the nail into the wall
of my cell.
make another mark.
grinding the dull point
into the limestone
wall.
the floor is wet.
the bars
are ice cold as I sit
on the stiff
thin
bed they've given me.
I smell
the grunge of others.
I hear
the rats
plotting their own
plans
in the tunnels.
the grunts and groans
of cellmates
down the row.
there is no light but
the bare
bulb that swings its 40 watts
over my crude sink,
my metal mirror,
my toilet.
I scratch out another
day, then look
to the window above
where I see the miracle
of a bluebird
on the sill.
he's singing a song.
I know that song.
there is hope.

the porch swing

she hands me a glass
of sweet tea.
it's amber color
collects the sunlight
as we sit
on her porch.
we say nothing.
we sip our tea and swing
gently
as the sun
sets, as the moon appears
and kisses
us with it's kind
light. we could do many
things
in this moment.
but this is good.
doing little, saying nothing.
swinging,
waiting
for the world to change
and be made right.

to sleep

i fall asleep
in the middle of chaos.
i drift
off into a dream.
a dream
i won't remember when i
awaken.
sleep
rescues me
from the day,
from tomorrow.
fatigue is a wet
coat.
but i'll trudge through
the daylight hours.
i'll get to the end of it.
to sleep once
more, dry and warm,
safe in the comfort
of sheets,
and blankets, a bevy
of pillows.

going to mars

i tell no one about
my trip
to mars.
i leave no forwarding
address.
i pack lightly.
just my silver suit.
my helmet
and a good pair of boots.
i leave
my dog with a neighbor.
kiss my
wife goodbye.
she hands me my lunch pail
and waves
as i drive
towards the rocket which
will take
me away.
i leave her a note
on the nightstand.
going to mars,
be back soon.
i hope.

unlearned

i turn my pockets inside out.
i shake
my shirt
of lint, of grass and leaves.
i kick the mud
off my boots, then
sit on the curb
and listen
to roar
of silence as it surrounds
me.
it reminds me of another
day,
decades ago.
another time.
another lesson learned,
then unlearned.

skin and bones beside you

strange how i now

hate the woman

who sleeps in my bed

a foot away.

the boney wench i married.

i hate the way she lies

and betrays.

i despise her. who she is,

who she pretends to be.

she's sick and making

me sick.

she's drowning in her own

nightmarish life

and trying to take me down

with her.

i know the day is coming

soon, but i have to wait

just a little bit longer.

i'll know when the time

is right to get her out of

my house, my life.

soon, very soon.

creative writing

your old teacher
passes away, you see his obituary
in the paper.
there he is.
larger than life.
the books and poetry behind him.
how he held
court.
kept us in laughs and wonder.
a performance.
brash and gentle.
kind
and harsh.
a pendulum swinging.
cigarette in the hallway.
a drink
after class.
laughs and laughs. but the darkness
of life
did not elude him.
his signed book is on the shelf.
his wish
for you to continue on.
to keep at it.
keep going.
write for yourself first,
and the rest will follow
rings true,
even now as I sit here at this
hour,
typing and thinking
of him.

the waiting

she waits.
she waits. she sits.
hands
folded in her lap.
he's late.
he said he'd be coming
soon.
he was on the train.
bags
packed.
hat on, the past
and road
now behind him.
she waits.
she looks up to where
the rails
disappear into
the mouth of woods.
the seasons change.
promises have been made.
she's patient beyond
words.
she knows he's worth it
though.
that the love is real.
just a little
while longer
the station master
says, looking at his
watch, then the sky overhead.
he's on his way.
he's hoping
she's still there.

around and around

my mother
suffered with men.
though no picnic herself.
her Italian
blood
full of passion.
the plates would fly.
forks and knives.
glass littered
the room.
blood was spilled, but
in the end
they'd make love,
my father and her,
have another child,
then start all over
again.

