the masquerade

the masquerade is over.
everyone
takes off their mask
as dawn
approaches
and we see
who we
really are,
all the words spoken,
the fluttering
of eyes,
the twisting
of lips and hands,
arms are done,
we are no longer
in disguise.
we see the true self,
absent of lies.
we go home alone,
none worthy.

don't drink the water

send me a postcard
I tell her when she gets to mexico.
bring me back
something, anything,
maybe a wide sombrero.
anything. tell me
that you love me.
that
you can't wait to get home
to squeeze me, to hug me.
you haven't even left
yet
and I miss you.
be good, behave, don't
drink the water, fly safe.

away on her broom

i remember

lying in bed laughing. stretching

out my arms

and legs,

crossing over

to where she would  be

if she were there,

but she was

gone.

get out of my fucking house

i told her

as i caught her in one

last lie.

one last betrayal.

you're not welcome in my

life anymore.

i endured 

a year of hell with her,

but at last she was gone

and back into the basement

of her ex-husband,

back to window

where she signaled

her married boyfriend

next door.

i was done with the skeleton

whore.

a room with a view

it's a room,
a small room with a bed.
not a cell
exactly
but a place to stay
for now,
to rest her head.
the past is around her,
on the upper floor,
in the other rooms,
and out the window,
across the woods,
the water,
where she longingly
waits
for him to rescue
her once more.
the priests will be over
for dinner,
prayers will be said,
but everyone is left
unknowing about the truth,
why bother,
let's pretend it never
happened.
let's hold hands
and pray and laugh
and smile and be happy
instead.
let's put a shine on
that rotting apple
and turn it so that
the worm is never seen.

railroad jake

when he died,
he was drunk and asleep at the wheel
of a stolen car.
there was a lot of shrugging
at the funeral.
why, what for, he was such
a nice
guy.
two ex wives
and a handful of kids.
he loved beer and wine,
jack daniels
and wild turkey.
there was always a bottle
by his side.
he wore a mustache and a ponytail
since
his early teens.
always hitching a ride.
who didn't know him.
on the corners
with his sign.
at the shelter, at the half
way house.
at the rehab center.
the city jail. they loved
him for his jokes,
his lack of remorse, his
rail road tales, almost all
of them tall and full
of lies.

kicking the witch out

i finally come to my senses

and boot her out of the house.

i've had enough

of this insanity.

i bag all of her clothes

and belongings

and set them on the curb.

all of her make up,

her pills,

her laxatives and self help

books, her pictures

and greeting cards, all of

her crap that she brought

into my house.

it's a relief kicking her butt

out the door. she's been

a liar from day one, a cheater,

a scoundrel, a freak of nature,

anorexic, suicidal borderline

psychopath. a vegan, of course.

i put her carrots and kale,

and spinach packs

in the bags too.

then i change the locks on

the door. i delete and block

her from my computer

and phone.

finally i burn some sage

and wave it around in each

room, killing the spell,

the toxic vibe of her for good.

defeating the devil

strange how the devil

appears

in your life,

steals your will to live.

it's a struggle to fight back,

to rid yourself

of the demon

in your own house.

it takes courage,

it takes strength.

prayer and faith.

he comes in all shapes

and sizes,

colors and gender.

the devil

you have been living

with, the liar,

the deceiver, is gone

at last.

the apron strings

the child
grows in inches.
in height
in weight in stature.
his wisdom
tags along a little
late.
as does ambition
and drive.
unable to leave
the nest and fly,
he's not hungry enough
to move
forward,
to use his own wings,
still tied to apron strings,
and the shadow
of love
nearby.

seeing clearly

it smells
like something is burning.
something
nearby,
but not in the stove,
not the furnace.
no one is outside
cooking on the grill.
but something
is on fire,
something is going down
to the ground
in flames,
and ashes.
I see the smoke
everywhere.
I feel the heat
and the burn nearby.
I step away and look
from afar
and see what it is.
strange how distance
and time
clears your eyes.

hanging onto a cliff

sometimes we hang
on to a cliff for ages,
digging our fingers into the rock
and dirt,
bracing our knees
against the side,
finding foot holds
for our slipping boots.
we sweat it out,
hanging on for dear life.
we can't see what's above,
or what lies below.
but we can't stay in
this position forever,
so finally we give up
and let go, only to discover
we were just two feet off
the ground, and we're okay.
we're fine, the fear and
anxiety, the danger,
was all a mirage,
a figment of our mind.

check please

it's a terrible restaurant,
though shiny and clean
on the outside.
the food is cold,
bugs everywhere,
the silverware is bent,
the wait staff is rude.
it's over priced,
and undercooked.
but we give it another chance,
and another,
hoping that the advertising
will at some point
be true. we gaze at
the air brushed ham
and eggs, the steaks on
the grille, we drool
over the glamor shots
of potatoes
and pies, the spreads
of cheese and olives,
all making our mouths
water,
opening our eyes.
but it's a sham, a
scam, a lure just to bring
you in. nothing is what
it seems, once you take
a bite and try to swallow.
check please.

delivering the bomb

sometimes
you need a giant
bomb
to end a war.
you need something
so undeniably
true
and wrong
to make things right.
you need something
that leaves no doubt.
it's a strange
paradox of sorts,
but the worst has
to happen in order
for the world,
and your own life,
to survive.

make it a home

it feels good
to repaint, to buy a new
rug. a new piece of art.
to move things
around.
to throw away the waste,
to bring
in a new feel
to the house,
your oasis
from the crazy world
outside your
window.
time to make it right.
make it your own.
to create a place of joy,
of hope
of fun
and peace. to once
more make
it home.

get busy living

I like your new shirt,
she says,
touching the buttons,
snazzy.
and those shoes,
right out of the box?
yup, I tell her.
check out the pants,
spinning around in my
fancy, stay pressed
gabardines, like silk.
oh my, she says, oh my.
aren't you the dapper
boy?
I tap my new watch.
gots to go, sweetheart,
time is short, don't
waste it.
time to get busy living.

a good nights sleep

it's a sweet deep sleep.
not a sound.
not a peep,
not a bird
outside the window
in any
tree.
a solid night of dreams.
no tossing or
turning,
no wondering about
what if, no,
angst or sorrow.
the worry gone
about when the other foot
might fall.
just this. just this.
a good nights sleep.

no more

we excuse
we look the other way.
we enable.
we allow
bad behavior to ruin
our lives,
to take place,
time and time again
we forgive
transgressions.
we say it's love, it's
forever
and we must endure.
we must keep the flame
alive.
we're kind
and compassionate,
we bend and bend
in pain,
but life is too short
too sweet
and wonderful
to let it continue,
losing dignity and self.
no more.

the devil beside you

a mere

foot away, in your own

bed,

your own

house,

is perhaps the most evil

person

you've ever met

in your life.

she's wearing a wedding

ring,

the one you gave

her

a few months ago.

husband and wife?

hardly.

evil comes in all shapes

and sizes.

when the devil opens

her mouth

lies fall out.

at last her mask has slipped

off and i see

who she truly is.

now to get out,

to get free.

the purging

I purge.
I burn. I build
a pyramid
of the past
at the hydrant
where the trash goes.
I rip, I tear.
I crumble
into bags.
I toss everything
i'll never need
or wear
into the wind.
I want the clean slate.
I want the memories
erased.
I want a new day.
a new life
without pain.

how lucky they are

the animals
have no secrets, they
tell no
lies,
they are soulless,
neither happy
or sad,
no worries.
no love lost,
or won.
they do what needs
to be done.
food and shelter.
how lucky
they are.

Ginger and Piggy

she called him piggy, 

not because

he was fat,

or that his eyes were blue,

or could oink

uncontrollably

on cue.

no, she said. when he took

his shirt off

his skin was as pink as

bubble gum.

he was a balloon avoiding

puncture.

what a lovely couple

you must have

been, i told her.

you with your borderline

disorder

and anorexia.

your suicidal desires,

the laxatives and sedatives

to keep you soothed.

a mistress for

for years and years, and him

always promising

that soon, you'd be together.

as you lay on the floor

in your rented room,

the phone in your hand

waiting

for it to ding,

hoping that his wife would

leave their house soon.

he'd keep you on a leash

with more and more

bling.

the one year bride

there is she,

the white boned girl,

asleep beside me,

with her hollowed

out soul.

a face full of ashes,

a fraud, a demon of sorts.

how did you

let this person

into your life, how

did you open the door for her

and carry her in.

her black eyes tell you

everything.

her warm breath,

and pointed

tongue.

no truth is found within,

if her mouth is open

a lie falls out,

she's deceiving everyone

and  sleeping

with married men.

and there she lies, a foot

away

on the other side

of the bed.

your one year bride,

the devil incarnate.

when will it end?

the grey squirrel

the fat grey
squirrel
wonders where the bird
seed has gone.
the feeder down.
the posts
unscrewed, dug up
from the winter ground.
he looks
dismayed, saddened
and confused
when he sees me in
the window, staring out
at what was.
I shrug, he shrugs
and off he
goes.

