the stockholm syndrome

the guard,
as she chains you up
onto the wall,
says here, let me turn
the light on for you,
get you a glass of water.
then she
strikes you
on the knees with a club.
threatens you with
leaving you alone in
the dark if you
say another word
against her.
she
gives you a crust of bread,
she reads
to you from charlotte's web,
before you
pass out
from fear and fatigue.
but you take these crumbs
as a sign
of hope.
that maybe, just maybe
she isn't as bad as you know
she is.
that deep inside
there is a human being worthy
of love
and companionship.
she puts her make up on,
her lipstick, brushes
her hair out
and gets dressed.
she smiles as she stretches
your arms
out on the rack,
your legs, pulls
at your hair, your soul.
bites you on the neck.
she doles out
as much pain as you can
stand,
then she kisses you goodnight,
and says sleep tight,
don't let the bed bugs
bite.

I want to know the truth

i remove all the door knobs
in the house.
the locks. the bolts.
the chains, i take the doors
off the closets.
put lights where it's dark.
i install large glass
windows
into every room, to see out
and see in.
nothing gets hidden.
there are no secrets here
anymore. only what's true,
what's real, what's honest
is allowed in. that goes
for people too.

cottage by the bay

I see a vacation
coming. a four day breather
on the bay.
I see food and drinks.
morning coffee.
I see the water
and the sky.
the white gulls.
I see books, poetry
and fiction.
long walks against
the sunset,
the sunrise.
I see lingering in bed
with nowhere to go.
I see nothing but fun
and relaxation.
come on week, fly by.

jersey girl

she's wearing pink
heels.
pink lips.
her hair is done,
so are her nails,
both pairs.
she has a purse to match.
she's dressed to kill.
ready to roll, ready to
go,
she's a walking violation,
she's all business,
she's a thrill.
she's a jersey girl.
she's blueberry hill.

the mermaid dream

in my dream
she's underwater.
she's a mermaid with silver
wings.
wound tightly in a green
petal dress.
her long hair
blows
beneath the sea
lit from the light above.
in my dream
she's coming, she's
near,
she's opening her arms
to me.
I wake up with salt
in my eyes,
the brine of night
upon me.
the weight of the past
holding me
still in bed.

The New Basement

there used to be a pool
table down here. purple
felt. a rack of nine,
sticks and balls.
albums on the wall.
a man cave, not really,
just a walk
down memory lane,
that's all. guy stuff.
a fishing rod,
a stack of wax.
a phonograph. a bowling
bag without a ball.
the big green couch
where diane and I got
busy once
or twice under the haze
of pina coladas.
the pillows stuffed
and soft
behind us.
the books stacked
in the corner. cobwebs
in the corners.
empty glasses.
a stereo bought long
before. an empty
wine bottle.
a bracelet on
the floor.
shoes. a basketball.
the closet full of tools
and nails, screws.
a bike, lamps and a box
of photos, the kodak kind.
it's not like that anymore.
things have
changed. it's as clean
as an operating
room now. the past is gone.
shiny white and antiseptic.
people have come, then hit
the road.
it's a new world.
fresh paint, fresh flowesr,
new carpet. it's no longer
just a room,
it's a home now. a warm
place to be with
someone that i love,
and who loves me,
or to be alone.

the end now

I see her
in the shadows, pushing
her cart.
a bag of groceries
at the bottom,
her broad hat on,
keeping the sun out.
her silver hair
a tangle
around her shoulders.
she's bone thin.
where's she going?
is she loved, is there
anyone in her life
that wonders where she
is?
she stops to catch
her breath.
she waits for the light
to change.
she was young once,
like you,
like me. like all of
us.
but it's different now.
the end is never
what you thought it
would be.

we are never done

the warm
wind wraps around us at this beach.
this long
white shore.
kissed
by the sun. drinking the blue sea
as it rolls
upon our stretched legs.
we realize that
we have most of our lives
behind us.
but feel that the best is
yet to come.
we are survivors.
we learn from our mistakes,
we leave
the weight of pain
behind. we go on.
we are never never done.

the poetry instructor

she's eighty three now.
my former professor of poetry.
she calls
to tell me about her new book.
she's still at it.
her lines are clear and clean.
stanzas neat
and boxed.
her images full and ripe
with metaphors.
the subtle hints of her life.
each day she writes and writes.
i can see her now
at her desk. the window
facing the river.
thinking about all of us
she taught. some still at it.
some having gone another way.

this thing called love

this thing called
love
is a dangerous thing. a risk.
a walk
on a tight rope,
with nothing but air
ten thousand feet below.
it's work,
it's a chore, it's exhausting
and stressful.
anxiety ridden,
and yet,
we seek it so.

but

maybe that's not real love
at all.
maybe love is something
different.
it's freedom
to be who you are,
no eggshells on the floor,
no sense
of doom, or lack of trust.
no pain.
no secrets.

