One True Love

you make a list of
past lovers, a very
short list of
true loves, flings
and others,
romances and friendships
formed
and closed.

you think hard on
all the souls
that have come
and gone in your
life. people that you
believed in,
and loved, that you
thought were right,
but were in the end,
completely wrong.

it's not a long list,
when it comes to
the real thing,
so few
in the crowd, for
them or you.
it's not about intimacy,
the bed,
sex.
it's connecting
on a deeper level,
one of honesty and trust.

to love
and be beloved,
that list is small,
it just takes one
though to be done,
to say enough, she's
enough, no need to fill
your heart with
a new stranger,
and another false start.

someone's dead

the phone rings at two thirty
in the morning.
you let it keep
ringing until it stops.
you assume that someone
is dead.
someone you know and may
be close to
has died and someone else
is calling you
to give you the bad news.
you go through a list of
possible people
that may have died one way
or the other, or
taken, sadly their fate,
into their own hands.
you lie there in the dark
and try to go
back to sleep, but the thought
of someone close
to you dying won't let you.
so you get up,
you have no choice.
you go downstairs to the
kitchen where your phone is,
on the counter being
charged, and open it up.
no one is dead.
but there's a discount
on hotel rooms at the beach,
fifty per cent off.
you find a pad of paper
and make a note of that.

a talk with the son

I call my son to discuss
things, our current
state of affairs, both
his and mine.
he's older now, he gets it,
he understands.
he works hard and has a life
of his own,
out from the shadows
of his mother and father,
his childhood friends.
he's compassionate
and thoughtful.
he's at that age where we
can talk,
not just son to father,
but also
man to man.
he gives me sound advice,
he echoes words
I've shared with him
through his troubled times,
his long dark
nights.
he's a gem.
he's a wonder. he's
everything I wanted him
to become.
he is unique,
wise and caring.
he's like no other.
he's my son.

his new girl friend

my father
sits next to his new girl friend
on the couch,
close,
holding her hand.
he's ninety one
she's eighty three.
he's got the love bug.
you can see it in his eyes.
I cringe.
who hasn't been there,
but what can you do.
it has to play out.
for better or worse.
I have no advice to give
him, but be careful.
the heart is a tender
place
at every age
and can be easily
be ripped apart.

sweet ink

write me something sweet,
she says.
something not
about the past year.
stop with
this path your on,
the dark
ink,
the dark heart you
own. stop the bleeding
and look at me.
see what you
see
not what's gone.
it won't always be
this way,
trust me on this,
you'll live to love
another day.
and it will be with
someone
more true,
more real
than anyone that's
gone away.

us being young

it's a black and white
photo.
when we were young.
before
everything.
before all that we know.
before
all the tomorrows
that were to come.
before
hearts were broken,
before
everything true
came undone.
it's a black and white
photo
of us smiling, of us
being young.

the beginning

she slips in
through an open window.
slides
across the floor
in her bare feet,
comes up the stairs
without a sound.
i'm in bed,
almost asleep, almost
in a dream
when I awake
to her kiss, to her
body next
to mine.
it's the end of
something old.
the beginning
of something
new.

the shelf

the shelf
is full of books.
books I've read, a few
I've never
picked up,
too bored, too tired
to open
the covers and read.
i look at them,
they stare
back at me.
i wipe the dust
off, i tell them later,
later
when i have time,
when my mind
is in a better place,
then,
maybe then i'll have
time to relax, to enjoy
a new
adventure, to sit
on a long summer
day and read.

check writing

I spend the morning
writing checks.
the address stamp hot
with use.
the tongue dry
from licks on envelopes.
my hand is cramped.
but it's fine.
what's bought is in
the house,
what wasn't before,
is slowly
becoming mine.
there is nothing
brought in that I don't
like,
not a picture hung,
not a chair,
or plant, or rug.
no longer will these
walls, or floor, hold
possessions of a darker
kind.

Restoration

churches fall
and burn, homes and houses,
buildings.
the earth shakes
and what once
stood tall and strong
is shattered and left
in pieces, rubble
on the ground,
and you, you too
know what this means.
that
the restoration of
your heart
and soul
must begin. to move
on from the disaster
that crossed your path
and rebuild,
to become stronger,
and healthier
than ever before.
trusting and loving
once again.
the worst is over.
walk away from what was,
what has fallen and
let the restoration begin,
one stone, one brick,
one prayer
at a time.

The Dark Web

it startles you
in the middle of the night
that you really didn't know
this person
you were married to.

she was and remains
a stranger, by all rights.

your grief is about
an imaginary woman that you fell
in love with. you created her.
your imagination shaped this
kind and adorable soul, this honest
and spiritual human being.
you shaped her in your mind
like a potter at his wheel
spinning clay.

you wake up in a cold sweat
at 3 a.m. it seems impossible,
but it happened.

your mind was as airbrushed
as her photos that lured you in.
her false sweet words,
her gentle touch.
all lies. it wasn't real,
it was the collection
of all the hope
and joy that you had waited
for your entire life.
some elusive dream you created
when you were young
and naïve.

you thought that she was
the one, but she was a myth
an imposter, a figment
of your fertile imagination
nothing was real. you were trapped
in a horror house
with no way out.

it startles you
to realize that, even now,
with the truth revealed.
it puts a chill down your back,

how is it possible to be
fooled so easily at this age,
to be undone by such a person
as that. desperation?
desire, idealism, the need
and want for true love?
how deep is your need to
be in a safe and secure
place, a home with someone
that you believe in and
can trust with your soul.
the desire for family is
primitive and strong. were
you trying to restore
what you lost
as a child? Probably.

we blind ourselves, we
ignore the red flags, we
pretend we don't see
what's wrong, ignoring
our instincts, our infallible
intuition, tossing aside
the genuine love of another,
for what?
for someone who didn't even
love you. someone cold
and dark, heartless with
no remorse now, or ever,
for what she's done. how can
someone lie to you so much.
look you in the eyes and say
what's true when
it isn't? when you know for
a fact it isn't.

it's a bottomless pit
of unanswered questions.
at some point though,
every string once
attached, every anxiety laden
string that she wrapped tightly
around your heart
and neck
will be cut,
and your world will be sane
once more.

what's out there

there may be a moon
out there.
there may even be stars.
planets
lit up like pin pricks
in the black
cloth of sky.
there may be love out
there too, or so
I've heard, there may
be an honest soul,
true to her word,
who wants to share
their world, to be
a part of yours,
to have,
to hold.

cream and sugar

a little cream
and sugar goes a long way
into making
the stiff
black cup of coffee
go down
a little easier.
so it is with a kiss,
a smile
and a hug,
a word or two of
kindness
and compassion helps
see you to the other side
of what you're going
through.

no soup for you

i pick up some kung pao
chicken
and some egg rolls from
the local Chinese restaurant.
hunan east.
the windows are greasy,
the tables
and chairs all wobble,
it's an effort to stay
upright let alone trying
to eat with chopsticks.
mai tai?
joe asks as i sit at the small
three stool tiki bar
awaiting my carryout order.
sure, i tell him. but go
easy on the fruit, and skip
the little paper umbrella,
i almost poked my eye out
the last time i was here.
no hot and sour soup? he says.
no, i tell him. that's over.
no soup this time.
i'm done with soup.