blessed

I see a blue bird
on the sill.
he's beautiful
and small,
a piece of art with
wings.
he stares at me
and smiles,
no worries, he says
in a bird
like whisper,
no pain today
or tomorrow,
no tears,
all is well,
you are blessed,
then he winks
before he flies.

going home

the old man
waits. he's been
praying and praying
for a long
time.
the priests have gathered
around him,
the candles have
been lit
each day, each mass,
and now, at last his prayers
are answered.
he raises his hands
to the sky.
with a beaming smile
he welcomes her.
life is good again,
their world is as it should be,
once more
he has his precious bride.

split screen

there is good
and evil.
there is worship and
denial.
there is truth, there
is a lie.
it's in all of us.
the world is a split
screen
of who we are,
who we wish we were.
some get stuck
on either side and they
never
see the reality of their
behavior
they blame the world
for what's
become of their twisted
strange lives.

your past life

once
betrayed, you can forgive.
twice,
is harder,
three times, almost impossible,
but by the fourth lie
and betrayal
you see who that person
really is
and you must run,
run,
run fast, because things
will never change,
this is what it is,
this is the life
that will become your past.

she's waiting

she's waiting
on the other shore.
patiently.
her arms are behind
her back
as she stares at the green
bottled
sea.
she's smiling.
she's waving.
she knows that in time,
the lessons
will be learned
at last,
and i'll be free.

the old car

the old car
hardly runs. the valves
ping, the muffler
rattles,
blue smoke blows out the back.
the windshield is cracked.
the leather ripped
and worn.
it was a fine car in its
day, but it's time
to let her go. she was
right off the show room
floor.
washed and waxed.
new rubber all around.
but now,
the tires are bald and low.
the odometer
spun around and starting
over.
she was a good car, a fine
ride
to the eastern shore,
to the city. how I loved
her. listened to the radio
and drove
with windows down, gently
rubbed her fenders,
her baby moons,
her fins, her hood
and bow.

Get Her Out

i'm too old
for this. too much drama.
too much
pain.
too many lies, too many
days and nights
of going
insane.
and who's to blame,
she is.
but so am I.
I let the wolf
in the door,
let her sleep under my
roof, enter my heart.
steal my life.
with her,
until I get her out
things will stay the same,
in slow misery,
my days with her
will trickle
down that dark dark
drain.

the campfire

we used to sit around the fire
and roast
marshmallows
in the woods.
pup tents and sleeping bags.
telling each
other bad horror stories.
we listened to the crackle
of the fire.
the bend of branches
in the woods.
we looked into one another's
eyes, at our young
unlined faces
and tried to remember
these moments. being this young,
this new to a world
we would learn more about,
too soon.

becoming me again

I start over.
I shave and shower.
buy new clothes.
new shoes.
I exhale and listen to
my true self.
who I really am.
I shed
the fear, the doubt,
the desire
and wrong intentions.
I free myself
of the cobwebs,
the strange dark shadows
that stole
my soul.
i'm back. i'm free.
i'm who I've always been.
kind compassionate,
full of faults and sin,
so much room for
improvement, but at last,
and finally,
i'm once again. me.

Mistakes

we all make mistakes.
sometimes over and over.
we have a pattern.
she was part of it.
a moth to the flames,
i was.
tricked, duped,
coerced and lied to
time and time again.
it's a weakness in me
to tolerate evil,
to accept bad behavior,
hoping for a change,
praying that the good
in a person will prevail.
but there is no good
in her. zero empathy.
zero compassion.
she's a fraud through
and through. god help
her and her next victim
too.

gone mad

I've gone mad.
crazy
as a loon. a wolf hound
howling
at an orange moon.
i'm
beside myself
with confusion. walking
through the joyless
days
with a broken heart.
how empty the streets are
at night
when love goes wrong.
my clothes drip
on my bones.
my eyes sag from being
tired.
i'm alone in this.
so far away from home
so far away from home.

the long white porch

I see her on the white
porch.
the trees leaning green
and bright
above
the chaise lounge.
I see
the fire going.
the drinks poured.
I hear the music on,
her playlist
that's worn.
she watches
the waves lap at the sand.
her dreams
collide like soft clouds
in her sleep.
what isn't yet, may someday
be.

just words

they called
it love.
but money got in the way.
things.
houses, cars,
boats.
a wife still wearing
his ring.
it's a love like no other
he said.
one for the ages,
Romeo and Juliet had
nothing on us.
and yet.
he let her go.
let her find another,
let
the love of his life,
like no other
slip through his hands
and heart
like
grains of sand,
gold dust
caught in the wind
gone forever.
misery to the grave.

ask and receive

we know when something
is up.
our spider sense tingles.
we have a premonition.
intuition
suspicion.
call it the shine,
call it esp.
call it a calling,
call it what you may,
but
nothing escapes us.
no lie
goes uncovered.
divine intervention
happens
when we ask, when we
really need the truth.
we walk into the woods
and find
a tree.
the tree of lies.
just ask.
and it shall be given,
would he give a stone
in lieu of a prayer
for bread?

self help

i buy a cake,
some candles. a card.
a small gift
which i wrap nicely
in a box
with paper and a bow.
i set them all
out onto the table
where they can
wait for me
until i get home.
and when i get home,
i pour a glass of wine,
put on some
music,
open my gift to me,
slice
out a piece of cake,
dance around the room
and enjoy.

the lightness of being

she's dead to me.

this evil

woman who ruined my life.

(temporarily)

she's gone.

i've packed her things

and set them

by the curb.

i have her keys.

i've burned

whatever it was she left

behind.

i've never known

anyone quite

as despicable

and unspiritual as her,

and yet

i let the devil in.

let her lie next to me

for a year.

when i look into her hollow

self starved

face, i see nothing,

but the empty abyss

of a lost soul.

when she opened her mouth

on lies came out.

strange how we're blinded

by the spell

of demonic women.

new gizzmo

the new toaster oven
is a wonderful
gizmo.
how crisp and brown
the toast is.
how easy it was to push
the toast button,
squinting to see
the little
letters marked light
or dark.
I see that I can bake
and roast,
grill
and broil
in it too. there are
so many wonderful
things
it can do and in time
when I get out
my magnifying glass
i'll read the instructions
and learn
all about those things
too.

it's a cold wind

it's a cold wind
picking up the trash,
the debris
of our lives.
the useful and useless
things
we drag about from
place to place,
none being a real home.
just stops
along the way.
it's a cold wind
that blows up our sleeve
gets between
our coats,
reddens our cheeks.
we walk and walk, we
try to stay warm,
but the wind says no,
it's late for that.
there will be more.

the awful ringing

the pendulum swings.
karma
is hell.
what's wrong in time
gets
what it deserves.
listen, listen,
listen to the ringing,
the awful
ringing,
the ringing of bells.

angels singing

i hear angels singing.
the soft
wings of doves
rising into the sky.
the patter of rain,
the whisper of beauty
saying i love you into
my ear.
i see the flowers grow.
the grass
get green.
the sky
bellow blue.
i'm on a cloud.
a large white bed of
clouds,
floating majestically
and calmly
in the direction of you.

let's make love

the quiet warm
house.
a fire burning.
the books set aside.
just love
from here on out.
being in love.
acceptance and trust.
let's wile the night
away in
each other's arms.
put some music on.
pour the wine.
light the candles.
we've waited too long
for this night
to happen.
let's make love
under a full moon,
whisper gently
our devotion,
then fall asleep,
a deep sweet sleep
until sun decides to rise.

it's not me, really

the bank robber,
the rapist, the terrorist,
the thief,
the liars,
the abusers, the betrayers,
the cheaters, the deceitful
lost souls,
they all
plead mercy on the court
for reasons of insanity.
it's not who I
really am. the person inside
is good. honest. just
give me one more chance
and i'll prove it to you.
this time i'm serious about
turning over a new leaf.
yes, i've done this
over and over and over again,
I've tricked you
so many times,
I've made vows, made promises,
but now,
now that you've caught me
red handed for the fifteenth time
I want to say, whoops,
i'm sorry. really really sorry
this time.
it's not who I am,
none of it is my fault,
I'm wounded deep inside.
i'm a victim of circumstance.
it's like i'm in a trance.
my parents, my upbringing,
my youth,
my ex's, my life. i'm a victim.
this cruel world has put a spell
i'm me
and i'm not responsible
for all the bad things I
continue to do. they made
me this way,
they poisoned my life.
they're making me do these
things without remorse or feelings,
look at me, i'm praying, i'm
wearing a cross. i'm doing
the rosary.
i'm going to church,
i'm observing the holy days.
i'm going to synagogue,
i'm doing yoga, i'm speaking
in tongues, handling snakes.
i'm almost a buddhist,
i'm praying to mecca.
i'm praying over my meal. I
give money to the poor.
i'm genuflecting
to my God.
I have no
control over anything in
my life. not my mouth, my
arms, my legs. my fingers.
i'm like lucy pulling the ball
away from Charlie brown
when he's about to kick it.
laughing each time I yank it away.
I can't help myself from
being evil. i'm like an innocent baby
in a crib with no mind of my
own, no say, or power
to control actions and behavior.
as long as it's hidden
and no one knows, i'm okay.
people will actually believe
that i'm good, that the fake
image I present is the real me,
but no,
i'm at the mercy of
those devils who control me.
please, understand.
i'm sick, I won't do this again.
honest. it's not who
I really am,
and if you forgive me for
the hundredth time
and trust me once more,
you'll meet that wonderful
person. the true me,
the person I really am,
buried deep inside. come on,
everyone else let's me get
away with this behavior,
why won't you? and maybe if you
didn't know what I was doing,
you wouldn't feel so bad.
in fact, I think this is
all your fault.