maybe love is easy.
maybe love is kind
and gentle.
relaxing. transparent.
maybe love is joy
when two souls embrace
each other
without fear.
maybe love is the best thing
to ever happen to you.

i want that love to appear.

black and white

nothing is black and white.
bring the rainbow
out.
the big box of Crayola
crayons.
the shades of grey,
the blues and greens,
reds. out comes
the prism
of light through glass.
there is color
in every walk of life.
every strange corner,
each
love, each death,
each
new problem that arises,
each joyful surprise,
or
delight.
nothing is black and white.
there are six
or seven sides
to every story, none of
them exactly right.

her art

I see the art
in her. the brush strokes.
the vibrant
slashes of color
onto the white canvas.
faces
and clouds.
death
and life.
she paints from her heart.
from her soul.
the past
is hers
to hold. she shows it.
she puts it
out. she paints a picture
of who she was
and is
right now.

the party invitation

are you going to the party,
my friend frank asks.
jimmy is having a summer time
bash.
music. fun.
the usual picnic sort of thing.
burgers and dogs.
someone will bring
potato salad, coleslaw.
are you coming, it will
be fun.
who's jimmy i ask him.
i don't think i know jimmy.
really?
he says he knows you.
he looks at your facebook page
all the time
and likes what you post.
but i haven't posted anything
since
all hell broke loose
and i changed my relationship
status.
well, he says you're friends
on there,
and he wants you to come.
he says to bring a case of beer,
steaks, and
paper plates and
a gallon of wine too.
oh and some charcoal.
who's jimmy, i ask him again.

no kids

the kids are in the parking
lot
the cul de sac
they are wild.
flies
buzzing. screaming
a few crying.
balls bounce,
jacks are thrown,
ropes are jumped. i'm
dreaming though.
i'm imagining things
on this blue sky
day.
it's 1968 in my mind.
there's no one out there.
no kids.
no four square, no
tag,
no kick ball. I haven't
seen a kid
in ages.
they aren't shoveling
snow,
or cutting grass, or
washing cars.
I haven't seen a kid
looking for empty bottles
to turn in for
two cents
in ages. and that makes
me sad.

The Lake I Know

it's a short ride
to the lake.
it's a place of memory
of retreat.
the bench awaits,
the gravel of the path,
the trees
in every season I have
seen.
I've walked the miles
in tears,
talking to friends
that have passed. lovers
to be,
lovers gone.
it's a short ride
to the lake,
a long walk around.
I did it then before her,
i'll do again,
now.

everything is different now

she calls long distance.
but it's not like the old days,
dropping coins
into the slot, with an operator
telling you when to talk
when to stop.
it's strange to hear her voice
again.
it's been too long,
there are too many miles between
us.
too much time
has swept
across our lives.
so much left on the table.
left unsaid.
we used to believe in love.
we used to believe in
tomorrow. we still do,
but it's different now.
everything is different now.
just look around.

into the fire

you become
steel. wrought iron.
an alloy.
the fire burns off the dross.
we need the fire
to become
who we must become.
it's that or
die hard,
die alone, die weeping.
die
without ever having
the true life
you were born to own.

we let him go

he's grown into his own
skin.
his own set of bones.
he's me,
he's her.
he found his way
to the left coast.
brazen and bold
to leave
his home to find his
own gold.
to sift the streams
of his own life.
he has no fear, there
are no apron
strings
to keep him tied.
we hold him tight,
but we've let him go.

The New Umbrella

i sit down
at the table out back.
made of iron, not unlike
me. I have
no idea where it's from.
it doesn't matter anymore.
i stretch my legs
and yawn.
the new aqua blue umbrella
spread open
keeps the sun
at bay.
the wind blows gently
across the yard.
the bird bath
is full of yesterdays
rain. a crimson cardinal
stops by
for a swim.
i have my books,
my writing. a cold drink.
it's quiet,
it's wonderfully peaceful,
it's satisfyingly
sane.

the long hard day

my father
accidentally calls me at 8 am.
I figure it must
be important
so I call him back.
the electricians are coming
he says.
all the furniture is pulled
away from the walls.
it's like a hurricane
hit.
it's terrible.
he's ninety one.
if the soup goes cold
it's a nightmare he might
not recover from.
did you call me, I ask.
I was in the shower when
the phone rang,
no he says. I must have
hit the wrong button.
well.
okay.
good luck, I tell him with
the electricians and all.
thanks, he says, exhausted
and worried,
pacing,
it's going to be a long
hard day.

our tender hearts

I remember my first love.
her name
was karen.
she lived next door to me.
a year older at twelve,
but wiser and stronger,
more
adult than the child I
would always be.
she gave me a first kiss,
a first valentine.
a first
feeling of love that's
never left.
that I still chase and chase
to this day. i
remember those summers,
hiding behind the trees
deep into the shade,
embracing,
trembling with the mystery
of what any of it
could mean.
we were both so young,
so young, our tender
hearts unscathed.