fingers to the bone

in this day,
this age, this world we
live in
there are no weekends.
no breaks,
many stay at it, the clock
still ticking.
time running out,
more work to do today.
we slave, shackled
to the job,
we hunker down to
the screens, to the calls,
to the gods we've falsely
made.
there is no end in sight,
at least not until
the job is done, which
means never. it never
slows, never stops until
we settle down into our own
freshly dug grave.

the bag of tomatoes

at ninety one
he shuffles from bed to chair,
to porch.
his tomatoes and peppers,
are doing well
in his small garden
beside the air conditioner
and concrete patio,
they grow with little
help except by the rain,
and sun.
he'll pick them and place
them in a paper
bag when I arrive, take some
home he'll say,
as he says at the end
of every visit,
for years.
then he'll stand there and wave
until i'm out of sight,
driving off, him still
at the door,
with tears in his soft
blue eyes.

love between the sheets

we sleep and eat.
the sun goes
down, our lights go on.
the weather has little to do
with us.
we're home.
we're safe
we're sound.
no need to go to the market,
to the store.
everything we need
is right here,
love between the sheets,
worry free with
our books,
our words,
our music and
kisses before sweet dreams.

the picnic

it's picnic weather, you tell her,
and she agrees.
she packs
a lunch for the both of us.
sandwiches, fruit,
sweet treats,
ice tea.
we spread a blanket
on the soft grass of spring.
beneath
a willow tree.
we listen to the birds,
we smile
and laugh, we eat,
we don't look at the time,
we have all
day, all our life now,
to be happy,
to be free, to picnic
beneath this glorious
blue sky,
in the cool and comforting
breeze.

from a distance

from up here, thirty thousand
feet in the air,
in white clouds,
I can see how small it all is.
how little
our lives are, the patches
of green
the squares of land,
the blue lakes,
the sleeves of lagoons.
I see the rooftops where we
live
and die,
where love comes and goes
as it does
in each and every life.
the minutiae
of our problems seem so
petty
and trite.
so small it all appears
when once it was unbelievably
large.
what seemed impossible
at one time, is now the present.
the infinite wisdom
of God prevails.

i'll be your sponsor

the therapist
is kind and thoughtful.
a dose
of reality, a glass of ice
cold water
thrown into my face.
she peels back
the layers of deception
and puts
a mirror to the truth.
is that the life
you want, she says,
pointing at everything
I've told her.
to go back to that
misery?
think about what you just
went through,
no one deserves that,
not for one more day,
or hour.
you're free from
that insane way of living,
be happy
with that.

i'll be your sponsor,
she says,
anytime you get that crazy thought,
if you ever get the urge
or desire to return
to your relationship addiction,
call me, text me,
send a smoke signal into
the sky,
contact me immediately
and i'll get you back
on track. don't listen
or believe that little
false voice inside
your head. it's lying to you.

bring lips

a cold beer
on ice, in hand at the end
of a hard
day of work.
the sludge and grime
is gone
down the drain,
the soak did you good,
now feet are up,
and the night and day
are young.
a nap will
come next, after a perusing
the new book
you found.
come over you say,
on the phone,
bring a pizza, bring
something,
bring lips,
i'm all alone.

Throw It All Away

i find an old ticket stub
beside
some pictures and
e mails printed out.
i see the pages of a journal.
greeting cards. a heart
of glass.
brutal reminders
of the past.
i rip them all up without
reading or
opening any of it.
why bother anymore.
they were never real,
or true.
every word she uttered
was attached to a lie.
it was all an evil ruse.
into the trash they go.
that was then, this is
now.
there are new photos
to take,
there is new love
to write about.
a new day has arrived
and not a
second too soon.

psycho path free

the worst

of it, was feeling sorry for her.

anorexic

and suicidal.

delusional.

bone thin, a waif of a girl

now sixty.

dyed blonde

and layered

in cheap clothes.

draped

in rings and bracelets,

the only shine

that would show.

so many lies,

so many

more to come

with

her secret life

exposed.

her sickness was making me

ill as well.

she had to go.

closing the asylum

the asylum is being torn
down.
the shackles pulled from
the walls,
the cells are hosed down
and burned.
the grounds are plowed over.
the watchtowers fall,
the barbed wire
is cut and disposed of.
the last inmate has left
the building, she's on
her own.
free to be crazy and unhappy
wherever she plans to go.
let's plant a garden
where the pain was,
build a home, where the hurt
resided.
start once more
with fresh hope,
strong wood,
new steel,
new love.

hi, i'm stan

the waiter,
who looks about twelve,
is carrying two giant
menus and a wine
list under his arm,
in the other hand he's
carrying two
sparkling waters,
and a basket of bread,
his
name
is stan.
he points at his tag,
he wants to be
your new best friend,
i'll be serving you
tonight, he says
with a grin.
six pens are clipped to his
pocket.
good, you say, because
I have no idea
where the kitchen is.
my favorite is the crab
dip,
can I start you off with
that and a drink.
no.
just a drink, I tell
him.
an ice cold Tanqueray
and tonic
with a slice lime.
tangerine and tonic,
he says and writes that down.
no, Tanqueray.
it comes in a green bottle
about so high.
hmmm. he says. okay.
and for you mamm?
chardonnay?
scotch on the rocks, she
says.
i'm driving.
okay. he says, smiling.
can I tell you about our specials.
my favorite is the swordfish,
just caught
yesterday.
no, I say. stop right there,
bring me a steak.
mashed potatoes,
green beans
she'll have the same.
both medium rare. and for
dessert we'll both have
the flourless chocolate
waffle cake.
and after the food comes,
don't come to our
table anymore, okay?
when we stop eating and
drinking, then you'll know
to bring the check.
got it?
okay, he says. okay.

See the Whole

it's strange
how
the right thing done,
doesn't always
feel that way.
but it is.
there is no doubt,
you can feel it in your
bones, your
heart,
every molecule within you
knows that you've
done the right thing,
but
how your minds play games,
forgetting
the hard past
and putting a shine on
a few good
moments, you can't trust
those thoughts.
you have to see the whole
nightmare
for what it was,
and ignore
the few good rain drops
that fell into
an ocean of pain.

leave the dishes for later

i'm not a fan of picnics,
family
gatherings.
parties on a large scale.
i don't do well
with rubbing shoulders
and small talk.
the weather conversation
bores me.
money,
children, jobs.
health.
taxes and death, that about
covers it all.
i want to sit on the back
porch swing
and watch the sun go
down.
sip on a drink, holding hands
with a loved
one as the stars
come out. i want to
turn down the volume,
put the kids to bed.
tie up the dogs,
leave the dishes for later,
for once let's make it
about us, instead.