the list

a small drip
drips
and drips all night
on the chrome
drain.
it's too cold
to get up
and turn the knob
tight.
i'll get it tomorrow.
it's on the list.
a long
list of things
to make right.

the other side

finally you break.
everyone has a breaking point.
the line
in the sand has been swept
aside
so many times.
trust broken
with an endless stream
of lies.
there is only so much
a heart
and mind can take.
when dignity and respect
has eroded to the point
of insanity.
rage and anger take
it's place.
the monster in you arises
and takes
charge.
but then it fades and you
see the light.
the truth.
you wake up on the other
side at peace,
understanding who should
be in your life,
who you should keep.

as it should be

the stillness
of normal, of peace awaits.
the kind
hand,
the gentle touch,
the smiling
face.
the quiet of love
in a loving
house.
no anger, no sadness,
no
lies,
no pain.
the glow of life
as it should be.

a new path

spring
is good for a new way.
a new
trail
unbeaten
through the woods.
let's find a new
path
to the waterfall,
let's get out of the dark,
out from
under the canopy
of old trees
and broken dreams.
take my hand
and let's move forward,
to find the open
the sky,
to put our hands,
our feet into the cold
stream
of fresh fallen snow.

the rest will follow

the mother
reads her son to sleep.
he falls
and falls away
into that slumber that
only children
know.
it's before they have
joined the world.
before work, before money.
before love and death,
loss
and suffering.
they are still safe
and sound
in the bubble of youth.
the rest will follow
in time.

the business meeting

it smells like
a bad idea.
stinks, in fact.
but let me run it
by you,
she says dragging
on a camel.
she's wearing a pink
dress.
a rattle snake
handbag under
her arm.
can you do something about
that sun, she
says, staring into
the bright yellow glare
coming into the window.
no, i tell her.
it's the sun. what is
there to do about?
i guess nothing she says,
but here's my idea.
we can get rich
on it.
but i'm already rich i
tell her.
so what, she says. who
doesn't like more money?
okay.
what's your idea?

sucker punch

it's a sucker punch
to the gut,
a hard swing into the ego,
the id,
the I ching.
the soul
goes down for the count.
a standing eight.
blood boils.
hearts race.
you fight back, you
know
that you have the power
of righteousness on
your side.
you rise in fury,
in pain.
it won't happen again.
your guard will always,
from this point on,
be up.

get in line

I think about
getting into the victim
line for a little
tea and sympathy,
but change my mind.
it's so long,
so deep
along the red bricked building.
I see them.
the weary,
the misunderstood,
the poor, the rich,
the faithful
and unfaithful.
stamp my forehead
with a big V.
woe is me.
my parents didn't hug
me enough.
i'm too white, too black,
i'm catholic,
i'm jewish.
i'm too short or too
tall.
i'm a victim of circumstances.
it's the economy,
the environment.
it's too late in the day,
too early
in the morning.
i'm married,
i'm divorced.
i'm lonely and forgotten.
I never get a break.
my life has been too hard,
too easy.
slowly I back away,
get into my car and hit
the gas.

help for a little while

there is nothing quite like
retail
therapy.
shopping for things you don't
really need,
but could brighten
your walls,
or floors.
a new green chair,
a mirror
over the dressers.
a bright
new light,
sheers for the sunny
room,
shades
for the rear.
a spring shirt,
a summer pair of shorts,
grey shoes,
new socks for
the courts.
full price or half,
makes no
difference. just push
the cart forward and
go to your happy place.
it'll help
for a little while.

to those who wait

a winning ticket appears
out of nowhere, a falling star
gives you a wish.
a lost pup
wanders into
the yard,
a dollar bill lands
in your hand
on a windy day.
you're first in line,
every light is green
on the open road.
you have
exact change for the toll.
you wake up
on the right side of the bed.
go left in the woods
and there it is.
the universe is
telling you something.
listen and listen hard
to these lessons
and premonitions.
they are priceless and rare,
blessings
come to those who
wait.

let it go

the police call
with inquiries as to why I
would
say such things.
write such things.
threaten and be mean and
nasty
towards a despicable
person
who has ruined the lives
of many.
I ask them to stop by
for a cup of tea,
so they come
and I tell them my story.
by the end of the afternoon
they are in tears,
they put their arms around
me, and say, it's okay.
it's okay.
you've done what any
man in love would do.
no one blames you for the rage
and fury
that dwells within your
soul.
now go and find peace,
erase, extinguish those
memories and thoughts
from you mind,
move forward,
find joy, delete.
let it go, brother.

where i am

the night
air awakens the dead
soul
in me.
I button my coat to my chin,
and plow forward
down the old
streets.
down the cobble stone,
by the river
then up and up,
starting all over again.
I breathe in
the coolness of the wind.
I see no one.
feel nothing.
I've arrived where I've
always been,
at the beginning,
at the end.

mystery of reason

not unlike job,
minus the plagues, the boils,
the loss
of life
and land, sheep goats and
cattle, gone.
you
beg for mercy under
a quiet God.
your faith must stay
in tact, throughout
it all.
all things good or bad,
are allowed
from his hand.
the mystery of reason
though, at times
like this is nearly
impossible to understand.

in life and in love

it's a valiant effort.
but you have to know when
the battle is
lost,
when the fighting must end.
the bloodshed
must cease.
you call in the
foot soldiers, the cavalry.
you roll back
the cannons,
put away the sword.
not every battle can be
won, you must save
your strength, get well
and heal.
in life, and in love,
there will be more.

may she rest in peace

was she possessed by demons?

or just evil.

just sick

and disordered.

mentally ill.

do i feel sorry for her.

not now, maybe later,

i think as i bag

her clothes and set her

trash out on the curb.

will i miss her.

no.

a resounding no.

she was a fake, a liar,

a loser.

everything about her was

dark.

the first night without

her i laughed

myself to sleep

after changing the locks,

and burning the bridge

completely.

may she rest in peace,

as i will

without her.

gaslighting

nothing is what it seems.
there are layers upon layers
of deceit and deception.
the clouds are upon us.
the fog is thick.
the gaslights are on.
what you thought was true
is untrue.
what's a lie anyway?
what's twenty lies.
a year of lies.
it's the fabric of a soul.
that's what it is.
God save us all from such
people who hurt without
remorse, without conscience.
without care or repentance.

biscuits in the morning

she was a funny
woman.
made me laugh when i
wanted to cry.
made me
biscuits in the morning,
warm
with butter.
she was tender and soft,
always sweet with
kisses and words.
a pot of water was
always boiling on the stove.
there was a cat
on the sill
and a dog on the bed.
it was home
away from home.
she saw beyond the pain
of life,
how there was more
than that,
she believed that joy
was in the making.
love and truth will
win out in the end.
she whispered to me
hang in there.
be strong,
keep your faith.
protect your tender heart
from evil, it's everywhere.
she had kind eyes and soft
hands. no worries.
you're a good man.
you'll get
there. i promise.
she made biscuits
in the morning,
warm, with butter.

sharp knives

i pull a sharp knife
out of my back
and say ouch.
not again. but yup.
there it is.
the serrated steak
knife stuck
half way into my
back.
but i laugh and shrug
it off.
this makes me stronger.
wiser.
more wary of liars
with sharp knives.
a mere flesh wound.
it missed the heart
completely.

i take an axe

I take an axe
into the forest and start
chopping down
trees
until I find the one
that i'm looking for.
it's a wasteland.
the stumps are everywhere.
but there it is.
what I've been looking for.
that special tree.
the tree of knowledge.
the tree of life.
it tells me all I need
to know about what I
need to know.
it's a truth tree.

daydreaming

my favorite teacher
was the hardest.
five foot one. grey eyes.
glasses.
squared from top to bottom.
she taught analysis
in the eleventh grade.
Mrs. Curtis.
she knew you could do
the work,
knew that you were smart
enough, but
also knew that you had
some lazy bones in you,
distracted by sports,
by the girl
in the first row. by music,
holidays and books.
the window drew your
attention away from her
chalk board.
her numbers and equations.
her diagrams.
Stephen, she'd say
loudly, tossing a piece
of chalk my way, what's
the answer to the problem
I just put on the board?
and it would awaken me
from my day dream.
of blue skies and clouds.
of poetry and imagination,
all the things that lay
outside lines.
at the end of class she'd
scold me in her soft way.
and say, you should be getting
A's not B's or C's.
now take these erasers outside
and bang the chalk out of them.
and tomorrow, I want you
to be present, not day dreaming
your life away.