let it begin

what
lies ahead of us
means little
when the now
is rich
with pain.
tomorrow means
nothing.
yesterday is a pale
fragment of
our memory.
I want an answer.
I don't want
to be in the wind
another day,
another week,
another hour.
let it end,
or let it begin.

the empty streets

the clock on the town
tower has stopped.
the clouds
are still.
the streets are empty.
only the leaves
move
from the trees.
scattered in color.
I listen
to the heart beat
of this day
becoming night.
I put my ear to the chest
of tomorrow
to understand what's to
come,
what's wrong.
what's right.
the stones are cold
and hard
beneath my feet, but I
walk.
I walk.
I go forward as I always
have,
with or without
you.

born into this

born into this.
alone with no choice
in the matter.
i'll die the same way.

against my will.

it's not the end or
the beginning that's hard.
it's
the middle
that's hard.

the loves and losses.

the slight gains.
the meager

joy.

the thin thrills
that throw what light
there is upon darkness
and make

life bearable.
with ever fading witnesses
to the fact.

sleep

it's cold enough
for meat.
for stew. potatoes
and carrots, onions.
the slow
cook of a long fall
afternoon.
how the leaves drop
on cue.
how the sun turns white
and soft.
how sleep
seems far away.

all me

I see the wind
of arrows,
a cloud
of them arriving
as expected. i
feel the piercing of each
sharp
head
into my skin.
going deep to the places
I remember.
I have no
need for this blood
anymore. let it pour
and go.
this sting,
this outrageous fortune
is all
me. my road is my
road.

the night

a blue note
from the horn
in the blue haze.
the blue
lights
of the stage.
the voice is
gravel.
the drinks
are cold and hard.
shoes tap
fingers drum.
hearts
slow down to remember
and forget.
the bitterness is
sweet.
the night no longer
young.

cooking and kissing

it's her brown eyes.
her laugh.
her hair.
her hands upon me.
it's her legs
and arms.
her brain.
her strength and compassion.
it's her
way of forgiving.
it's all of that
and more.
not to mention cooking
and kissing.

more cake

when the cake arrives
all eyes
go upon it.
it's a big cake.
long, thick, and rich
with icing and fruit.
layers
of thick yellow
beds. soft and moist
in the light.
the candles are lit
then blown out.
were wishes made?
pieces are cut
and handed out on plates.
the crude jokes
end.
the small talk,
the clutter of chatter
is hushed.
the room goes quiet
as forks move from
dish to mouth. at times
all it takes is
sugar and butter,
cream and flour
to make people stop talking
and be silent.
we should all eat more
cake.

gone south

I drop a coin
into the slot and pull
the arm
down.
the windows spin
and spin,
then the rattle of small
changes comes
down. not much.
I try again, again.
my luck
once rich with tomorrow
has gone
south.

we say things

we say
things we don't mean.
we lie
to ourselves.
go against our nature.
protecting
hearts
and minds from the grief
we dole out.
ours and theirs. we
deceive and deflect.
defend
the sand we stand on.
we go nowhere
with this game.
round round and we go
on this carousel with stiff
horses,
plastic and faded,
melted.
never truly galloping
in the sun
across the open fields,
free and honest.
true.

free flight

the plane
shudders in the late bloom
of October.
historically not a good month
personally
for me.
i'm at the door.
parachute on, trembling,
not from the wind,
or the speed of the plane
over the bright green fields
of orange county,
but from fear.
the cold fear of what ifs.
the gut is raw
with the height. the rush
of blood
in my head.
the numbness of my feet
as I crouch at the door.
it's not like I haven't done
this before,
many times.
I hear them all yelling
at me, from the ground, from
inside the plane,
from those already in the sky.
jump, jump, jump, they say.
I close my eyes
and pray. i feel a hand reaching
out to touch me on the shoulder,
but
I don't know if it's too
push me out into the open sky,
or to hold me in place.

out of reach

I don't have enough
money
to buy what I need.
or time
to shop.
or gas to get me where
I need to go.
even love is out
of reach.
so I sit
on the front porch
and swing
and swing.
and swing.
until the sun disappears,
sinking softly
behind
the trees.