trip to mars

i plan a trip
to mars.
i'm going alone. done
with people.
sick
of love, sick of myself.
tired
of emotions
and self control.
exhausted with
self awareness,
self help.
i'm tired of sleeping
alone.
of eating alone.
of working
alone.
i'm even tired of my runny nose.
tired of writing
these
self absorbed poems.
i need a break from this
planet.
this slowly
melting orb.
i need some time
to think,
to get whole.
i need to empty my head,
get right.
get better.
find peace and rest,
find someone that won't
leave,
someone i can hold.

the lake i go to

the woods are dark
and deep,
I've been through these trees
before.
the lake
and stream beside
the path.
it's lovely this time
of year,
before the trees are full
and green.
i know this way,
I've gone down this road
before
when a love one died,
when
friends have passed
away, as parents
aged. I've been here
before love
and during,
walking hand in hand
with someone
now just a memory.
I've walked and walked
alone,
in between love.
I've been walking this same
trail
for nearly twenty years
now.
dirt and grass,
stone.
i love that it stays
the same, it circles wide
and far,
for miles under
every kind of sky,
whether blue
or grey. it stays as it
is, despite
my ever changing life,
where nothing lasts
for long, where no one
ever stays.

She's Not Here

she's here,
but she's not here.
she's a cloud, she's
the fog,
a mist, a breeze of
air
blowing by.
she's skin and bones,
light on her feet
as she dances
around
the truth.
lies slip from her tongue
as easily as
rain falls
from a cloud.
the puddles are
everywhere of her
deceit,
the streams are full
of deceptions,
soon the ocean will
be full
of what she's told
you. none of it
true,
none of it fair,
she's here, but in
reality she's with
someone else.
she always was and
always will be.
there she is,
she's over there.

A new day

Let's move on.
Rise above
The darkness of the year
Behind us.
Forgive yes.
Forget never.
There are blessings in
Brokenness
Found no other way.
Let the pain
You lived through fade
Away.
Dont look back look
Beside you,
Shes
Kind and smart and
Honest.
A diamond
In the rough,
A true
Love
That will stay.

But She Was Shiny

it was a shiny old car
with balloons dangling
from the antennae,
right off the lot.
I test drove it.
took it around the block for
a spin.
rolled down the windows,
put the top down.
hit the pedal on the open
road to see what she's got,
then drove
it back to the salesman
and said, i'll take it.
she's mine, where do I sign,
show me the dotted line.
he put the contract in
front me, nine pages long,
the print so small I
couldn't read it.
Trust me, he said, slapping
me on the back, she's
a beauty, she'll last.
she's one of a kind.
we just put a clear coat on her,
and ignore all those
miles on the odometer.
it's a lot, but those are church
going miles,
flea markets, that sort of thing,
occasional trips to the market.
okay, okay, i said, I believe you,
but I didn't read the fine print.
I missed the part about
the flood, the wrecks,
the transmission fluid leaking
and the axle being broken.
I didn't have a clue about
the three
previous owners who
abused her, never changed
the oil, or filters, let
the tires go bald.
and left the top down
when it rained.
I didn't see the dings
on the side, the scratches
and tears in the seats
when you put the light on.
the headlights were
out of line, the brains of
it confused and short
circuited. I didn't see any
of that before I bought it.
I just the gleaming bumpers,
that just waxed shine.

doctor in the house

she puts
a tourniquet
on my arm, my leg,
my vital organs
to stop the bleeding,
then listens
to my chest with her
stethoscope.
I get mouth to mouth
resuscitation
from my doctor.
she rips my shirt off
and gives me cardio
to restart my heart.
she applies
a gentle hand
to my brow, a cold
cloth. she tells me to lie
still,
be quiet and let me
hold you for awhile,
let me hug you,
squeeze you,
this will help get
the poison out.
when I calm down
and open my eyes,
she says, you'll be fine,
i'll get dinner ready,
but here's a gin and tonic
and the remote, there's
a football game
about to start.

lamp love

there are so many lamps.
fabric shades,
or vinyl.
stiff or soft, the base
porcelain or
stone,
glass or metal.
contemporary or modern,
perhaps,
an antique
or something
from the fifties,
mid century
old,
like me.
there are
thousands and thousands
of lamps to
browse and oogle.
i'll have to peruse
them further though
when I return
at the midnight hour,
from
a long night of mirth
and dance.
the lamp can
wait, but you know it
when you see it,
the right lamp,
the light just goes on,
as it does
in love and other things
in life.

Congratulations

mike
the plumber
sees me on the street
and says
hey.
how's the leaks,
the pipes,
the plumbing.
all good, I tell
him.
all good.
not a drip in
the house.
by the way, he
says.
I heard the news.
congratulations.

the in laws

the brother
in law is kind,
sympathetic, we know,
he says.
everyone knows, everyone
but you
saw it coming.
no worries. we like
you,
we're still your
friends.
the sister too.
let's go out, have
drinks,
have fun,
like normal people
do.

the apple of his eye

her father was mean
and nasty,
cruel at times. self centered,
a narcissist through and through,
it was all
about him,
abusive to the nth degree.
rarely ever speaking
the truth.
selfish and cold,
aloof,
dismissing all others,
belittling their
thoughts
or opinions,
a know it all about
all things.
there was a dark
cloud bout him, no
one really knew who he
was, the lies
and misdeeds.
he cared only for himself,
not his children or wife,
the only thing of importance
was his own life,
what a small distance
the apple
does fall from his tree.

massage her out of me

I go for a massage
to get the kinks out,
to rid myself of the
built up toxicity
from a bad relationship.
it hurts everywhere I tell
nina, the Swedish masseuse.
shoulders, back,
neck, legs, arms, head.
give me the works, deep
tissue.
use your elbows, your hands,
your knees if you have
to, use a rolling pin,
call in a priest for
a quick exorcism if necessary,
I've got to get this crazy
person out of my
system. I need to free my
body mind and soul from
the darkness that she was.
bring in Olga if you
have to.

but, she seemed so nice

I run into the neighbors,
the quiet
peaceful neighbors
with kids
and tell
them what has happened.
they shake
their heads
and cover their children's
ears.
oh my, they say, that's
horrible,
but she seemed so nice
and friendly.
yes, I say.
a lot of people who don't
really know
her, say the same
thing, she's quite
the charmer.

she's waiting for you

let's be honest.
life
is short, and increasingly
shorter
day by day.
no need to be in turmoil,
in emotional upheaval
with
toxic people who
drain your soul of energy
and hope.
life is too precious
to be stuck
in hell
with someone like that.
cut the ties, but don't
run,
just go, walk away
with your head up,
with dignity
and no regret,
we all make mistakes.
be free,
find happiness and love
with a real soul,
the real deal.
the honest truth
that exists out there.
she's waiting for you
now.

pour me another

sometimes it's the gin
talking.
the slice of lime
affecting
my senses, the tonic.
the ice
in the tumbler
making me say what I've
always meant to say.
to kiss who
I want to kiss,
to be where I should
be,
and away from those
I shouldn't be
near.
it's the gin talking.
pour me another, please.