let's make a deal

he was a person
who
had to have his way.
it was all about him.
always.
he couldn't stop being
on call.
making the sale.
glad handing all who
crossed his path.
hey buddy.
hey pal.
my friend.
did you lose weight,
you look
great. younger.
smarter. you even smell
good today.
he was the life of the party,
but dead inside.
full of baloney
and casual, unending lies.
he couldn't have
everything he wanted
he found out
in the end.
some things
were out of reach.
some people came to their
senses and escaped
his greedy clutches.
some things slipped through
his hands
because he was too busy
holding onto
everything and everyone
else.

get me off this thing

it's fun
being on the ferris wheel,
strapped in tight,
around and around
up high.
I can see the sites.
the bridge, the water,
the tops of buildings,
birds flying by.
it's fun,
for awhile, but then
I get queasy and need
to get off.
it's going on and on
and on, with no stopping.
a few times around was
wonderful, but now
I finally want to get
off.

no more cake

I blow out a candle
in each room
and make a wish.
it's my cake of life.
I've baked it.
I mixed up this batter
and set it out.
but the sweetness
is gone.
it's stale and crumbling.
it was a beautiful
cake at one time.
the icing, the shape,
the hope of it.
I blow out a candle
in each room
and toss the cake
out the window.
my wishing is all done.

tomorrow

tomorrow things will change.
I tell myself
in song.
tomorrow, or maybe next week,
maybe next month
things will make a turn
for the better
and get right.
tomorrow. always with the tomorrow
I sing in the shower,
on the way to work,
as I lie in bed
at night.
but the past and present
is singing a different
tune.

the cold room

you go to sleep cold
lying on the edge
of your ice
berg bed.
you wake up
cold.
the floor is ice.
the air
is frigid.
it feels like it snowed
in this room
last night.
there's not a single
waft of heat
coming from
any direction, not a
single ray of hope,
or light.

i'm not sorry

no one says i'm
sorry
anymore.
they justify their actions
as being human,
being misunderstood.
they believe they're innocent,
their actions are
okay
and perfectly normal.
they don't see the pain
the agony
caused.
their righteousness
keeps the word out of their
mouth.
no empathy, no concern.
deal with it,
they say and move on.
sorry is not in their
vocabulary, which tells
everything there is to know
of what truly lies within
their soul.

a basket of clothes

my mother used
to gossip over the back fence
while hanging clothes,
wet clothes on the stiff line.
there would be a basket
at her feet,
a dog in the yard,
we were in the window,
some of us, faces
pressed against the cold
march glass.
but she would talk
to the neighbors in conspiratorial
whispers
about what the dirt
was in the neighborhood,
a husband gone astray,
a job lost.
a child sick with the measles,
a mother in law
who had over stayed her welcome.
i'd see her laughing,
standing in the blue green
grass of early
spring. the patches of dirt
where the dog ran
along the chain linked fence.
she was happy then.
out of the house, hanging
sheets and blue jeans,
shirts and dresses.
letting the wind do its thing.
tossing her thick black
hair about.
she would always be young
back then. I will always think
of her in that way.
strong and laughing,
a basket of clothes at her
feet.

flying kites

do you still believe in love,
she asks
me
as I look upwards into
a vibrant
blue sky.
we run along
the march grass as
the wind takes our kite,
bright as a gold finch,
high into the clouds.
of course I do, I tell
her,
pulling on the long
string
to keep it near.
it's not the emotion of
love
that's a problem,
it's who you fall in
love with.

getting out of the jump

I can feel
the cool breeze of a new
day
as I lie inside
my cell,
staring at the window
and
the black
iron bars that keep
me in the stir.
my time is almost up.
I've served
and paid my dues
to love.
I listen to the guard
come down
the hall with his
keys.
he's glad i'm going home.
he knows i'm
innocent, as does
the whole prison.
they all want me
to be happy and free.
they clap and yell,
they whistle.
go home, they tell me.
go home. go home and
find
a new life.

the truth shall set you free

you hire a detective
to see
if she's cheating on you
again.
lying through her teeth
once more.
putting on her casual
air
of innocence. but
my man is good.
a gumshoe of the very
best.
he blends into the trees.
smooth as silk
with his
deft moves.
no one can escape
his tail.
just take a few pictures
you tell him
of her and her lover.
they usually meet
in a park,
or some special
place
off the beaten track.
i'll be out of town
so i'm
sure they'll plan a
sweet little
rendezvous.
you pay him double
for his work and he
tips his hat.
i'll get you what
you need, he says,
striking a match
to light his cigarette.
give cheaters time and
rope and they
all slip up eventually.
have a nice trip,
you're worries are about
to be over.

not dark yet

she says you seem depressed,
sad,
lonely, despondent,
discontent.
go on I tell her
while lying on the floor
in a fetal position.
what else?
well, you're no fun
anymore. no more
sly observations, no
jokes, no laughter,
no witty banter about
the mundane.
it's like
the you in you has been
cut out.
someone carved away
the heart of you.
what else?
that's it she says.
now get up off the floor
and get right.
get living again.
get happy my dear boy,
the night
is approaching. it's
too early in life to
call it a day.

awaiting the light

another orbit
around the sun.
another day
another night.
where are you?
what's keeping you
from
saving me
from this planet
I've arrived on?
beam me up
and out. i'm here
with arms extended,
awaiting the light.

we're holy now

i see them pray.
church every day.
on their knees.
rosary in hand.
repentant and remorseful.
they've turned
over a new leaf,
a new life.
how nice.
let's forget the past
and move on.
but something is amiss.
something
doesn't feel quite
right.
the outside has a shine,
but what lies within
still is in the dark.
there is no light.

they never stop

it never ends.
they never stop.
like termites
they eat the wooden
legs
off the table.
carve holes into
my door, my
heart.
they go after the windows,
the floors.
they never stop.
they are incessant
with their desire
to win her back.
this is what they do
and know
with no respect for
me, my life, or home.

erase and delete

my memory is good.
I remember
a good meal. a good story.
love.
hate.
I remember
the past as if it was
now.
which can be a problem
when it
comes to moving on.
even the imaginary
memories
are hard to shake.
what you thought then,
thinking it was true.
it still feels true,
despite all that you
know and the tears that
you've shed.

happy times

he used to tell
me
that he only drank
in happy times
or sad times or when
he felt bored.
if not for those times
he wouldn't at all,
not even a single drop.
and I tend to believe
him as he fills another
glass.

a new book

a new
book is in my hands.
hardback with a glossy cover.
slowly I turn the pages.
reading line
after line.
each word bounces off
me. off my
eyes.
nothing gets absorbed.
I start again
and have no idea what it's
about, who's who,
where it's going, or how
it might end.
the blurbs all rave
about it.
the new York times says,
some book!
they may even make a movie
based on it,
but for the life
of me I can't get passed page
three.
i'll try again tomorrow.
maybe.

don't wait

the bread is good.
warm
right out of the oven.
people stand in line
for it. it has
a nice
hard crust.
they slide it into
in a paper bag. you can
still feel
the heat
when you put it under
your arm
and go out the door.
why wait until you
get home,
go ahead
and snatch it apart,
have a piece. don't wait.

march on

a sweet coat
of white drapes the birches,
the pines,
the oaks
outside.
the grass is smooth.
a sleeve
of ice
on the lower stream.
the wind light.
i'll get out there
at some point.
alone. resigned.
a scarf around me,
a hat,
gloves, my coat
buttoned tight.

what do you miss

what do you
miss about your old life
my therapist asks
from behind her owl like
gaze.
she's across from me with
a yellow pad.
her glasses tilted just so
on her nose.
her hair is all over the place,
which i take as a sign
of intelligence.
what do you miss, she asks
again, but softly
to keep me from crying.
tell me she says.
go slow.
it's okay. give me
your pad, i tell her.
and more paper, more ink.
how long do i have?

true love around the corner

i hear a rumor
that true love is right
around
the corner.
just a half a block up
to the left.
mutual love.
romance
and joy.
friendship and trust.
a love that forsakes
all others.
i hear
it's rare. unusual.
but it's out there,
i can feel it.
right around the corner
is what they
say.

the war is over

he wins.
they both win.
I surrender.
to hell with it.
I give up.
give in.
I wave the white flag
and climb out
of my bunker.
i'm done. I have
nothing left to give.
no bullets left
in my gun.
i'm tired, out of
food and water.
my clothes hang on me.
i'm a skeleton.
bared to the bone.
not a tear left
to shed.
take her.
she's yours.
the war is over.

still winter

there is a chill
in
the air.
winter is lingering
on.
I can't remember
warm
air.
the warm embrace of
a golden
sun. I never knew
it would
take this
long.

a desk rises

she's mechanical.
with her tool belt on.
her flash light
her flat head driver
phillips too.
a hammer.
and glue.
casters askew,
pegs and screws.
the directions spilled
across
the floor of her room.
in no time,
a desk rises
from a slew of pieces,
solid
and clean ready
for her work,
for her elbows to lean.

the night fire

I push a steel barrel into
the center of the yard.
I find the lighter fluid
and a book of matches.
I throw in some branches,
some newspapers just to get
it going,
then set it all ablaze.
I put all of my self help books
into a wheel barrow
and bring them around
the house
to the raging fire.
one by one I toss each in.
I watch the flames lick
the pages,
the underlined and dated
sentences.
I see the bindings go up,
the sizzle of the laminated
covers,
the smoke of ink burning.
I stand around the barrel
and smile.
I feel better as I warm
my hands over the fire.
finally they have become
useful.