photo shopped

little is what it appears to be.
if it's almost too good
to be true, well. yes. it is.
the camera lies,
the words
ring untrue,
it's the little lies,
the small print
beneath
the photo shopped view
that speaks the truth.
what you see is rarely
what you get.
buyer beware.
whether a car, or house,
or a glossy photo
of food,
or trip to a discount room,
a flight half price.
swing back the light
like Stanley in Streetcar,
and take a hard look.
the world we live in is
so often air brushed
and polished, unrecognizable
in person.
disappointment ensues.

get out while you're young

get out while you're young
the old
man says to me
when I tell him my troubles.
don't look back.
love will come again.
cut your losses.
you did all that you could
to make things
work.
there's nothing to be ashamed
of,
it's not failure.
it's life.
they can't all be winners.
you had some fun.
the worst thing you can do
in life is to stay with
someone who doesn't love
you, or who you don't love.
the world is full of such
insanity.
life is too short.
too brief. too valuable to live
in sorrow, sadness and grief.
look at your watch, it's ticking.
look at the sun.
how many more sunrises do you
have mister.
find joy. find joy. find joy.
get out while you're young.
and don't look back.

so happy i could burst

the holidays
look like fun this year.
there is so much love
and understanding going around.
my hair stands on end
with excitement.
I've already picked out
a pumpkin to carve.
I have a new wreathe
to hang on the door.
I've purchased rolls and rolls
of silver wrapping paper
for the gifts i'll buy
for loved ones.
there are so many to give
to. but that's okay.
I like to give.
i'm a giver by nature.
I've unraveled the strings
of colored lights, taken
the tree out of the attic.
the ladder is out of the shed.
the stockings are hung
by the faux fireplace.
I've bought dozens of cards
from hallmark and have drawn
hearts with arrows through
each for all my special loved
ones.
there's a pumpkin pie
in the oven. a turkey
in the freezer. I can't wait
to make a pot of gravy.
i'm excited and full of joy
for this upcoming season.
i'm so happy I could burst.

what was that all about

I wake up startled.
it was all an unpleasant dream.
a long mysterious dream.
I shake the cobwebs
out of my head
and let my feet hit the cold
floor.
I shower,
I shave.
I get dressed and look
into the mirror.
no worse for wear.
I get coffee and go to work,
wondering what in the hell
that was all
about.

out of the storm

it's a long
trek
from there to there
in these winds.
this hail storm without
end.
but we'll get there.
be patient.
hold on.
the longest days
of our lives
are getting shorter
by the minute.
be fearless
and strong.
keep on keeping on.
one foot
in front of the other.
trust
and faith. hope
and perseverance.
put your hand out
i'm almost there.

work shop

the workshop
is hard.
the words come out of these
hands,
those hands,
those minds and hearts.
leaves
on trees fluttering
down
in the autumn of their
lives.
dreams
of fame, of fortune
don't appear, just a nice
word or two,
well done,
we like it, can't
wait to read more,
is all most
of us want to hear.

there's still time

a man in a black
suit
is looking for me.
when I see
him coming down the street
I step
into a doorway, or an alley.
I ball myself up
and crouch
behind a garbage can.
sometimes I climb up
a fire escape
and lie upon a roof.
all day
I see him out of the corner
of my eye. I can hear
his shallow breathing.
he's relentless
with that paper in his hand.
he's been following me for
years,
since I was a child,
and has come close
a few times to putting
his hand
upon my shoulder.
but not yet.
not yet. there's still
time.

the blue bird

the simple life.

normalcy.

love from the heart.

work. hard work.
the pleasures of doing nothing.

perhaps a good book.
a well crafted poem.
a walk along the shore hand
in hand.

to wake up with someone
and smile
and say yes, yes yes.
again.
and again.

i have a blue bird in my
heart
that wants to get out.

i want the simple life.

normalcy.
love from the heart.