something that will last

as one might
be
be well aware of the thrill
is gone.
the chill
is on.
the fire has died,
the embers
have all turned
to ash.
let's chop down
a new tree
together,
and make something
that's true,
something new,
something that will
last.

divine intervention

in times
of dire need, in trouble,
when lost
and trapped in a world
not of your own,
you pray
for deliverance,
but it seems as if
God is not listening,
or cares.
and the months drag
on.
the misery of life
unfolding
without end.
then finally, you ask
for a message,
a sign,
something unquestionable
to show you
what is true,
something that will free
you from
the nightmare you are
stuck in.
and then it happens.
the clouds part,
the rain ceases
and the wind
stops. you are given
the answer.

holy osmosis

the police
are guiding parishioners
into the church,
waving their
red batons,
frenetically directing
traffic
into the large
parking lot beside
the enormous building.
everyone is dressed
in their finest sports wear
and flip flops.
sweat pants
and
shorts, tights and
sneakers.
church is not what it used
to be.
not a tie, or suit
to be found, or dress,
or heels,
or hat with flowers.
it's like going out for
coffee or tea now.
just grab a cup of faith,
sit back
for an hour or so,
and relax. through
osmosis you will become holy.

we plan a trip

we plan a trip
to the shore, to the eastern
shore,
then talk about new York,
or paris,
maybe Italy too.
we ponder the cruise,
the jet,
the news.
in time, we say,
sitting out with a drink
on the long
white deck.
all in good time.
but for now this is good.
this is real,
and easy,
let's watch the stars
appear,
then go inside.

farm girl

I stretch
and yawn in the early morning.
I hear
the rooster crow,
the tractor
growl
the goats and chickens
are out
across the farm.
I know nothing about
farming,
but here I am
fetching a pail of
water to bathe in,
gathering eggs from
the hen house,
milking a cow.
but I do it out of love,
for my new girl friend
Sadie,
who waves from the field
as she picks
her breakfast strawberries.
she's corn fed and blonde,
strong as an ox,
blue eyed
and sassy. we met on
farm girl dot com.

Betrayal

judas
had his day.
his thirty pieces of silver
in a small
sack,
how easy it is for some
to betray.
to give
up
and surrender those
who have done
no harm,
but only loved and loved,
sweating blood
in the garden
all night as one
prayed.
it's so easy
to dismiss each other,
to let
go
and live in darkness,
destroying lives
without a care
or thought,
so hard understand
how
so many can get lost,
never again to find
their way.

Things Have Changed

i make a check and balance
list
of the good and the bad,
the pluses
and minuses,
of the relationship

once in hand.

at one time it all fell
on one side,
the plus,
the positive attributes
of who I thought
she was,

but now in
hindsight,
the tables have turned.

I can't think of a single
thing
to put on the good side.

I used to say that I
wanted to be with
someone exactly like
her.

and now I say
the opposite.

why work

some work,
some don't, some stay at
home all
day
doing little
but passing time.
living on the fumes
of money
tucked away
for a rainy day.
the hours fly by,
reading,
getting in shape,
browsing the web
for jobs
they'll never take.
sleeping in the same
rooms they
did as a child.
the apron strings uncut.
some work,
some don't,
some
have parents to take
care of them
as if they were still
children,
as if they still had
time on their side
as they turn
grey and get old,
staring out
the window all day,
while
the rest of the world
moves on.

the guilt church

it's a cult
of sorts.
there are a lot of hoops
one needs to jump
through
in order to get to heaven.
confession with
a priest, getting God's ear
through Mary,
none of
them biblical,
but
followed with grief
and guilt
on a daily basis.
the rituals
are ancient, and the rules
keep changing
as the basket goes
round and round
again.
there is
the myth of limbo,
of purgatory,
there is no bus stop
between heaven and hell,
today you'll be with me
in paradise, or not.
the up and down
of mass,
bend, kneel, stand,
sit.
repeat and repeat,
pray
from rote.
the long robes and gowns,
the secrecy of it
all,
unnerving. at times
unnatural and lacking
in love.

i told you so

i told you so,
the thirteenth person in a week
says to me
over coffee, or a drink,
or on the phone.
i told you
what was going to happen,
but no,
you didn't listen, did
you. there were
a dozen red flags,
warnings all over the place,
sirens going off
saying run, run and don't stop,
but no,
you're like a moth flying
into the flame.
you just can't say no
to the crazies
that you kiss
and whisper your name.

no one came undone

i should go to work
at some point, but it was a long
weekend
a good
couple of days
of getting away,
stress free
and fun, nice and easy,
no one
argued, no one felt bad,
or guilty,
or lost, or
misunderstood, no one
shed a tear,
no one came
undone.

beating the rug

I beat the throw rug
with a broom.
it's what my mother used to do
in the back yard,
tossing it over the chain
link fence,
keeping it away from the dog.
how she would beat
that rug
with the broom,
over and over again,
clouds of dust rising,
the crumbs and dirt falling into
the blue green grass.
it seemed as if she was doing
more than just
beating the rug, I felt then,
as I do now
that it had something to do
with my father
and his lying ways.
I know that feeling
now,
as I beat the hell out of
my own rug.
I can't hit it hard enough.

Handful of dirt

In a day or two
I'll erase and
Delete
What I've written
With a poison pen.
Enough revenge
On those unable
To defend.
What's the point.
Let it die
It's inevitable
Death.
Throw a handful
Of dirt
On the whole
Mess and move on.

let's work late

some people work
and work
and work. fingers to
the bone,
ten and eleven hours each
day.
dawn to dusk and beyond,
lying in bed at night
staring into
their phones.
for what?
a few dollars more,
a nod, and smile from
the boss.
a hearty pat on the back.
see you tomorrow
lets do some more.
then the years fly past.
seventy is
at the door.
life is over,
and someone else takes
your place,
to work and work some more.

who is that

I never saw him
without a hat.
a white fedora, a
ball cap,
a beret,
a wool ski hat
for those winter days.
I never saw
him without a hat,
so when they
put him
in the casket, everyone
including me,
said who is
that.

the new

I see
the light.
it's bright.
it illuminates
the darkness.
each room
is white.
the old has
washed
away while
the new appears.

shake shake shake

okay, okay.
time for a happy poem.
here goes.

it's nice and quiet at home.

i'm smiling
from ear to ear,
my face actually hurts
i'm smiling so hard.

the music is on as I dance
across
the living room
in my underwear. I can still
dance,
you didn't know that, did you?

oh yeah. shake shake shake.

a steak is on the stove,
shrimp
and bread,
potatoes and salad.

i'm mixing up an apple
martini with some grey
goose, pouring the wine.
it's Friday, yahoo.
and the house
and my life is once
again mine.

tomato off the vine

go left, then make a right,
the woman
says,
as she tends
to her tomatoes,
standing up to stretch her
back.
you aren't from
around here, are you?
she asks.
no, I tell her.
just traveling through.
going home,
going home at last.
well, god bless you,
she says
then reaches down to pluck
a fat
red tomato off the vine,
here,
here's two,
enjoy, nice to meet
you.