the new wife

in his turquoise Chevrolet
he
pulled away
as we stood at the door,
others at the window,
and waved.
divorce is cruel
to everyone.
where once there was love,
then none.
the promises of returning
became fewer.
we grew
without him.
he found another life.
a new family.
a new wife.

friday nights

it's Friday night.
the early meal.
the book, the silence.
the rain,
the quiet as you slip
into bed
before ten.
there is another world
out there.
I remember it well.
the nights
out
with the boys.
the closing of bars.
the sweat of dancing.
the promise of a dance,
the miracle
of a kiss, or a number.
we were young
then.
so very young and hopeful.

the bus

the bus
is on time.
they gather like birds,
huddled
in the rain,
wings to their sides.
the air brakes
bring it to a halt.
a door flaps open.
they climb aboard
with their lives.
work
is down the road.
life is
going and coming.
the bus
is part of it.

be patient

she says i can't read your poetry
anymore.
it's too sad.
too maudlin and blue.
you're broken heart
and
anxiety is killing me.
you're no fun anymore.
what happened, what
went wrong?
i miss the old you.
be patient, i tell her.
i'll be back, i'm on my
way, not to worry.
more frivolous poems
are coming, stay tuned.

i don't need any of this stuff

i don't need
a new car but i think about buying
one.
i don't need
new shoes either,
but it doesn't stop me from
going to the shoe
store and purchasing
another pair.
i don't need a new chair,
or a tv,
or a new rug, or hardly anything,
not even new friends,
most of what i have is
perfectly fine, hardly old,
but certainly not new.

a girl from the north country

at the gym
there is a man who stares
into the full length mirror
for an hour
after lifting his weights.
his hair is peroxided
a golden yellow.
the color of a twinkie.
he flexes
his arms,
his legs.
the veins in his neck
bulge into
ropes of blue
beneath his glistening
tanned skin.
he turns from side
to side,
looks at himself from
behind.
he's pleased.
very pleased at what
he sees.
finally he struts out,
giving high fives to the trainers,
the towel boy,
the girl at the front
desk.
what this all means,
I have no clue.
but it's interesting
as I sit here
thinking about a girl I
once knew, or thought I knew
who lived in Quebec.

that might do it

it's the blues.
the doldrums, the winter
deep freeze.
cabin fever.
I pull the blanket
to my chin
and think about skipping
work.
skipping
the whole day.
quitting, or joining
something.
I think about making some
changes.
going south,
going west.
or just going somewhere
where nothing
looks the same or reminds
me of the past
12 months.
maybe somewhere tropical.
or a big
city I can get lost in,
or maybe a deep
mine in the mountains
where I can carry
a lantern
down down down to the center
of the earth.
that might do it.

not here

you don't come around here
much anymore,
do you, the woman says,
pushing a cold drink in front
of me.
you used to be a regular
here, weren't you.
in fact you used to sit over
there,
right over there in that stool
if I remember correctly.
I never forget a face,
or the drink that goes with it.
gin and tonic, right?
right, I tell her.
slice of lime.
go easy on the tonic.
where you been, my friend.
not here, I tell here.
not here.

food

I spoon the words
into my
open mouth. I am a child
with books.
I eat strings
of sentences when I can,
when I have
time.
I devour the pages,
crumble them
into my mouth.
the ink drips from my lips.
whether on the road,
or in bed, I read
and read.
I need the nourishment
of thoughts
written down.
I hoard the books
on shelves,
on the floor,
stacks of them rise
like timber
in my rooms.
I starve for poetry,
for
fiction, for truth.
yes, even that, though
so often that's
the hardest thing to
swallow.

in line

in line
again for something.
I fold my arms and wait.
I have been
waiting all my life
to reach a point
where I don't
have to wait
for anything,
or anyone.
it's coming,
I can feel it, but
i'm' not quite there,
just yet.
soon. soon.

monday

another weekend
passes.
and the new morning
punches you
gently in the gut
to get up.
to get to it.
get out there and
make a buck.
do something.
so you shower and dress,
slip
on your work
shoes.
coffee on the way,
you steer numbly
into Monday,
the start of a new week,
no different
than the last
or the one to follow.

the flea market

in tidy rows
they line the shelves,
the floors and tables with
their
dusty gold.
the vases and jars,
the unworn
rings and broches,
the dresses
and shoes, all thin
bare,
unwanted, but used.
magazines with Kennedy
and Nixon
on the cover,
the moon men,
natalie wood,
or john wayne.
the yo yo's.
the empty coke bottles.
a tin
from an Esso station
saying stop here.
one man's treasure
is another
man's
trash, not thrown
away, but kept and sold
to the lowest
bidder who has a place
somewhere in
his already crowded
basement or
room.

the splinter

the splinter, the stick,
the split
board
the sharp pointed
sliver
that jabs
your heart, your mind,
your increasingly
indifferent soul,
is without
a clock.
it stays and stays,
it seems
to have found a home
in you, never wanting
to stray too
far
from where you
live
and breathe.

the long distance swimmer

arm over arm
you swim and swim.
you kick your legs
turning your head side
to side
to breathe.
the salt and cold
of the waves
roll over you.
this takes the measure
of who you
are or thought you
might be.
there is no land
visible
in any direction.
there is little you
can do,
but swim, and swim
and swim
under a cold moon,
under a hot sun.
you do all that you can
do
to not slip under
and succumb
to the world you've
been born into.

you're getting old

you're running out
of time
the therapist says. look at you,
at this age
coming unglued,
untethered.
full of anxiety and pain.
you only have a few years
left.
why aren't you having fun,
why aren't you in
paris, or rome,
or Bombay
enjoying your golden
years with a loved one.
her voice is soft and lilting.
the couch in her office
is full of feathers,
the walls are a pale grey,
the light is low
and warm.
it's easy for me to drift off
and forget my troubles
when i'm there.
what?
I ask her when she stops
talking,
did you say something?

the pie lady

she likes to make
pies
and sell them at the
farmers market
on pitt street.
Saturday and sunday
mornings from
eight am
until
she runs out.
her own recipes.
her own crust.
everything from scratch.
no cheating.
real butter and sugar.
she knows what people like.
apple, blueberry.
pumpkin and mince
meat when in season.
lemon pies
with the froth
of meringue just so.
peach
and the rare
pear pie, made to order.
she sits there in her
metal
folding chair
beneath an umbrella
and says little.
her hands are pink
from the kneading and washing,
the dicing of fruit.
they are thick
with time and work.
she's not there to
socialize
or make friends.
she lets her pies
do the talking.
the sign says cash only.
it's business, these pies,
just business.

what's left behind

her father
steps out into the room
without clothes.
he's unshaven
and curt.
the steady hand
of his daughter
draws him back into
the bedroom,
to the bathroom.
this lion
of wall street,
now a mere kitten.
at the mercy
of his mind, those
brilliant years
of life
and living have
disappeared, only
the photos show what
was and what's been
left behind.

the longer night

the long day
proceeds even the longer night.
the owl
perched
under a silver moon
on a bended
branch
in thick pines,
is watching,
listening before
spreading his wings
to kill
what lies below.
a fox sides through the bramble
with something
half alive
in it's teeth.
snakes curl coldly
side by side. all the
birds have gone quiet.
the woods
are under the spell
of darkness.
a possum wanders
into the street,
blinded by the lights
surrendering his pondered
life.
and here we are inside
doing
what we do best,
we're quiet, a book
in hand
beside a low soft light.

what's wrong

count your blessings,
she says.
you have so much
to be thankful for.
look around you, who has
what you have?
she lists my
belongings,
my health, my friends
and relatives.
she throws out her arms
and says most
people would be happy
and thrilled to be where
you are,
what's wrong?

two steps forward

two steps
forward, one step back.
the chill,
the bone ache
of cold,
the hair on end
the swirl of
thoughts,
suspicion and lies,
jealousy
and pain
taking you down
once again
to that dark hole
of yesteryear.

around the bend

it's down the road.
around
that bend,
past the corn field,
the water tower,
the gas station.
keep going,
you can't miss it.
you'll know it when
you get there.
a cold drink
in the hot sun.
stretch your legs,
relax.
have a bite to eat.
true love is waiting.
you're home son,
at last
you're really home.

i hate face book

it's official.
I hate face book. the social media
in general.
you tube, myspace,
your space,
snap chat and the rest.
don't send me any more of
your cake
photos please, or tell
me where you've
been or what you're doing, or
eating,
and with whom.
that new house, or car,
or tan you got on some island
bores me to tears.
I don't want to know about who
died, or is dying.
don't tell me your medical condition,
or post a photo of your rash,
or lump,
or eye that's gone awry,
or new pair of shoes.
I don't want to attend another
reunion, or connect
with long lost relatives
or friends.
i'm perfectly content with
those I have, or don't have.
your dog or cat or grandbaby
is not
interesting to me, nor
are your political
or religious views.
spare me the gossip of
your life.
sorry, so sorry,
but please delete me,
don't tag me, or like me.
just go away and leave me alone.
it's official,
I hate face book and all that
it entails. if we're really
friends, meet me
for coffee, or lunch,
or call me on the phone.