we have a pool

they talk a lot about
their pool.
it comes up in every conversation
this time of year.
the new pump,
the new motor, the leaves,
the debris
from winter floating
on the surface.
how it needs to be skimmed
and vacuumed,
the tadpoles,
the frogs, the birds,
the litter.
they talk about how many
gallons are needed to fill it
to the brim.
then there's the filter,
and board,
the chemicals needed.
they spend much of their summer
lives
tending to the pool.
getting it ready for parties,
for friends.
come over soon, they tell you
time and time again.
the water is
nearly warm enough,
it's clean, it's clear,
come over, bring your suits,
you must come
over and take a swim.

It Never Ends

the work day is nearly
over.
a fast whirl wind
of phones ringing,
papers shuffled and filed.
computers lit up
and hot.
everyone is gone.
more than enough money
has been made,
but you're here late,
late again.
this is your life.
nothing else matters
but work.
not family, not love,
not fun.
the lights go off one
by one.
the desk is cluttered
with tomorrow.
and the next day.
the door gets locked
behind you. it
never ends.
but we do.
we do.

The Third Drink

two drinks these days 

are the limit.
with one
i'm fine.
a little wiser, more
reflective,
settling back into a chair,
as my bones
unwind.
two drinks and i'll say
something silly,
whatever is on my mind.
i'll reach over to kiss
you, to touch
your arm, your leg, your knee,
your soft behind.
but the third drink
is my
downfall. i'll tell the truth
about everything.
no one gets out
alive.

Silver band

it was just a ring.
a piece of machine
shopped metal made
by a stranger in upstate
new York.
grinding and polishing
at some anvil,
on a stool
in the half darkness
of a factory.
a thick silver band of
white gold.
almost a thousand dollars
in hard earned
money, spent.
shiny in the light,
glimmering softly in
the worn folds of my
finger.
how easily it flattened
under the hammers weight,
yanked off in bitter sadness,
strike after solid
strike. no remorse,
no regret, no mistake.
I pounded it into a squared
roman coin against the cement
floor.
i turned it into
a mysterious shape
not forged in love
not from joy, but from
a deeper darker
place. a place i'll
never understand
or go back to.

the smothered child

sadly some children
never grow up. they are smothered
and loved
obsessively
to the point where they can never
leave their nest.
their wings are cut,
their spirit dampened by
the parent's fears
and needs
to keep them at home.
they grow old before their
time.
stuck without a path,
a reason,
a life of their own. in
time the parents will
pass on,
and the shell of their child
will linger in shadows,
clueless and alone.

You're Home

when you find
trust, when you find calm.
when you discover
laughter
and wisdom wrapped
into one.
when
someone with
compassion and smarts
appears at your door,
when someone
shows up who is
the opposite of all that
you're used to.
when you find someone who
melts your butter,
who you can't wait
to kiss,
or see again.
and it's all reciprocal,
then stop looking.
you're there. you've
found home.

it's how you get up

the life coach
calls at ten pm.
he's clear. he's ice.
he's straight up.
kind, nice.
he's been down my road.
a few times.
he hears it in my voice.
the anger,
the fear, the resentment,
the healing too.
he's funny and smart.
it's an hour session.
well worth the ducketts,
the price.
I watch his videos.
his take on what ails you,
what got you crazy.
the infection of crazy
upon you. he's brilliant
with his words.
it sinks in, all of it.
it helps, everything
helps, every day, every
night.
as he says before saying
goodbye,
it's not how you get
knocked down,
it's how you get up
that counts.

her day will come

they mix a mean mai tai
at the hunan
west.
four chairs at the bar
while you wait for a carryout
order
for combination fried rice,
one wonton soup,
and two egg rolls,
brown rice.
I sip on the cold drink,
mostly ice,
mostly rum, some cut
fruit
and an little umbrella
that almost takes out
my eye every time.
I sip slowly examining my
life. I look deeply into the thick
mirror five feet across,
the bottles aligned just
right.
a tv is on, the place is empty.
the blonde girl at the counter
is bored, looking at her phone.
playing with her hair,
she's young. she wants out of
here soon. she has places to be,
friends are waiting, maybe a boy.
she knows nothing
yet. nothing about love and death
and the grind, but her day,
her day,
in time will come.

just business

it's just
business, just business.
we move
on.
we live.
let live. work.
we work.
we lie down at night
and sleep.
we think about the days
behind us the days
to come.
we know what we need
to do
to survive.
it's just business,
we move on.

summer ice

I remember the summers
on the street
in Maryland, the wagon coming
by with shaved ice.
strawberry, blueberry,
lime.
the white cone cups
in our small hands,
soft
under the melting sweetness.
we licked, we
took bites, we drank
it down under the sun,
leaving our lips
with the color of that
delicious summer ice.
never happier we're we
then those days that lasted
long into the night.