the barrel fire

i can't purge
fast
enough.
i can't burn and bend,
break
and throw away
all the poisoned links
to yesterday.
i throw
my life into a barrel
and pour gasoline
into it.
i drop a match
and watch it go up
in a roar
of flames.
it's an old barrel.
well used. and
it will be
used again
and again before i'm
done.

the future

by chance
i run into someone
on the street that i used to know.
we're older
now.
not wiser, just older,
pretending to be so.
we make the same
mistakes over and over
again, we say to one another.
we're freaking moses
in the desert.
forty years of wrong
turns,
miscalculations.
mirages.
heat and cold.
lack of food, lack of
drink.
lack of love.
we reminisce about the good
old days.
back when.
back when we had hair,
back when our skin was smooth,
and our knees
and hips didn't hurt,
causing us to limp through
the dry sand.
it was before everything,
almost.
before wives and children,
jobs
and mortgages, bills, bills
bills,
and yards to tend to.
what fun we had.
we wondered how we landed here.
we wondered
under the yellow sky of a
low blistering sun.
we stared at one another
and hugged, shook hands.
kissed each other on the cheek,
and then realized together
without having to say it,
that the future is not
what it used to be.

a bed full of feathers

I cancel tomorrow.
and the next day too.
i'm bored
with life. my eyes have
glazed over.
my heart
beats
slowly
under the October sun.
I imagine
being on the moon.
or mars.
or some distant planet
yet named.
i could easily
or on a silver ship
travelling through
the black
clarity of space.
I find that sleep is of
no help
and the daylight hours
linger on,
linger on, linger on.
but there is hope.
i will arrive
soon.
i'll get there. please be
there when i do,
with gin
and tonic in hand
and a bed full of feathers
to lie in.

the blue of night

the blue
of night is here.
the soft
clouds of youth have
flown.
I inch
to the window
to find a sullen moon,
a yellow
lamp
holding a cat
in its shadow.
I go forward
I go back.
I understand less now
than I did
just yesterday.
I used to be
young
before I became old.

quiet

there are no laughs,
or
jokes
or pratfalls.
there is no
laugh
track no sly retort,
no double entendre,
no quip
or clever
back and forth.
there's just this.
this walk
away.
the other cheek turned.
nothing gained,
the mike dropped,
the day in flames.

they need us now

they need us now,
not then.
these old people who look
like us.
with their
walkers
and chairs, their oxygen
masks
and pills.
they need us
to be there, to go
places where they can no
longer go.
helpless now
in their aged bones.
their loose robes,
shaking
and coughing. bleary
eyed
and thin.
they need us now,
not then.
strange how things
come around
before the end.

small things

it's the little things.
the paper cut.
the pebble
in a shoe, the shaving
miscue.
the finger
in the door.
an ankle twisted
off a curb.
it's the spilled coffee.
the misunderstanding
of words.
the late train,
the early
rise.
the disappointment
of love
though
erases everything.

to paraguay

when I arrive
i'm shaky.
just off the plane.
bag in hand.
I look around at this
strange land,
with a different way
of speaking.
I go down the ramp
in the bright sun.
I see yellow birds
in the trees,
animals on the tarmac.
police men in white.
i'm thirsty, hungry.
exhausted from
the flight.
I take a cab to my hotel
where she waits for me
and says,
are you ready to begin
the rest of your life?

fixing things

she can fix
anything.
leaky toilets, washers
with bad belts.
televisions
that won't come alive.
computers
gone dead.
the sink that drips.
with her tool belt on.
a wrench in hand,
hammer and drill,
a manual, a light.
she kneels to the machine
and goes at it,
making what's gone wrong.
right.
but of course, the heart's
another thing.

for now

there is nothing
one
can do about bad weather.
good shoes
an umbrella, an overcoat
is about it.
be careful
not to think of it as
a bad omen,
or what the future is.
it's just weather.
rain
or ice,
snow. neither fair
or unfair. these things happen.
as it is with those
who cross your pass,
contentious and ill willed.
embrace it all as life.
where you are.
where you need to be
for now.