beware the mood

everyone has a breaking point.
when
kindness and compassion
suddenly
are erased with a fit
of red rage, when
the desire to harm
and set right
the wrongs overtakes
the kind and gentle soul
you believed you were,
but aren't.
beware when that mood
strikes. beware.

sleeping dogs

the sleeping
dog
is left to his sunny
nap
on the rug.
stretched out in the warm
spring sun,
he's deep
into a dream.
let's let him lie
a bit longer,
no need to disturb
his sleep.
no need to feel the wrath
and bite
of those hidden teeth.

contact

he used to find
the smallest of reasons
to call,
to make contact.
he was a child begging
for his mother
to tuck him
in, to give him one
more sweet
from the jar high
on the counter
where he couldn't reach.
and with her
soft heart she did,
over and over again,
until he was back
in her good graces
and starting once more
the game
with no end.

to the other shore

the fog
has lifted.
I see clearly now what has
to be done.
where I need to go
from here.
the water is calm.
the other shore
is closer than I imagined.
I could swim
the last mile
easily.
I take off my pants my
shirt, my
shoes and dive in.
take my hand on the other
side,
i'm coming.

what love is

i sip
the poison daily.
small sips.
i don't want to do it
all at once.
too dramatic.
i want people at
bedside
telling me how
much they love me.
how they're going
to miss
when i'm gone.
when they leave the room,
i smile.
finally
i know what love is,
or pretends to be.

the strong wind

I see small children
in the air
flying.
the wind is strong today.
they seem
happy
as they float aimlessly
against the blue.
their books and bags
are let go.
the smiles
on their faces are
filled with joy.
their parents are desperate
to save them,
to bring them down.
to keep them
in hand, close by.
it's a trend that will
never end.

untethered

the phone is dead.
the battery drained dry
of me
calling,
texting, emailing, looking
at cats
on you tube videos.
i'm untethered
to the world I've
created.
but it's okay.
it's fine.
I can breathe now.
free
from what I think
is so important
but isn't.

the fun house

logic goes out the window.
rational thinking
too.
everything is upside down.
what's right is wrong.
black is white.
it's a fun house of twisted
mirrors.
of rolling floors
and trap doors.
the blinking lights
it's a circus of blowing
horns,
tears and laughter
at the same time. it's
maddening and scary.
is it day or is it night?

breaking point

everyone has a breaking point.
a line
in the sand,
a point where tolerance
is no longer
an option.
it takes a long time.
a lot of bending before
the break, but when
it does,
when it happens, there
is no looking back,
no regret,
no remorse,
no dragging of the lake.

the tropics

it's hard
to know when a storm
will arrive.
the day being so peaceful.
the sun out.
in an instant
though things change.
a wind picks up.
the sky goes dark.
the rain pelts
us without warning,
the air grows cold.
an hour later,
it's as if nothing
had happened.
the smile returns.

the vew from here

i like the view from
here.
the rocks. the mountains,
so layered
in blue,
the distant clouds awash
in white, grey wisps.
i like this chair
i sit in.
alone with a book,
my feet upon the wall.
the trees anxious to be
full with life once again.
like me.

my rose colored glasses

my detective days are over.
i'm done with that
I know more than enough
about what's going on.
no longer do I need
confirmation, or clues, or
tracks in the sand. I need
no dna, or blood. no photos
or texts, or emails.
I know what the truth is.
I've known it all along
but now I know for sure,
my instincts were right.
the rose colored glasses
are off, shattered
in my hand.

a square of metal

it's an addiction
this
phone. these texts.
these
emails,
these voicemails.
this constant need to
look and check
what the ding is,
what the vibration means,
what the light
glowing could possibly
be.
it's a sick world
we've made.
no conversation. no
gentle touch
of hand in hand. no
power to stop reaching
for what was,
what's ended.
we're slaves to this
square of metal.
till death do you part.

given time

i kiss February
goodbye.
i wave to it as it
finally
slips away into another month.
the birthdays
the drama,
the holidays.
enough already.
the ice of it.
the shortened light
of it.
the cold and wind.
it seems as if it will
never end, but it
does, as most
pain will, given time,
given friends.

is this life

I don't blame the animals
in the zoo
for plotting their escape.
despite water
and shelter, food,
it's the bars
that make them worry.
the lack of freedom.
they long to live and die
in the natural world.
they pace and swing from
the rafters,
swim in the shallow pool.
is this life,
they ask each other,
passing notes, whispering
in their own way
to one another.

the rare light

survival makes us forget
the pain
of what was.
we put a shine on it.
soften it
with false memory.
we ignore the scars,
the limp
of heart,
the broken trust
and lies.
we tell ourselves
it wasn't so bad.
we remember
the rare light,
despite
the darkness of
those days.

it's quiet here

it's quiet
here.
the dust has settled.
the debris
of words
have been swept up
and tossed
away. by morning
the shattered glass
of love
has been picked up.
the fingers bleed,
there is little
left to say.
it's quiet here.

his garden

he can hardly see,
but
into the garden
he goes
on bended knees.
the dirt is known.
the seeds, the spade
and hose.
the square of ground
he's worked at
for thirty years
or more.
it's just tomatoes,
peppers,
that sort of thing.
but still,
something he can hold
onto,
something to wait
and look forward
to this spring.

go left go right

sleepless
in the great room
where the cool light of
morning
comes too early.
how the cold catches you,
a leg uncovered,
an arm
above your eyes.
the conversation within
you
goes on and on.
the argument
unceasing,
go left, go right.

game on at four

i hear the other foot
finally
drop.
the door close,
the cab pull away.
i go to the window
to wave,
but it's too late.
the bags are in
the trunk.
i see the blue exhaust
blow out
as the car
turns the corner.
i sigh
and make myself a sandwich.
there's a game
on at four.

mush

it's her brown eyes.
her
smile.
her sweetness in general
and mind
that melt my bones
turns me
into mush when I
see her
and kiss her, the time
goes by so quickly.
there's never
quite enough.

romancing the past

it was hard for her
to leave
the past behind.
the sweet harmony they made
together.
the deck,
the dogs, the stream
and woods
behind the low rise
of a foot bridge.
it was hard
to not romanticize the past.
pretending
that all things
were good in that life,
no pain,
no sorrow, no
strife.
it was hard for her
when thinking back,
and harder for
me when I knew
where her thoughts
were at.

stalker

I see the stalker's
car
in the shadows, beneath
the trees.
he's waiting
for a glimpse, a wink
or a wave.
his basket full of goodies
under arm.
he'll never give up.
he's
a knight in rusted
armor, a predator
of the worst kind,
a savior of the blind.
he's as patient
as the snake is at the bottom
of a tree,
with his slithering tongue
and convincing eyes,
waiting for spring,
waiting for the eggs,
for that moment to arrive.

the earth spins

the earth spins
without our help,
the rain
falls,
the heat makes the desert
what it is.
there is little
we can do to change
things,
as in people. they
are
who they are,
not what they say.
beware of words
whispered over and over
again.
there is little truth
in them.
liars never change.

dog beach

the dog loves the beach.
the roar
of the ocean.
the expanse of cold sand.
how blue
the sky is above his prancing
paws.
the joy seen in his
wide
lapping tongue.
his dash to the waves,
chasing gulls
into the sky on soft wings.
this is heaven for him.
sweet bliss
in early spring before
the tourists arrive
and change
everything.

the new prehistoric

some are readers,
others not so much.
some
like the printed word
while
others like to stare into
their phones
looking at cats
or people falling down
on you tube.
the world is dumbing
down
at record speed.
listen to the music.
watch
the shows.
the comic book movies.
hardly an intelligent word
or thought
is spoken
these days.
it is what it is, we say,
not having
anything worth while to add
to any give
day.
we are going back
to the cave
with a stone and stick
in hand,
etching
bison on the wet dank
walls
we live in.

snow day

the snow sure does look
pretty
today, mother, the child says,
elated
with the cancellation
of school.
do you think we'll have two
days off, not
one?
the mother, stands at the door
and looks out
at the freshly fallen
snow.
she wishes she felt like
the child does about such
wonderment.

the same feeling

i can see in her eyes
the memory of someone else, not
me.
i feel the weight
of it
on my heart, but try my best
to let it go.
she goes quiet
with her thoughts, and i
know better than to ask
her, what?
what's going through your
mind right now.
i don't want to know.
and she looks at me, with
the same feeling.

hold on

my father coughs into the phone.
I can't remember a conversation
with him
when he wasn't coughing,
or blowing his nose, or asking
me to hold on
while he gets a glass of water.
I tell him a joke or two
to set the mood.
he's always been a good laugher.
the worse the joke the harder
he laughs. we've got that going
for us.

another day

the birthday
comes and goes. another day
in the life.
an uneventful
twenty four hours,
which is nice.
a cake, a card,
a candle to blow on.
a small gift
with a hand written note.
we move on,
and on, until
there are no more days
to wonder
about, and think what's
next.