something in the air

a cup
of hot coffee,
the paper.
the short day of work,
and
a chair outside
on the patio.
the trees are filling
up nicely
with green.
there's something in
the air.
it smells like
joy,
like gladness,
like
hope,
the absence of despair.

the roads untraveled

the old man
in the beret at the coffee shop,
takes
me by the elbow and says,
if I knew then
what I know now,
the mistakes I wouldn't have
made,
the missteps
and guffaws, boy, I tell
you, how different my
life would be if
I could go back into that time
machine and
change a few things.
the roads I left
untraveled,
the crazy women I married.
I must have been out
of my cotton picking mind
when I was younger,
he says, shaking his head.
I nod and pat him on the back,
me too brother,
I tell him, me too.

taxes

the tax lady
smiles and jokes.
she has a pencil
behind her ear,
and ink stains
on her fingers,
machines are clicking
in the back.
not too bad, she says.
better than most.
sign here, and here
and here.
so you dodged a bullet,
she says,
with a grin,
be grateful that you
escaped
from that hell
after only a year,
and whatever
you do, come see
me first
before you do it again.

if they only knew

if they only knew who
she really was,
what she's done for the past
ten years,
if they only
had a clue of the lies,
the deception,
the continuing saga
of her strange and
dark love
for someone as equally
as bad,
just across the yard,
the fence.
the married man with a
grin
and an open wallet,
a fist full of promises
that this year,
this is the year i'll
leave my wife
and marry you.
if they only knew, and
only then would the free
ride,
the blind love,
and the adoration
end.

are you cheating on me?

i'm not happy
about what you've been writing
lately,
or reading,
or watching on television,
or what you've
been looking at on your
computer.
I noticed that you've been
texting a lot too,
and not just to me,
in fact,
I saw you glance at a woman
the other day,
and yes, I know it's your
mother, but
still, you looked at her,
and she is a woman.
and by the way, your pants
are a little on the tight
side, aren't they,
and that shirt you're
wearing,
a little fancy, isn't it,
a tad on the seductive side,
is that silk or polyester?
you know I prefer cotton!
did I see you wink at that
waitress and give
her little bit too much
of a tip. i'm on to you
mister mister,
not to mention
I smelled cologne on
your face the other day,
what's up with that, do
you have a secret date
planned, are you
cheating on me?

lunch box

for years his wife would make
him an egg
and tomato sandwich for lunch.
day in day out.
the same,
he laugh and complain
about it to the boys.
two cookies, some chips,
a soda.
all packed nice and neat
inside his lunch
box.
the one day, the first time
ever that he forgets
his lunch, leaving it at
home on the kitchen counter,
he goes to the local deli
at noon and gets
the same.
an egg sandwich with tomato,
two cookies,
some chips,
and a soda.

suddenly

suddenly
anxiety is gone.
acid
reflux, no more,
palpitations,
tremors
and panic attacks,
none, zero,
zippo.
sleepless nights
and crying jags,
gone baby gone.
fear and suspicion
have left
the building.
I like food again,
movies
and books, life
seems
fun once more.
I can breathe once
more.
one martini will
suffice.
as will a kiss,
and affection.
something has changed,
something
wonderful
has happened.

some love

some love
last forever, while other
brands
of love
that aren't really love,
but infatuation,
last a short while.
some love
is fast food, some is
a buffet
of bad
food. your stomach
churns
and burns the whole night.
it's not good
for you.
it's the gourmet love
we're all looking for.
the five star
meal,
the Michelin rated
spot
on the map of life.
it's that kind of love
that lasts
forever, true and real.
nourishing
and right.

i move the table an inch

i move the table
an inch
to the left, then move it back
to where it was.
i dim the lights,
then make them brighter.
i put a vase
of flowers on the mantel
then
move them to the window
sill.
i hang a picture.
i change my mind and take it
down.
i open the window
a few inches,
then close it.
i slide the chair over to the
middle,
then back towards the wall,
i sit in it.
things are not quite where
i want them
to be, but i'm getting there,
honest
i really am.

it's over

be happy,
she says. be thankful.
be grateful.
the worst
has happened and look,
you're still
here. you survived.
wiser, smarter, more
whole
than you've ever been.
let me hold you,
she says.
come here and let me put
my arms around you.
you are blessed.
you are loved.
be happy.
it's over.

the dogs are barking

the dogs
are barking, someone's
in the yard
tip toeing
across the ground.
a stranger looking for food,
or money,
or
who just wants to peek
inside the window
to have a look
around.
it's not an easy life
being a stranger.
going around like this
at night,
with no where to really
go. I've been that stranger
too,
wondering what others
are up to.
the dogs are barking.

call me in the morning

she's a good
a soul, a good doctor.
she's not
against a
house visit
or two when time
allows,
she carries
her little black bag
with a white
cross, stethoscope
in hand.
she's gentle, she's
smart
and kind, her beside
manner
is impeccable.
she places
her head against
my chest
and listens to my
heart,
my lungs,
my rescued soul.
take two of these,
she says,
and call me in the
morning.
let's see how you are
by then.

free at last

with distance
and time,
with days passing by
in slow procession,
I see the light of day,
the night
behind me.
like water
in a tall clear glass,
I see
the truth, I see
what matters
and drink it up,
free again,
free at last.

the night is young

i follow the recipe.
step by step.
the unsalted butter.
the unbleached flour,
the vanilla,
the chocolate chips,
the baking powder.
chopped walnuts.
i measure and pour
to the exact measurements,
mix and fold,
blend it all together
per instructions, then
turn the oven
on to 325 F.
i grease the pan and
drop the batter in groups
of six.
in fourteen minutes i'll have
a dozen cookies.
the milk is cold.
the night is young.
i can hardly wait.

sparkle blue

the dad is a rock.
sturdy
and squared, even at
ninety,
the blue
sparkle of eyes,
the wit
and memory, nothing
is impaired.
the gait is slower,
the vision
blurred, but he gets
it all,
takes it all in,
and spills a joke or
two
with an aging grin.

clear the land

most likely you'll
go your way and i'll go mine.
Dylan
sang
on blonde on blonde.
so true.
so true.
the dust is settling,
the smoke
has cleared,
the fire is out. let's
clear the land
and debris,
cut down the charred
trees
and rebuild.

the last round

not unlike
a boxer, I get up
again
from the canvas
and dig in, swing hard
to the gut,
to the chin.
the blood is everywhere.
I can't be knocked
out,
not me, but
i'm not in it to win,
just to end.
to climb
out of the ring alive
and move
on to greener pastures,
where
love and joy,
where happiness resides.

rejoice

the beauty of life,
of nature
is that after
a harsh winter,
spring arrives,
green
becomes the forest.
the ice melts,
the heart heals.
all that was so dark
and miserable
for so long
is now bathed in
sunlight.
the abuse
of wind and sleet,
of cold long nights
is
forgiven, but never
forgotten.
lessons learned are
kept close.
we once again
rise
in spite of it all.
the world moves on
in grace,
and faith. hope
and rebirth,
we rejoice in being
alive.