Going Home

i'm on the road
at 9.
i'm on 236,
backlick,
the beltway. braddock
road,
prosperity, olley,
gallows and fifty,
lee highway.
i'm in falls church,
springfield,
annadale then down broad
street
to little falls.
Arlington.
I end up on 7,
down to glebe,
to shirlington,
I swing by Carlyle,
then 7 again to 395,
past duke, past seminary,
past edsall.
finally
I near home, exhausted
at the wheel. onto keene
mill,
past St. Bernadette's,
then right
onto tiverton, one more
turn and i'm
home.

The Tightening Noose

the noose began
to tighten around my throat.
The confetti of
Infatuation still
Hanging in the air.
no television
she said.
it's bad for you. no music
either.
No al green. He's evil.
no books, no magazines.
no dinners out,
no friends over or to visit.
the house was full
of eggshells. shut doors,
and quiet.
deadly quiet.
no sex.
no intimacy. no nothing
that one would call
companionship.
each word that left her mouth
was a lie,
or a deceit.
some sort of fabrication
of her sick mind.
in bed by nine.
self help books piled
to the ceiling.
her phone cradled
obsessively in her hand.
curled in a tight
ball
as she'd fall asleep,
crying. Sobbing
it had become a living hell,
and still
I hung on, as if my life
depended on it.

give me more blood

she wants more of my blood
after I gave her
three whole vials the last trip
into the office.
the rubber band, the needle,
the distracting conversation
so that I don't pass out.
we need more, she says, standing
there with her hands on her hips,
wearing her white doctor's coat,
and a smile.
but I hate needles I tell her.
and I don't know if I can make
it on no food or coffee for the
next four hours. quit being a baby,
she says, stamping her high heel.
now get in here and roll up
your sleeve. we need to test
you to see what's up, how long
you're going to be around.
i'm not investing in someone
with bad blood coursing through
his veins.

single or tandem

I tell her about my last
experience with a tandem kayak
on the bay
with a former significant interest.
how badly it went.
the rough water on the bay,
unequal strength.
going continually in a circle,
the arguing
and cursing. the rolling
of eyes. the dismay.

I tell her
single kayaks are the way to go.
together
but independent of each other's
oars
and direction,
motivation and speed.

she agrees.
let's keep it at an agreeable
distance, she says,
but close enough so that when
our boats collide
we can kiss.
I say okay. that's perfect.
it's a deal.

make it right

the phone rings.
it's too early for work, but
I take
the call.
are you coming, the old man
says.
can you fix what's come down,
can you be
here soon.
I need this done as soon as
possible.
i'll pay cash, or check,
or credit card.
I need this sheet of wallpaper
back up.
the seams have split.
it's falling right off the wall
and only after thirty three years
of being up and tight.
I can't live this way.
fix it please. I can't sleep,
or eat.
my life is in turmoil until
you come and make
it right.

fade away

it's early
in the morning, but I wake
up
and get to it. coffee on.
clothes too.
shower and a shave.
I check my facebook page,
such as it is.
lame and frayed.
I log on
to see what snarky things are
being said.
who's baked a cake,
who's in Iceland today,
who wants to share
a blemish on their leg.
who's relationships
have changed.
I say nothing. I just observe.
being happy and content
to just slowly fade away.

other reasons

for old times sake
i stop into the church
along the road.
park near the fountain.
mary.
i sit in the back
settling into a wooden
pew.
the cross is there.
the priest.
the altar girls and boys.
the stations
of the cross.
i came here once to get
new.
i come here now for other
reasons.

romaine blues

i start my plant
based diet again. the ribs
are all gone.
the bacon too.
the ham has vanished
between two
slices of rye.
i look at a stalk
of celery,
the lettuce stares back
at me.
i slice up a cucumber,
shred some
carrots,
dice a tomato and
onions.
olives get thrown in.
it's going to be rough,
but vacation is coming up
and i need a new to suit
to swim in.

Lights on her deck

she strings a set of Edison
bulbs
that burn
bright across her long white
deck.
party lights
above the blue couches,
the grill,
the chairs.
it's a fine place to be
on any given summer night.
the trees,
the breeze, a drink in
hand
and her sweet life beside
you. the stars are out.
the night is young.
you smile and sigh, this
is what life should be
all about.

Real Love

they treat you with respect.
they stand up for you.
they have your back.
they believe in you.
they listen.
they never purposely hurt you.
they don't lie,
or betray.
they respect you.
they want you to be happy
and give you pleasure.
they value you.
they enjoy your company.
they treat you with kindness.
they support you.
they feel for your sadness,
when you're scared or unsure.
they are honest with you.
they want the best for you.
they defend you.
they care about you.
they trust and encourage you.
they can't wait to see you,
to get home from work
and kiss you.
they truly love you.