twenty minutes

the sweet silence.
the undoing,
the stoppage of movement.
thoughts
settled
by the flame
of a candle burning.
let the ripple pond
of life
grow clam.
breathe
in
breathe out.
erase, delete, subtract.
go quiet.
just the hearts soft drum,
in the moment.
no looking forward,
no looking back.

the empty house

the empty house
sighs.
it breathes in then out.

it's
almost alive.

the wind of time.

the laughter.
the tears.
all still here.

somewhere.

and love too.
both yours and mine.

inspecting the attic

the attic
was moldy, dusty.
dirty
grungy when we pulled
down the wooden
steps.
they wobbled with
our weight
when we went up,
holding a flashlight
in our hand.
we didn't know what we'd find.
what secrets
from the past lay hidden
in trunks,
or bags.
the webs
were stuffed in the rafters.
spiders scurried and sat
still.
the small
white bones of birds
and other
creatures
who called it home
were scattered about on
the pink
insulation greyed
like wool.
an ancient burial ground.
the bats, like figs
twitched
in their dreams,
their claws holding them
upside down
in the wood.
nothing up here to be
seen. why bother with secrets,
with what we don't know.
we left
and thought of different
things.

reminders

we trip
over one another.
shoes
left in the way.
purses
and coats,
things not put away.
we stumble on
the boxes
and bags,
slip on the wet
bathroom
floor,
cut our hands
on the knives
left in the sink.
there's a reminder
in every room
of who was here,
who
left, or decided
to stay.

wrestling with God

i wrestle with my
religion every now and then.
I struggle
at times with the whole church
thing, the validity of
noah's ark, and the garden
of eden. i'm
full of doubt and worry.
my faith is weak
wondering about
heaven and hell.
purgatory, really?
a weigh station for the unconfirmed
believers?
we get down on the floor
and go at it, on our
hands and knees.
we argue,
get sweaty, we spit
and gouge each other.
kicking is allowed, as is
hair pulling. but in the end
god puts me in a choke hold
and uses the old boston crab
on me, squeezing
the bejeebees out of me
with his super strong legs.
i cry uncle, and tap the floor
in surrender.
then he lets me up,
and stands over me with a smug
look on his face, then
says something like, okay,
now go and sin no more.
i shake me head and murmur
beneath my breath,
like i haven't heard that one
before. i duck as i hear
a bolt of lightning
go by my head.

the white sale

I don't own a white
shirt that doesn't have
a stain on it.
chocolate or coffee.
dribbles.
dots, drops, dollops.
red sauce
and grape nehi.
some are t shirts,
some dress shirts,
starched and ready
on the hanger,
some are white sweaters,
wool,
cotton, or a blend
of polyester
and nylon.
once the drop is on
them, it's over, done.
and back to the store
for more.

so many miles

the heart fails.
the blood pressure is high.

the pulse
races.

they do what they can to
mend,

but we're old
and worn. we're

bald tires with plugs,
losing air, with

only so many miles
left to
spin.

eat cake

I make a small
dent
in the cake with a fork.
I lift it to my
mouth. no need
for plate
or napkin, or politeness.
I just need
to taste the baked
sweetness
of a chocolate cake.
cold
milk goes nicely
with it
and a window to look out
as I
dig in.

candle burning

two
ends of the candle,
both burning.
the middle
too
now has a wick.
burn on.
sunrise
to sunset.
a puddle of melted
wax
by years end.
and what to show.
what
is the point of this
life,
these working
days
without end.

give me what i want God

what good is
prayer, if it won't get me
what I want.
if I can't
have the winning ticket.
the car, the beach house
with a pool,
the vacation to the south
of France, a few publications
with stellar
reviews.
what gives
dear Lord, I've been so
good for so long, well
lately at least.
okay, today.
I was on my knees,
hands folded
for nearly three minutes
this morning.
and sometimes before I
drift off to sleep
I offer up a Hail Mary or two.
I even put five dollars
in the second collection basket
which I don't
normally do.
(I like to get coffee after
the service.)
i'm just wondering what
more do I need to do
to have things go my way, to
get on your good side. I know
you have one,
or so they say.
you've had my list
for some time now.
I know you're very busy,
but who isn't?
i'm waiting patiently.
oh, and I do thank you for
helping me find
my keys the other day.