the imaginary life

her phone was her bible,
her true
rosary beads,
her
one true love.
she slept with it
cradled in her hand,
took it
to the bathroom,
it went everywhere with
her,
never more than an
arms length away.
it was filled with the past,
the dark secrets of her life,
the shadow world
of lies,
all that
she couldn't share, but
safe inside
the metal box.
the ding, the constant
ding, throughout the day,
long into the night.
like pavlov's dog
she salivated at each new
text, new e mail,
new picture from
him, and that imaginary
life.

those days

there are no shine
shoe
boys anymore, no paper
boys,
or milk men,
or mail twice a day.
there is
pleasant greeting on
the street,
a tip of the hat,
a neighbor
who sits on the porch
with
tea
to chat.
no clothes hung
on the line,
while talk
goes back and forth
across the fence.
those days are gone
as we stare into our phones
and lock
down into our
own secluded world.

smoke

how much we care,
then
don't. how much we loved,
then
have it go away,
like
smoke.
up and away
into the clouds
as if it never
happened.
no fire.
no burn,
no destruction or pain.
just nothing,
a vague memory of
nothing.
and into another day.

the fade

it fades
in time. all things
change.
the colors
washed out,
the wood gone from
dark
to blonde.
the hair swept
grey.
even the sea
has
weakened, from
a sparkle of green,
to
a weak
browned tea.
all things die
and disappear
in time.
get used to it,
we say,
but never do,
never do.

early bird

what's for dinner, I ask
her,
feeling the need
for food,
stomach fluttering,
feeling faint,
taking a cold cloth
to my head.
i'm starving, I tell her.
I haven't eaten in over
three hours.
she sends me a picture
of a roasted chicken, potatoes
too with a pad of butter
melting on top.
beans and bread, chocolate
cake for desert.
oh my, I tell her,
oh my, can I come early?

the final curtain

when the curtain finally
closes,
the audience stands and gives
a mild
ovation.
it was exhausting, this play,
this drama.
it was a story
of love
and betrayal, lies and deception.
not a single
hero in the mix.
not a good person to look
up to
and admire, or trust.
all hiding their true selves
in cloaks
of religion and politeness.
the cast of characters were
all flawed
to the nth degree, and you
knew where the tale
had to go. you knew from the first
word spoken how
it was going to end.
all that for this, you say
to yourself as you grab
your coat, and hat,
and cane,
what purpose was there to
any of it, what was the point
of all that pain.

better things to do

to each his or her
own
life. their own troubles,
and self
made strife.
let it be and let it go.
take
with you
what you want,
leave the rest behind.
no need to worry
anymore about me,
pick your own path,
your untraveled
or well beaten road,
and take it to suit
your needs, walk in
your own
direction, to a place
you find light,
where you can surround
yourself
by those
without eyes, who won't
confront you with wrongs
or rights.
I have better things to
do than to carry
your burdens too,
to tote
your endless troubles and wounds
that never
heal, just bleed and bleed,
not red,
but blue.

my mother, yours too

her mother cries.
she's sad
at what's happened
hearing just
the one sided news.
she only knows half the story,
half the truth,
which is for
the best, but
there is little she can do
but put her hands
together and send
up a prayer or two.
how parents weep for
their children,
my mother, yours too.

true to every word

the balloon
leaves my grip.
I sigh
in deep relief. the pressure
is off.
I let go
of the thin thread
that
held us together.
let what
wasn't real,
and never was,
fly away into
the clouds.
it was just a shiny
pink
balloon full of
air, nothing more,
nothing less.
off it goes. I follow
it with
my eyes until
it's gone, high
into the sky. i'll
stick now
to what is on
the ground. safe
and solid,
true to every word.

i want to bite you

the news
is
old, stale as bread
left
out on
the counter.
nothing new.
wars
and death.
lies and betrayal,
evil
in every corner
of the planet.
the world
hasn't changed a lick
since
eve
and adam
ate the apple, but
I have you,
and that makes
all the difference.
come here
and let me have
a bite.

out the door

the uber is out
front
on his horn.
hold on hold on I yell
out the window.
i'm looking
for
my fancy shoes.
I haven't worn them
in ages.
and my
coat and tie,
there's a dab of cologne
still
left in the bottle,
let me slap
some of that on.
just hold your horses,
mr. uber man.
i'll be out in a
new York minute.
where's my wallet,
my cash,
my rabbit's foot
and good
luck charm?

i need some honey

it's right over there,
moses says,
pointing his staff,
and shoving sheep out of the way
with his roman
sandal clad foot.
right over yonder,
over that river,
that there is the promised land,
my brothers and
sisters,
the land of milk and honey.
birds and bees,
water and wine.
but let's wander a bit more,
circle around in this dry
god forsaken desert
another 39 years
and then go over.
who's with me?
dang, I say under my breath,
then yell out,
let's go now.
giddy up, I urge my bedraggled
dust covered oxen.
I need some honey in a bad
way. like tonight. I've
plum run out of patience
with this wandering.

no more holidays

I used to love
the holidays.
the lights, the wreathes,
the little
love
cards.
valentines and birthdays.
I used to adore
the small gifts,
given
or received.
with bows and ribbons.
the music, the love
and laughter
of it all.
the turkey on the table,
a ham,
the cakes
and pies, the poured wine,
the friends all
around,
in prayer.
I used to love the holidays,
and all that they
entailed,
but things have
changed,
the world has gone
awry,
there is nothing
left to celebrate,
there are no holidays,
anymore.

how much do you make per year

my crazy lawyer,
with a lazy eye and a stammer,
is all
excited. he smells a payday
up
ahead.
he's a car chaser,
a grave
digger of marriages going
down.
slip on a floor and he's
there
with a law suit in hand.
he rubs his clammy
claws together and
smiles
across his enormous desk.
real wood, he says knocking
on it. but I digress.
so do tell, but before
we start,
coffee, water, gin and tonic?
I could have my secretary
rub your shoulders
while we talk,
she's from the Ukraine.
she's a beauty, isn't she?
no, okay, no problem. so
go on,
tell me the whole sordid
story
from start to finish,
every salacious detail
and then we'll see
where we go from here.
by the way, he says,
before we go any further,
and I hate to ask,
how much do you make
per year.

the ice age

there used to be these
cold
spells
during that time,
a wintry mix
of emotions.
it would snow inside
the house,
ice would form on
the floors.
it got freezing inside,
the heat
was broken,
the windows open,
there was no one
there to keep
me warm. it was survival
of the fittest.
at some point
you go out into
the frigid air and find
someone
with which to build
a fire, to make a go
of it
during these
brutal climes.

a world gone away

the talking part of the program
is over.
silence
is loud enough
right now.
the phone is dead.
the door bell quiet.
I hear
a piano next door.
the tinkling of keys.
it reminds me of someone
I used to know.
someone
from another life, another
time,
a world gone away.