Positive Energy

we only have so much
positive energy
in us to give away,
to burn,
to bring light.
to comfort those
we're close to you,
or ourselves.
at some point we need
to rest
and let it go out.
to turn the switch off
and lie in the dark
to heal, to pray,
to restore what
was taken from us,
and recharge.

The Comfort Zone

some souls
make you relax when you're around
them.
a comfort zone.
they
are pleasant to be near.
a smile on their face,
rarely
are they sad and depressed,
cringing
with a frown,
wiping away another new
set of tears.
there is no argument
hanging in the air, no
tension
or anxiety. no secrets.
there just there. real
and
normal, with pleasant
words
to share.
some people are easier
to love
than others.
they accept you for
who you are,
embracing and giving
back a love
that's rare.

strange and scared

the lights blink
in the storm.
windows rattle, a door
swings open.
the cat runs out into
the street
never to return.
we knew she'd leave
at some point.
truthfully she isn't
missed.
she was a cat.
aloof and cold, always
taking, never giving.
strange
and scared, prowling
the corners
of my life, turning joy
into fear.

Late in the Game

she's still sick.
thousands in therapy.
decades on the long
couch.
self help books,
years and years
of closed doors and
disorders. flushing toilets.
running sinks.
water water water.
laxatives, starvation.
lying, hiding, secrets.
eating less and less.
melting
away like the wicked witch
of the east or west.
her phone is filled to
the max. she saves every
heartbreaking call.
every shred of her life
is documented and saved,
giving meaning to
the meaningless.

she won't pick up.
no contact serves her
well. it's too late.
she's a walking train
wreck.
a wrecking ball of pain
to those around her.
crushing the foundation
of others.

a mystery without a
clue, a rebel with
no cause. at this late
stage in life,
she can't be helped.
she's forever doomed.
lost in her own
dysfunctional world
of sickness and gloom.
no one really knowing
who she is or was or
will be. she doesn't
know herself from day
to day, hour to hour,
pretending to be well
and healthy,
when everyone knows
she's stuck inside
her own living hell.

One size fits all

I find a shirt,
a tommy Bahamas shirt,
one last gift given
at some point during the last
hell storm
that passed through my life.
a birthday,
Christmas?
father's day, who knows.
who cares,
each holiday was ruined
anyway with
some hysterical, depressive
nightmarish scenario
conjured out of thin air.
I'm sure it was the same shirt
she gave to her husband
or her married boyfriend,
or her son. or father.
one size, one emotion
fits all.
I take the scissors to it,
cutting it in long ragged
strips. it burns better
that way
on the grill out back.

Control

when I don't hear from someone
for a while,
I assume the worst
and check the obits, the metro
section.
the daily news.
facebook.
incarcerated, perhaps.
inebriated, maybe.
locked up
in a straight jacket, could be.
maybe they've jumped off
a bridge,
or did themselves in
with chocolate,
or gone for a one way
swim ala virginia woolf,
or taken
the Sylvia plath route
of baking themselves
in the oven,
minus heat,
but usually they aren't dead,
though they threatened
quite often to
do themselves in,
they're just indisposed,
or lazy,
or sick in bed.
or perhaps playing a mind
game.
still in control of what
gets heard
or said. I smile and laugh,
knowing the answer.

the netfix binge

it's cold in the basement,
so we grab
the heavy blanket out of the closet.
the big thick
green one, the color of
clover.
we pull it over our legs,
our shoulders,
we gather our arms
and hips together. we're
in for the duration.
we're on a Netflix binge.
popcorn
is in order.
salt and butter. we
put the tv on pause and
go for the big bowl
off the top of the fridge,
letting it overflow
with the warm kernels,
still hot off the stove.
then we click forward, on
to the next addictive episode.

What Love Isn't

there is a lesson
in everything that happens
to us, good or bad.
a quiz or test
may follow
accordingly, so study
up.
cram for the exam.

stay up all night and burn
the mid night oil.
take notes.
have a study partner
if that helps.
each love, each loss,
each left or right turn,
a lesson.
a life lesson.
mistakes are made,
detours. we've allowed
evil
into our lives.

you learn what love is.
what it isn't.
it certainly wasn't
the last time around.