the thorn

a thorn
decides to pierce
the soft
skin
of your arm.
just below the elbow.
almost like
a bee sting, but worse.
it stays
in where it hooked.
thick
and curved like
a shark's fin.
the drop of blood is warm,
as you taste
the tiny lamp
of red
off a finger.
roses used
to be your friend.
roses of any color.
how things have changed.
the bundles
coming less
and less
to an empty vase.

at the sand pit

on the swings
at the sand pit,
the children rock back and forth.
swaying
beneath a harsh
blue sky.
the mothers are to the side
sitting.
talking.
wrapped in coats and colorful
scarves
picked
in a different world,
a distant time. much of
their lives are still
before them,
but it's different now.
with husbands lost in work
and weekend chores.
golf and friends.
drinking and television.
the children
want little more than to
be pushed
upwards, back
and forth. that's enough
for now.
their desires and needs
are yet
to be defined. and the wives,
as one,
have a look of uncertainty
locked within
their eyes.

who will get the mail

at ninety
they wheel him in.
having avoided doctors
and hospitals
for most of his life,
he's getting his full share
now,
at the end.
the mask goes on.
the machines whirr,
the clicking
and whirl
is a symphony none of
us want to hear.
monitors come alive
as death
approaches.
the chatter
of nurses in green
and blue,
yellow and pink,
fill the white room,
children
at his feet, like flowers
in some garden
he once kept
clear of weeds.
at ninety he's in a strange
room
with strangers.
the sea is under him.
his blue eyes
are full of fear, of fatigue
and wonder
at how quickly it all
came to this.
who will get
the mail, he whispers
worriedly through the fogged
mask, I left milk
on the counter.

waiting on a train

i'm always waiting for a train
to take
me somewhere.
waiting for the long dark
cars to approach
and screech to a halt.
it's film noir.
hands in my pockets.
hat on,
looking down the steel
rails,
the wet cinders,
grey
and black. it's late
in the afternoon
and the trees are almost
bare.
what's left of them are shades
of plum or brown.
I stand and listen
for the wheels, for
the signal,
the blow of a whistle.
i'm always on the platform.
one bag
beside me.
the life I once had
long gone.
no map, no where to really
go.
but ready, always ready
to get on board
and go.

click click click

I raise the camera,
hold it out a far as I can
go
and click.
it's me
at the beach, me
in the city.
me
on my bike, at
the lake
me walking through
the woods,
in the snow.
me
at the desk, writing.
me with a sunset,
a sunrise.
me
at the park,
the carnival,
the market,
me in front of the water
fall,
me with mountain
peaks
behind me.
me eating ice cream,
reading a book.
it's me.
just me. alone.
click.

slave labor

it's an American
thing.
this obsessiveness with
work.
how we tell others
how long
how hard the day has
been.
how busy we are.
at the shore with our
lap tops.
on the mountain
with the phone.
hardly a minute goes
by without the ding,
the buzz,
the ring
of each and every
connected gizmo.
our fingers a blur
against the key board.
vacations are non
existent. no holiday
to rest.
Saturday and sunday
mean nothing
anymore. there is no end
to any week.
we are proud of our
work ethic,
the work is never done,
who needs art and books,
films and friends,
who needs the quiet
mediation of a soft rolling
brook,
who needs fun?

the deep cushions

I remember
the deck. white with
new stain.
the falling leaves,
the fire
and deep cushions.
I remember
the music
from the window. how
the sky
went blue to dark,
full
of stars.
the drinks refilled,
the plates
put away.
how the night wore on
without words.
hand in hand.
there was little to be said.
being in the moment
was enough.