the sickness of her

she is sick.

i see her lying on the bed,

groaning

in pain.

heat on her stomach,

pills in

her mouth.

ice on her head.

bone thin and gaunt.

she's sick.

and she's making me sick

being with her.

every day

is misery.

she lies, she betrays,

she's a demon

sleeping six inches away.

dear Lord

get me out of here

before i too go crazy.

from a window

the morning coffee
is
good
against the back drop
of quiet.
a blue
sky
rises
against the yellow sun.
the bare
trees
reach and bend
towards another day.
we do
too.

love balloon

she says that love
to her
is like a balloon
but with
a tight knot so that it
doesn't loose
it's air.
a red balloon, perhaps,
or pink
or white,
no strings
attached.
love is meant to fly
and be free,
to go where it needs
to go
without a worry or a care.
love is something to be
shared.
something to last.
never once though
does she think about
the thorn that lies
in every path.

bread on the table

the bread
rises in the oven.
I flick on the light and watch
the heat
do it's thing.
a simple thing.
a small
good thing as the sun
settles
beyond
the city.
the room fills up
with the scent of baked
bread.
the calmness of it all.
the taste of it
in warm slices
on the tongue,
a wealth
of butter atop
each piece,
cut or torn.
out the window,
the sky gone blue
in darkness, but there is
this,
fresh bake bread
on the table.

knockout

the boxer
in his corner on the stool
looks
out to the maddening crowd.
blood
cakes his eyes.
his nose is flattened
wide.
his ear are swollen.
they douse him with water,
clog the cuts.
rub his shoulders.
you've got him this round
they whisper into his one
good ear.
upper cut, upper cut.
he's dropping his guard.
but the boxer isn't there.
he sees a girl
in the stands. she reminds him
of a woman he used
to be in love with.
the road not taken.
he misses her, he loves her.
he'd do anything to win
her back.
he'd even get up exhausted
with no life in him
to win her love again.
so this is what he fights
on for.
the bell rings and he
charges
into midnight. he doesn't
see the glove coming
towards him,
he only sees the girl.
he goes
down and down and down
into a slag heap. he's out.

family dsyfunction

I see the pattern.
the circle of it all.
the good days
versus the bad.
I see a trail of train
wreck
holidays.
new years.
Christmas.
thanksgiving.
mother's day.
father's day.
birthdays.
valentine day.
only arbor day and flag
day goes unscathed
by some turmoil
and dysfunction.
maybe ground hog day too
is clear
of door slamming,
or sleeping
in the other room,
or the dreaded blanket
of silence for
a few days. I fear
St. Patrick's day
looming
on the horizon.
I tap my foot and bite
my nails,
what will I do wrong,
what misdeed or word
spoken will wreck
that day and put me
in the black, send me
to the dog house?

for anyone to see

I used to have
friends I could call
and tell them anything.
tell them
everything
no matter how dark
the circumstances were,
no matter who was right
or wrong.
I could rant and rave,
spill my guts to them
and they'd never turn on me.
they'd listen.
they'd hold me in their arms.
they'd put their
hearts into it
and tell me that they're
there for me
through this storm.
good friends. people
who'd listen
and love without judgement.
souls who knew me and
really cared,
but they're gone
now.
seven down and counting.
so I sit here and write this.
I cut a vein
and bleed upon this keyboard
for anyone to see.

adrift at 5 a.m.

I stumble
down the stairs on one hour
of sleep.
I can't wait to get home
and I haven't
even left yet.
I find my clothes
in the dark,
brush my teeth, wash
my face.
I don't even look in
the mirror.
why bother.
why upset me even more
with that.
I fix a cup of coffee,
find my shoes,
my stack of underlined
self help books.
I grab my keys, my wallet,
my phone.
I got nothing on the phone.
the world
has changed.
not a call, or text.
nothing. i'm truly alone
in this.
i'm adrift
at five in the morning
wondering
if life will ever be
sane again.

wating their turn

the alley
cats know their way around
the neighborhood.
where the
good trash is.
the sardine cans,
the chicken bones,
the flounder
scraped
from a pan.
they tip toe along
the fence,
jump through
the hole in the brick
wall.
the rats
wait their turn.
they sit in the shadows
playing
gin rummy
with friends.

the road we're on

the roads
at this hour are quiet.
most are at home
asleep with loved ones.
a dog
curled at bedside.
children tucked away.
but not me.
I drive the earth.
I stare up at the broken
glass
stars.
at the shard of a cold
moon.
I can drive all night if
I have to,
the tank is full.
the radio on.
I know almost all the words
to every
love and unloved written
song.

unslept

who needs sleep
anyway.
that sweet slumber is over
rated.
I can do without it,
without the dreams,
the nightmares,
the bed
going cold.
the reaching out for
love that isn't there.
i'll slug through the next
day as if under water,
but that's fine.
it's nothing new, nothing
to worry about.
it's what I do.

a mere tick

I stare at the compass.
all directions
are open.
I choose north.
I want to be in the coldest
place possible.
to be frozen,
unmoved
by circumstances.
I haven't done well with
decisions.
by choosing north, I won't
have to decide anything
anymore.
i'll be the ice man.
i'll be perfectly content
without a voice.
my heart slowed to a mere
tick.

the merry go round

it's a merry go round
minus
the merry.
there is no merry anywhere
near this
junk ride of squeals
and wheels,
nuts and bolt flying off
with each turn.
the wind bleeds my eyes.
the up and down unsettles
my stomach.
my soul is unpinned.
can't anyone hear my screams?
I hold on for dear life,
as the ride begins
again. again. again.

nights like this

I see my future.
the dry road, the bleakness
of dawn
approaching.
not a wink of sleep
will I find this night.
I burrow
down into the hole of me.
wrapped
in sheets, the window
of trees
scraping in cold wind.
I find no comfort,
no joy
or lasting pleasure in this
mood
i'm in.
I see my future. it's more
and more
not less of nights
like this.

love child

the nursery is full of new babies.
pink and brown.
freshly born.
they lie in rows
behind the glass while the parents
outside point
and say, look that one's mine,
oh look, he's ours,
it's wonderful, this child.
and a wary world hopes
this love will last.

how it goes

there is blood in her eye
from
crying.
the sallow
look
of despair.
the wrench of this night
has unloosened
the screws
and bolts, unhinged
the bones
of her. black hot oil
drips
from below.
the gas is spilled.
a match could send it all
up
in an instant.
this is how it goes.

to all of us

the store bought roses, wilted
soon in their wrap.
the simple
card.
the quarter pound of sweets
in bright foil.
our love is thin
and fragile.
the broken glass is on
the floor,
the spilled wine,
the burned meal
unserved.
I hear my father's curse,
taste my mother's
tears.
the salt is in the wound.
what has cupid done
to all of us?

the shipwreck of night

the shipwreck of night,
the tossed
waves
of light and dark,
the bitter green of ocean
unfolding
onto itself,
the worry
and concern over the sails
split down and shorn.
the mast creaking,
the water
rushing onto the deck.
the lightning shows
the shore,
the jagged cliffs,
the shoals.
how close we are to home,
how far away we are
in getting there.
where is the dawn.
where is the calm port
we wished for, when will
there be an end to this
storm.

something to do

I pick up the phone to
see if
there is a dial tone.
why isn't it ringing.
i'm here,
ready for work.
i'm idling.
going from window to door,
looking out.
it's Monday.
grey, wet, slick.
maybe there's movie to
go see.
the back row, pop corn
in hand.
candy and a drink.
just me and another straggler
under the dimmed lights
as the film
begins.
i'll stretch out
in open cavern of seats.
I've got all
day.
join me if you've got
nothing better
to do.

the hidden

nothing is ordinary.
dull
or stale.
no one
is not unique,
or
special. a star
or flake
fallen from the sky.
despite the frown
or tears
the poverty
of pocket
or soul, no one
is the same,
or lacking in spark
or
glory,
though few blaze
open
for others to see.

three boats, four wives

my friend tells
me about his boat, his second
or third. maybe the fourth.
one less than the number
of wives he's had.
they seem to sink
annually, or catch fire.
the boats, not the wives.
he's usually in a bar
when he calls,
sounding lit up and
happy. healed from his
mini stroke and hip replacement.
i'm in a tiki bar in
Solomon's he'll say.
come on down.
it's crazy.
he holds his phone up
to the clanging
of the band
attempting Margaritaville.
he'll be seventy soon,
which he reminds
me and everyone else within
earshot of his loud
voice.
he's in his silk shirt,
the one with coconut trees
emblazoned on the front
and wearing his famous
khaki shorts and sandals.
it's February. there's snow
on the ground.
I imagine he's doused himself
with his favorite cologne,
old spice.
his sliver hair slicked
back, a rolex on his wrist
that's only right just twice.
he's on the prowl and
needs a wing man, but I
tell him sorry,
I can't make it tonight.

find an answer

I look at the clock.
see
the hour
that it is.
the incessant
motion
of the second hand.
time to go.
to leave.
to wander.
to find an answer
not in a book,
or
in the words of
well
meaning friends
who worry
about me. there's
something else
out there, waiting
to be embraced,
to tell me
sweetly, everything
is fine,
come home.