I will get an A on this one.
I've been up all my life,
all night,
especially lately,
getting ready for this
test. no need for a cheat
sheet, or answers on the palm
of my hands.

bring it on. my number
two pencil is sharpened
and ready to write.
I've learned the hard way
and now I
understand, this time i'll
ace the test. every
answer will be right.

monday, round one

I cut myself shaving.
the blood
drips onto my shirt.
my hands.
I wipe it with a thumb
and continue on.
it's a fight.
a struggle to the death
to get this
done.
another cut, another.
I feel faint, and weak,
almost going
down onto the tiled floor.
I splash some water
onto my face.
the crimson tears
keep pouring out. i
put tissues into the cuts.
I press on.
I tell myself you can
do this, you'll be fine.
guard up, chin down.
it's just the beginning
of the day.
Monday.

i know what time it is

i have a drawer full of watches.
black,
gold, silver,
rubber straps,
metal, leather.
all sorts and sizes,
some that tick, some stuck
on a time
way back.
each has a memory to it.
a gift,
a purchase,
some given in love, others,
just handed to you
with no reason.
some have been left behind
on the counter,
or dresser
or in a bathroom.
a box of watches, all
keeping
someone else's time,
not mine. i don't need
a watch.
i know what time it is.
time for a new life.
time for fun and joy.
love.

stolen identity

I try to conjure up one
single
good memory of her.
but nothing comes
to mind.
every hour
every day, every minute with
her was
dark and lonely, full of
grief.
full of imaginary demons
and ghosts.

how hard she tried to control
me. telling me what to think,
what to say.
don't read this.
don't watch tv.
no movies. don't write.
don't speak.
be dumb, be numb, don't
exist when i'm around.
she took my identity
away.

there was nothing,
nothing good between us
to break up
the long nights,
the even longer days.

eye drop memories

i bottle
some memories into a very small
bottle.
i use an eye dropper.

very few drops
of fun,
or joy, or good feelings.
it's a tiny
bottle.

it's blue, indigo.
i shake the three
or four drops together
inside,

then pour them back into
the ocean
which was where
the rest of the memories
are.

all bad, continually
being pulled in by
the tide.

It takes time to heal

it takes time
to heal.
time to let the scars,
the damage
done fade, the scabs
to peel.
the blood
to gel, the wound
to disappear.
it takes time
to scrape the memory
of abuse out of your
heart,
go south,
go north, go anywhere
but stay stuck
inside your soul,
your mind,
your mouth. it's hard
to understand
unless you've been there,
been under the thumb
of darkness,
been trapped in a world
of false love,
living each day
with fear and doubt.

Nobody Cares About Me

I see that she's sad
again,
ninety eight days in a row,
Quiet sullen unresponsive.
so I offer her a drink,
she says no. a cup of tea?
water, perhaps?
no thank you. Wine?
can I fix you dinner,
make you a salad,
or a sandwich, perhaps
a bowl of
soup? Cut up some carrots,
Some fruit?
no, she says again. i'm fine.

your father is on the phone,
do you want to talk
to him? he's concerned
About you.
no, not now. i'd rather be
alone.

can I take you somewhere,
go for walk,
watch tv? The zoo?
you're mother called,
your sister too, maybe you should
call them back.
no, I don't want to talk
to anyone. I just want
to stare out this window
for another hour or two.

I can run up to the store
and get you whatever
it is you need.
no, no thank you.
do you have a headache
again?
is it your stomach?
can I get you an aspirin,
some ice, a heating pad?
a book, a magazine to read?
i'm fine, really, she says.
i'm fine.
don't worry. Just leave
Me be
While I obsessively text
People I dont want
You to know about
Or see.

an hour later she's
crying, mumbling,
curled in a dark corner of
A room with the door shut,
rocking back and forth,
pulling on her hair,
saying over and over again,
nobody cares about me.

another fun day.

repeat and rinse

the church is crowded
the cop
has his blue lights lit
he's directing traffic in the rain
at st. Bernadette's.
the cars
move in, move out,
park, while he waves
his red baton in the half
dark. the sinners
get clean,
again. penance, holy water,
a homily,
kneeling and confession.
it's a daily thing,
this sinful
nature. the guilt,
the forgiveness,
repeat and rinse,
again and again.

they go to church

they go to church.
they go to church.
they go to church.
rosaries in hand.
crucifix wrapped around
their necks.
they pray, they confess.
they feel guilty,
then clean.
over and over again.
the human stain.
but they never change.
the get out of jail
free card
is in their hand.
lies,
betrayal, adultery.
stealing, etc.
no commandment left
unburned.
but
they go to church.
they feel better.
let's do it again.

this years model

I finally get
rid of the old the car.
I couldn't take it any more.
the rust
and dings, the dents,
the exhaust.
she never turned over on a cold
morning,
when you really needed her.
she couldn't be trusted.
a high maintenance
piece of sheet metal that
once looked
good on the showroom floor.
all shiny and waxed
with a few new paint jobs,
but soon the tires
were low, the oil
too.
the windshield cracked.
you couldn't get a good song
on the radio.
she'd been around the block
more than a few times.
churches and flea markets,
rendezvous parks.
she'd seen better days
with me at the wheel,
but I gave it a ride, and
now it's time to let her go
to the junk yard
where she'll be crushed
into a block of metal
for scrap. she was an okay
car.
not my favorite of all time,
but we had our moments.
time for a new ride, a new
sleek model, this years or
the next.
one that goes fast,
true and solid when she
hugs the road,
and me,
no looking back.