turning of the screw

it takes two hours,
but I get it done, the piece of furniture
that came
in one hundred
and thirty one pieces
is put together, each
screw tightened,
each cam turned,
each peg
pushed in to its proper slot.
I stand it up,
and look at it, proud of my
ability
to read
and use a screw driver.
I sigh, and turn the light off,
and wish there was
someone here to see how handy
I've become
in my old age.

attachments

I ask
the man on the street
why is
he so happy, what's up with
the smile,
the pleasant greeting
that he always has
for everyone that passes by.
I get asked that a lot,
he says.
a lot.
well, I ask him, what's your
secret, is it God,
or religion,
luck or health,
money, wealth?
what keeps you in a state
of perpetual bliss.
I own nothing, he says.
no one.
I am attached to nothing.
what comes
what goes is not my
concern.
this is the way life is.
let go and surrender.
attachments
brings suffering,
enjoy all that you have
while it's there,
but understand that all
is temporary,
nothing is forever.
what tastes sweet in your
mouth today
can easily go sour
by tomorrow.

just a nose bleed

it's just a nose bleed.
a simple
running
of red, no need for
the stretcher
or to bring the priests
around to pray.
no need
to panic, or rush
to the phone
to let the world know
what's wrong.
it's just a nose bleed,
a simple
thing,
that will stop in short
time.
save the crazy for later,
when it's
really
almost the end.

surrendering to a higher power

it's best to burn
what triggers you,
what reminds you of the hell
on earth you
endured, to toss
it in the waste basket,
out the window
of a moving car,
to bury in the deepest
part of the ocean.
it's
better to let go
and disconnect,
to disarm
and turn the other cheek.
it's better
that we
walk away with dignity
and grace, out from
under a strange regime.
there's no dishonor
in surrendering
to a higher power, none
whatsoever.

the weight we carry

we carry guilt
with us, sorrow and sadness.
the pain
of youth,
they are pebbles in our shoes,
thorns
in our side.
we carry the weight
of memory,
either good or bad
adding
to the load
upon us, heaped
upon our backs.
we carry love,
dismay and disappointment,
we carry hope,
and trust,
betrayal and lies
are with us too,
like lice
under our skin.
we carry
tomorrow and all the yesterdays
with us
as we walk
and walk,
from one point to another,
all just bus stops,
temporary homes
and relationships
on a trip that has
no no end.

after the storm

it takes time to recover,
to get back
to normal once the storm
has finished
doing what storms do,
turning your life upside
down.
the wind has no conscience,
the rain
no heart as it floods
the street.
I take a hammer and nails
and go about
the house,
hanging doors and shutters,
putting things
back in place,
washing
the floors, opening
the windows.
the house is still here
though,
faith still in tact.
what doesn't kill you,
makes you stronger, as they
say,
no use in looking back.

island monkeys

the small monkeys
that run all over the island
are cute
and mean,
taking bites
out of hands
and shoulders as they
are used
for props,
pictures to be sent
back home,
to you or me.
a trickle of blood
spills
out, as they run off
with the nut
you gave
them, the banana,
the sugar cane
now hanging from their
mouth.

stuck in second gear

we argue,
go back and forth, debate,
but
there is no
middle,
neither sees the other's
side.
both blind
and ego driven, unable
to let
go of the past,
stuck
in second gear in
the present, neither going
slow,
or fast.

arrivals at the north gate

as the wheels
hit the tarmac, screeching
to a smoky stop
and gulls scatter, and the jet
swings around
on the runway, slowing
to a stop
I realize
what I've missed
and who.
the flight to get
from there to here is
strange indeed,
but
the plane has landed.
the wonder
and worry is over.

a friend for lunch

i meet a friend for
lunch and try to tell her
about my
big life changing events
over the past year.
the pain and agony
of it all, but
she stops me in mid sentence,
putting her hand up,
as i'm about to get to the really
good parts and says,
with dismay on her face,
you won't believe this,
but i have a wheat
allergy.
i can't eat gluten anymore.
can you believe it? me?
she finishes chewing
a leaf of romaine lettuce
that's been in her mouth
for five minutes, then
puts her hands over her face
and begins to sob.
can you believe it? she says again.
no more gluten for me.
but, i say, but....
oh well, i tell her,
giving up on my story,
that's a shame.
while she collects herself,
i take a slice of freshly
baked bread, still warm,
in the basket and lather
it with honey butter,
smoothing it all the way
around to the crust.
i take a bite. it's really
really good.

you have to laugh

you have to laugh.
no use
crying
anymore. you have to see
the absurdity
in it all,
or go down with the ship,
a ship
of fools I might add.
cut bait and run.
drop the mic.
exit stage right.
you have to laugh
and see the humor in it
all.
it's too crazy
and unbelievable, not to.

running in my undewear

in my dream
i'm running in my underwear
down the middle
of I 95
being chased
by women with swords
and blazing
torches.
seems I done some of them
wrong throughout
my carefree cad like
bachelor days,
and now they want revenge,
they want to cut
me into little
pieces and feed me to the dogs.
who can blame them, there's
a few people i'd
like chase too, but
not harm, no
that's not in me. honest.
just keep the sword
out of my hands,
and out of my dreams.
thank you.

sales vultures

never a fan
of salesman, the checkered
coats
the onion and garlic
breath,
the vigorous sweaty
handshake,
and
nervous tics,
looking me too deeply
into my eyes,
I endure as I shop
for things.
can we make a deal today?
they say.
what's your name,
your address, your blood type,
your social
security number,
your email, your mother's
maiden name?
their ties are stained with
mayo,
or ketchup from a fast
lunch
across the street at
Moe's.
there is fried rice
on a button
from yesterday at hunan west.
their shoes are dull
and scuffed
the bottoms racing toward
broken soles.
they hover, they hand,
they crowd
the cavernous room like
vultures on the side
of the road.
but I need stuff, so I
endure.

at the big round table

we pool our
money, our thoughts,
our friendships
and love
into a big pile
on the table.
what do you have,
we say to one another.
we call and lay down
our cards,
then we
go through our list
of troubles
and good fortune.
we push it all to the center
and tell our
story. good and bad.
everyone's got some
of each.
no one gets out alive,
someone says,
did jim morrison say that?
I hope not,
I reply.
I hope not.

the new game

the trees are anxious
to be green,
the sleeve of the blue
stream
is ready
for what's next. to be
filled with the silver
stripes
of new
fish.
even the clouds sigh
with relief
at winters end.
as do I in my shorts,
my thin t shirt
shirt,
a ball and glove in
hand,
ready for a new game
to begin.

waiting for more

the pendulum swings
back
and forth,
the hands of it
weighed
by life and death.
eternity
stands outside
our fragile door,
leaning
in with scythe
and robe
the face unseen,
waiting for more.

if there is such a thing

i see a gaggle
of nuns
over by the rectory,
a few priests in black
and white.
it's a flock of penguins
all giddy
and jumping with joy
about something.
i ride by on my bike
and smile.
someone's prayer
has been answered and
the angels are singing
they all say as one,
throwing
rosary beads into the air.
no need to bother them
about mine,
my little prayer.
i'll savor that
forever, if there is
such a thing.