trust, like ice

trust, like ice
once broken and you've fallen
into the cold
dark water,
is hard
to buy into again,
it's difficult to walk
or slide
towards the middle
no matter how many times
you hear the words,
it's fine.
take my hand
and trust me, I wouldn't
ever lie,
at least not a second
or third, or
twentieth time.

picking oranges

I've got an itch.
a
hankering
to catch
a freight train out
of town.
run with a single bag
and hop
into the open
car
heading south.
i'll leave no forwarding
address.
i'll cash in my chips,
keep my money
in my sock.
I can pick oranges,
I think.
even now
at this age.
i'll be the best orange
picker in
orange county
and be so tired i'll
finally
get some sleep.

the paperwork

the line
is long outside the door.
have your
i.d. ready.
picture please, place
of birth,
your mother's maiden
name,
your first born,
your marriages, one through
three.
siblings?
addresses
and numbers that tell us
who you are.
but that question
is rarely answered
satisfactorily,
who knows truly
beyond the paperwork
who we are.

appearances

on the outside
looking in, everything seems
fine.
ordinary
and normal.
the quiet smile,
the pleasant greeting,
a farewell kiss,
lips upon lips.
a gentle hand
upon the back.
what nice icing they've
given
to it all.
a sweet swath of cream
upon the stale
and crumbled cake.

to you

the silly
birthdays arrive. cakes
and cards.
balloons and small
gifts wrapped
with ribbons and bows.
the candles are lit,
we heave
and blow.
we make a wish.
the song gets sung.
another year,
another
promise broken.

spiritual advisor

her spiritual
advisor
tells her what to do.
despite
the fact
he's lost in
the wilderness.
but he's got the collar
on,
the sheep skin
on the wall,
the crucifix
and all the trimmings
of the church
behind him.
so why not listen
and obey,
he's got to have his
stuff
together, right?
hardly. dour and sad,
he ponders
his life, the choices
made, the roads not
taken,
the one he's stuck on.

medicine

just one drink,
he says,
staring
at the tall full
flask
of gin.
one sip will do.
one smell,
one swallow
and i'll be good
again.
one taste of
the elixir
and i'll be right.

hail storms

there aren't enough
straight jackets to go around.
hardly a day
goes by
when I wish I didn't have
one for
someone, or for myself.
a bottle of pills
to calm the nerves,
dull
the wits.
we are small
typhons of emotions.
spinning sadly,
sleeping barely.
wondering in worry,
keeping
the trouble fresh and
alive,
what our parents did.
what our jobs
do.
what the weather has
done to us
today.

love given

the really smart boys
and girls
sat up
front
raising their hands
to every
question posed.
good breeding in most.
off they go to MIT,
to Harvard
and Yale,
assorted other
ivy league schools.
NYU, for the writers in
the group.
Northwestern
and Columbia.
I found
my home
in the community college
around the corner
with professors whose teaching
position
was their second job.
thirty bucks per credit.
i'd drive my beat up
dodge
with leaky brakes
and a cracked windshield
to night classes.
walking when
the wheels broke down.
but it's okay.
i'd change nothing.
the books are out there.
the world
is yours if you
want it. Every word
written is yours to read.
every
ounce of knowledge
awaits and besides,
it's more about the soul,
the heart.
the love
given, not taken.

flying south

we fly south for the winter.
hand in
hand
on an airplane.
the ground gets smaller
as we rise.
our problems
slip away,
go under us.
they're forgotten
after the first
on flight drink.
we've packed light.
we're on easy street
as the plane
streaks
to an island
in the middle of a
crystal blue sea.

hope

a bright
sun
slips through the cathedral
of tall white
clouds.
it sings
upon the grass,
the wintered trees.
melts what's left of
the grey snow.
there is hope
in warmth,
in the glow and kiss
of a soft
pre april breeze.

hiding

from the first time
the child
hides beneath a bed,
or burrows inside
a dark
full closet, it's then
the boy
or girl realizes,
that this feels fine,
escaping
the world, it's
pain and sorrow,
it become
a pattern.
the mind is wired
to go this way,
to hide in times
of trouble,
to find rest.

missed calls

there are 13 missed
calls
on the phone.
not a single message
left.
strangers
dialing my number
wanting something,
someone
who isn't home,
someone
who won't answer,
or pick up,
too busy with more
important things,
like sleep,
like food,
like love
and all the rest.

the cellar

the cellar

is cold. there is no
wine to be found, no
hand,
no body near
to hold.

no mice,
no bats or broken latches
or windows.
no memory to rest upon.

I sit in the long chair.
against the wall.
the tv
is off.

I ponder my next move.

sipping hot tea
in the dark.
alone.
it's nearly a new day.
i'll rise
and go up
soon.

drama

the show goes on.
we know our roles by heart
at this point.
when to laugh, or cry,
which direction to turn,
where to stand
to hit our mark.
we know the cues, when
the music stops,
or starts.
we are one in this drama.
a king and queen,
for better or worse,
we are actors stuck
in a self written play.
a performance
with no fore seeable end,
both tragic
and comedic on any given
night,
any given day.

the pressure of life

the barber
would be waiting in the chair
that i'd
sit in. not my usual
barber alfredo, but
don from Greece.
he'd be smoking a cigar,
the morning paper
stretched out between
his thick hairy arms.
it's 1965.
i had a lot of hair back
then. trim, he'd ask.
short in
the back? a little off
the top? where's your mother
he'd ask.
I don't know I tell him.
but give me the usual,
like alfredo does. okay,
he'd say and wrap the cape
around my skinny neck,
pinning it at the collar.
we're gonna make you handsome,
he'd say.
all the girls
are gonna love you.
but i'm only ten, i'd tell
him
feeling the pressure of
life upon me.

key after key

i could type at this machine
all night.
grow old
as each sun rises and falls
out my window.
just bring me
a sandwich once in a while,
coffee.
every now and then
come to see if i'm okay.
come close and put your
hand on my shoulders.
lean down
to kiss me and tell me
that you love me,
then let me go at it.
key after key struck because
that's what i do,
what i need.

everyone is home now

the baby is crying
through the wall.
it's a soft
weep.
she needs to be rocked,
to be held, or
fed, perhaps read to
as she falls asleep.
I could
if I could, but
those days are long
past me.
i'll just listen
as i lie here to
the sweetness of the voice,
a warming
sound, that says all
is well. everyone
is home now.

when it's spring

it's a mystery.
a riddle.
a long way home
from here.
no direction, no map.
no clear
path.
we're in the fog.
the cold
sleet drizzle.
the mud once snow.
our ears are full
of whispers.
cold wind.
February doesn't sing.
it thuds
forward
on ice.
one boot after the other.
wake me when it's
spring.

sleeping with poetry

i fell asleep
listening to an old scratchy
record
of walt Whitman
reciting his poetry,
Emily came
next, then frost,
then William blake.
the sleep grew deeper
with each poem.
T.S. Eliot made me snore,
and frost made
me turn over,
looking for the cold
side of the pillow.
i scratched hard at my
head
with e.e. cummings.
Sylvia and sexton though
stirred me into
bad dreams,
as did Bukowski and Ginsberg.
but i was getting somewhere,
closer and closer to home.
Philip Larkin
woke me up,
as did Ignatow
and
Collins. Oliver rest
her soul, gave me hope.

to be read

the workshop
is mostly old white men,
retired
and well read, well bred.
bmw's line
the lot.
a Mercedes or two.
i don't sniff a single
struggle for
shelter or food
amongst the lot.
good boots or shoes on
all of them.
there's a sprinkling of
women too.
young and older.
quiet for the most part,
but smart
as whips, whatever that
cliché might mean.
it's a good group of
readers who go line by
line
through your small piece
of art.
your little story pulled out
of thin air.
a simple story of a first
kiss,
that's it.
no need to think much more
about it, but the words
are welcome.
feels good to be read
and liked.
who doesn't?

you've got a lot of nerve

i tell her that one day
when i'm
rich and famous, she'll
regret her mistreatment of me.
giving me the cold
shoulder
all the time.
she'll regret that,
and i'll just tell her
that she's got a lot of nerve
saying she's my friend.
at that point i'll
put on positively 4th street
and let bob
sing the rest.

land lline

the land line
is worthless, for the most part.
it's the number
that my mother used
to call me on,
though.

so it's hard to let it go
despite
the 7 hundred dollars
a year I pay for it to ring
by people I don't know.

someone from
india
or the urkraine
asking me
if I need any medication,
or new windows,
or if i'd like a no interest
loan
or maybe a warranty
on my toaster oven.

these things all interest
me, but
I just hang on up on them,
which doesn't seem
to phase them in
the least bit.


they call the next day
without fail.
same spiel, same deal,
same scam,

different day.

the project

no need for a plumber.
she's got this.
a saw,
some new pipe,
putty,
a wrench, a sleeve,
an elbow.
inside
there's the ring,
a tooth,
hair
and assorted debris
from years
of brushing,
washing, rinsing.
a mercury dime appears.
a clasp
to a bracelet, a shard
of glass
from the wine that
tilted
and made a red splash
everywhere.