saigon west

we sit in the cool
air
on the patio of a Vietnamese
restaurant
near the river.
Saigon West.
the tables are lit
with candles,
the greenery waves
from the open doors,
to the stairs, around.
we sip our drinks and say
little.
the friendship allowing
an easy silence
to take place.
we eat light,
drink light, we talk about the past
the future
of our lives.
we relax in our chairs,
each couple hand in hand.
the present is this.
this now, this Saturday
night when all is not perfect
with the world,
but there is enough in place,
enough love,
to be just right.

the early workers

the workers
are on the house at seven
a.m.
hammers pounding,
chisels,
they're on the roof,
crawling like
ants
in heavy boots.
ladders are slung against the brick.
they are beating
the day lights out
of old wood,
bent nails, shutters.
it's too early for this,
I think
as I sit here
drinking coffee, wondering
how they got
into yard
with the gate latched.

mercy mercy

i hate sarcasm
she used to say. everything
is not a joke.
you laugh
at everything, aren't you
ever serious.
don't you ever stop
being on, stop being a clown
and a constant
observer of the absurdities
in life
that go on?
mercy mercy,
quit making fun, she'd say.
not everything is a joke.
stop it. just stop it, or
else.
so like i a fool, i did.
i became a doormat,
a bump on a log,
a non entity just hanging out.
i went silent
and became someone else,
someone similar
to some dope she loved
in her past,
i guess,
and it nearly killed me.

we choose

we choose
our lives, despite what
some think of fate, or destiny,
dna,
or parental guidance,
or misguidance.
there is nothing
set in the stars,
in cement, there is
no set way, or path
decided upon. you choose
the pain
you're in, the suffering
you endure,
or the joy you wish to
find and keep.
it's up to you, not some
grand plan
for your life already
written. there is no
truth in a horoscope
or some crazy gypsy
looking at a crystal
ball or the palm of your
hand. there is nothing
in those tea leaves.
and instead of prayer,
take action,
be the person God wants
you to be, quit whining
about your life,
be a woman, be a man.
quit abusing or allowing
others to abuse you.
get the toxic souls out
of your life
and live. live a true
life.

the ship sinks

the ship sinks.
small holes, big holes.
too much weight.
the sails are ripped.
the engine
is sick.
we row and row.
but get nowhere.
we look at one another
and say okay,
enough.
we swim for shore,
going in opposite
directions, into different
sets of arms
to save us.

finding normal again

when you find normal.
you hold on to it with dear life.
especially after being
with the darkest
soul who has ever entered
your world
with her sharp evil knife.
she cut your heart out,
not surgically but like
a butcher having fun,
chopping up steaks for
the night.
when you find normal you
smile, you relax.
you exhale the fright.
you let the past slip away.
that's done, she's gone,
don't look back.
there is no other way.

anything is fun

it smells like
rain. see how the curl of blue
clouds
rises
in the north.
that ragged streak
of lighting
in the distance, feel
that slight chill in the air,
see how
the leaves turn up
awaiting
the wetness that will
fall.
let's sit here on the porch
and watch it come.
let's wait for rain,
together,
anything I do with you,
can be fun.

good memories

I drive by the old house.
the house
I grew up in and lived
there for ten years
of my young life. a
red brick duplex in the middle
of the hood,
down the street from
the bowling alley,
and drugstore,
the neon lit motel
that charged by the hour.
the house looks
the same,
the trees are larger,
that over
hang the squared yard,
surrounded by
chain link, but that's
about it. it was paradise
back then.
the street a ball field,
the world
at dark full of fun
and mystery. first love,
first kiss,
first
awakening to a world
and what's to come. I slow
down in my car,
almost to a stop.
we can romanticize
nearly every horror in
our life, if we put our
mind to it.

a trail of crumbs

it was shadow
more
than light. the mumble,
the whisper, the hidden.
things
unknown,
the creep of secrets.
the phone,
the ride,
the hide.
how uncareful she was
with her life, all her
sins
leaving a trail
of stale crumbs behind.
how dumb
and dark,
how sick each betrayal,
each step
she took.
each crazy thought that
crossed
her unstable mind,
deny deny deny,
then caught and caught
again
in her own web
of lies.

last rites

I talk to my boy
jake the snake, the cigarette
smoking,
drunk driving
crazy man.
he's done hard time,
soft time.
he's been homeless.
he's begged on the street,
been a vagabond,
a thief.
he's lived as a hobo,
road the rails,
slept in shelters,
in laundry rooms,
beneath stairs.
and now he sits in
a hospital, chemo,
radiation running
through his lungs,
his veins, his life
such as it is
slipping from his hands.
he's a cowboy,
a pirate, a renegade.
he's lived his own
life, did it all wrong
from the jump,
but he did it his way.

checkers

we play checkers
red and black chips
on a board
of red and black squares.
it's mindless.
game after game.
king me.
etc.
the game doesn't take long.
it's simple.
hardly a word
is spoken,
which is fine for this
long summer night,
almost alone.