how's the weather

it's raining here,
I tell her, how's the weather
there?
she sends me a picture of the drink
in her hand,
her tanned legs,
the crowd
on the beach.
just horrible here too
she says, while biting into
a shrimp the size
of a chicken leg.
just awful.
she laughs, she sips her pina
coloda, moving
the umbrella to the side
so as not to poke
an eye out.
she sends another picture
of the serene
blue sea,
the low lying white
strands of unmoving clouds.
the sea goes on
forever and ever.
it's raining here, I tell
her.
grey and cold.
the trees are bare and gripping
with arthritic
claws at the bleak
sky.
I need to go set the trash
out by the curb.

donna reed with a whip

I need a night owl.
a good talker,
someone skilled in the lips
department.
sharp
and edgy, but not
too edgy.
no needles in her
eyebrows.
low on crazy meds,
someone with her own
dough, her own life.
independent but loyal.
someone free from the past
and believes in God.
someone who laughs
at herself
and at me, and trust
me, there's plenty
to laugh at there.
compassionate and kind
with
baking skills would be
nice,
non clingy, but
trustworthy,
and true. someone with
a smile and kiss
waiting
when they see me
coming through the door.
donna reed with a whip
in an apron
and high heels.

mamma said

you put the 45 onto
the turn table
after wiping off fifty
years
of dust and cobwebs.
your stack of wax is still
in a box
labeled
45's.
elvis, beatles. the four
tops
and the troggs.
but this record you need
to hear
again,
over and over.
mamma said there'd be
days like
this. you kick
back
with a bottle of tab
and some
fritos,
slip on your chuck
taylor's
and sing along.
you know all the words.

don't believe a word she says

because she kept

saying

she was going to kill herself,

i couldn't

leave her.

did i want her blood

on my hands?

would it be my fault

if she

went through with her

plans?

my fault?

they told me no.

despite her praise for

others

doing themselves in.

this is what she does

to everyone.

the victim since birth.

this is how

she keeps people close,

keeps them

from leaving.

please, don't listen.

get free,

she won't do it.

it's a scam.

the clean slate

I plot and plan
the new
basement where a pool
table
once filled the middle,
and vinyl records once hung
from the walls.
where an old couch leaned
on a broken leg,
where books
and tools
littered
the floor.
where the dog came
to roll
into the carpet with
his muddy ball.
a place where we argued
and slept
when lies were discovered
and vows broken.
when things weren't right,
were they ever?
but it's clean now. all the pain
gone. the stains, the smell,
the debris of that life
hauled out. there is
a fresh new canvas to
work upon. the memories
washed away.
what fun to make new again
what's come undone.
what joy
and rebirth there is in
fresh paint, new
carpet, art, and beauty
to enter once more.

back on the bike

you think
after the crash, after
the bike
goes down on the wet
wooden bridge,
bending your wheel,
and scraping your arms,
your knees, your ego,
you think that you'd
never get back on again.
that that was your last
ride
down the golden path
of love.
but it's not true.
you heal, you fix the bike,
fill the tires and get
wiser when you decide
it's time.
how quickly you
hop back on, and ride
and ride
all through the day,
into the night.

she's that kind of girl

describe her to me
he says,
tell me about this girl,
this woman
this new love interest
of yours.
well, I say, putting my
hand to my chin
and staring up at
a floating white puff
of a cloud.
well, she's like pastry.
fragile
and sweet. filled
with a delicate cream filling.
layered in soft mystery.
easy on the lips
and eyes and heart.
she's the one
in the window,
the one never marked down.
one of a kind,
unique.
I could eat her all in
one bite
if she'd let me.
she's that kind of girl.

don't look back

the things that I missed
while away are plenty. it's
a long list.
a good nights sleep,
a welcoming kiss.
a warm embrace.
television
and movies,
the grown up kind.
love and affection.
books and writing
without a censor.
travel.
the beach.
new York city.
music.
and fun.
especially fun.
I look back at the prison
where I spent the last fourteen
months and wave.
the guards wave back, they
know the reasons why I stayed.
good luck they yell.
be brave.

the next kind soul

you know when the child
is lying.
the look.
the averting eyes.
the shrug of shoulders
and pretend
shame and guilt.
they learn early to get
away with things.
hand
in the cookie jar,
a stolen
this, or that.
promising never again
to
do what they got caught
at.
but they do and they do,
until their
life
is upside down with no
mother
to forgive them again,
or to wipe away their
crocodile tears,
and faux frown.
they are on their own
at last, but knowing that
there is another kind
soul
to forgive them, and not
take them to task.

just a bad dream

it's a crazy dream.
you can't make this stuff up.
it comes to you
in your sleep.
while your eyes are shut
and you
are so tired you
can't move, or think.
your bones are heavy with
the world,
you sink deep into
the cushion of your bed
and dream.
but it's not a dream.
it's a night mare.
a long crawl through
a dark damp hell.
what you thought was love
wasn't.
it was this. this imaginary
world of lies
and betrayal.
time to wake up,
to bathe in the sweet warm
sunlight of truth
and hope for a better
tomorrow, for real love
to appear.

new under the sun

the new book,
hard covered, full of poetry,
rhyme
and unrhymed
verse.
free and constrained,
sonnets
and haiku.
the subjects are all the same,
for what is there to
write about,
but love
and death, sex and work?
children
pets,
friends and family,
the meaning
of everything.
is there truly nothing left
under the sun
that hasn't
been thought of, or
written about?
i'll open up this crisp
new book and see if
it's possible,
but I have my doubts.

those gone away

it's a tall
wooden house, built in
the early 1800's.
the wood is rotting, the shutters
hang by a thread,
bats fill
the attic,
mice scramble for cover
in the cellar
where coal once lay.
trees have come and gone
once
providing shade,
the fences have changed
from wood
to chain link,
to nothing but pillars,
crumbling clay.
rusted swings
and slides lean against
one another where children
once played.
a leather leash
is still wrapped to a post,
curled on the ground.
death came and took those who
slept here,
year by year families
were formed
and grew, then left,
each new soul to their own
lives, now no one remains,
just
the hollow rooms with peeling
sheets
of wallpaper, a piano of
yellowed keys,
cracks and faded colors once
bold
once gay. clocks unwound,
stuck
in an hour now forgotten
by those gone away.

prayer works

I meet my friend jimmy for
one cold beer.
I haven't seen him
for a long time.
he's happy as usual,
sipping on his drink
and eating a pretzel.
we slap each other on the back
and hug.
so what's up he says.
what's been going on?
you don't want to know, I tell
him.
it's too hard to believe.
but listen, and listen to me good,
prayer works.
trust me.
you'll see.

drifting away

the gypsy queen
is between lives, lost
in the quagmire
of doubt and shame.
the clothes on her
back,
the trunk full
of dishes and books,
broken dreams
and false promises.
the vows are broken
as she floats away
on a thin raft,
whispering may day,
mayday, as the wind
pushes her
to an old island,
where they welcome her
with open arms.
a place she will
forever stay.

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.