A New Life

once I've cleaned the house.
burned
everything.
discarded, torn and tossed
all
the items
related to the last so called
love
of my life.
cards, letters, gifts.
pictures.
I paint the walls.
buy new things that she
never touched.
I open the windows
to let the air out.
to let the new air in.
I exorcise the demons
of her presence.
it took awhile, but i'm
almost done.
coming soon, a new life
without
the darkness that I
mistakenly let in.

her monkey wrench

she's up on a ladder when
I get there.
hand me that monkey wrench she says.
no, not that one, the other one.
and that grease gun too.
there's a hole
in the ceiling and she's
replacing a main
pipe for her plumbing.
she's wearing her overalls
and red high heels,
and drinking a glass of chardonnay.
what's next after this, I ask
her, handing her the wrench
and a long piece of pipe.
I don't know she ways, i'm thinking
of putting in some new windows,
or resodding the front yard
before it gets dark.
hold my legs while I reach up
here and tighten things up.
need the torque.

my amygdala and me

my amygdala was running wild
for a while.
getting it's daily dose
of self producing dopamine,
my opioid of choice.
fear and reward, oh how that
little almond shaped
piece of tissue in my brain
got a work out
from the ups and downs of
infatuation thought to be love.
I became a junkie in an alley
waiting for my next fix, via
text or email or phone call,
or a sister like kiss on the cheek.
the dope was getting weaker
and weaker, so I needed more
and more. hit me
up again, it would say to me
in the morning, at lunch, at
night. give me another dose
of her stingy affection. come
on brother, help a brain out.
mediocre and washed out is fine
now. even if it's fake,
just me something to make
this pain go away a put
a grimacing smile upon my
tired face.

plant based

the doctor
likes to cook me her plant
based
meals.
putting me on a red
meat
sabbatical.
but i sneak in a roast beef
sandwich when
she's not looking.
mustard
and rye bread,
a dill pickle on the side.
i eat the healthy salad
and smile, saying hmmm,
good,
waiting for
her to turn her head.

the lost earring

i find an earring, just one
lying under
the bed.
it's silver.
not expensive, but
shiny.
i think i know who it belongs
to, but i'm not sure.
i set it on the nightstand,
then move
it to the bookshelf.
before long, i carry it
downstairs
and set it on the kitchen
counter.
from there it goes into
a drawer
where i'll forget about it
for a few days,
before
finding it once more.
in time i'll let
toss it, done with so much
that came
before.

kicking the red ball

the old woman
struggles to keep the air in
as she lies in her
hospital gown
on the hospital bed
in the white room
of the tall building.
pills
and tubes, a machine beside
her keeping
her heart going.
the family stands beside her
taking turns to take
her hand.
she's grey. she's pale,
she's hanging on by a thread.
she remembers nothing,
she remembers everything. how
quickly it went from
a child
in a school yard kicking
a red ball
to this, at ninety, about to
slip into the great
unknown, the kind abys.
but they'll do their
ungodly best to keep
her alive, stringing her
long life along,
thinking strangely, that for
everyone, this is
for the best.

A Parade Goes By

it's a strange parade
that
tramps down the road of
memory.
the pattern is seen,
the same sad
clowns time and time again.
the same lipsticked women
with charm
and snake oil,
their convoluted lies.
the mistakes I've made
in trusting
carnival folk,
with their tattoos and earrings,
the lost and confused,
the hunger artists,
the pill purveyors,
the abused.
I wave as they pass by.
not a tear in my eye.
I see them carrying their empty
bowls,
the empty glasses,
their sharp knives
pressed
against wrists and throats.
I finally see it all for what
it really is,
for who they really
are and the damage I allowed
them to do to my life,
but no more.
this time I let the parade
pass by.

let yourself out

i understand the desire
for those imprisoned to get out.
to dig
and burrow, to cut the steel
bars,
to climb out a window
and be free.
but what about those,
us,
including me who put our own
selves in lock up?
we can leave any damn time
we want. what keeps us there?
what sick
twisted emotion keeps us from
walking out
and leaving those cold hard
walls behind.
what keeps us in a bad marriage,
a bad relationship,
or friendship,
what ties us down to a
horrible job,
or tether us for life to
siblings who do nothing but
cause trouble and fight?
if the parents are evil,
run and don't look back.
why are we doing this to
ourselves? we have the keys
in hand. open that cell door
of despair and let yourself
out. like now, while there's
still time to enjoy and love
the life you deserve.

wrong side of the bed

you wake up in a bad
mood,
cranky and grumpy.
ruminating about old
issues, long gone,
so you go back to bed, close
your eyes for a few minutes
or so
and start over.
you clear your mind
and think about something else.
someone else.
you think about fun,
and relaxation.
kissing and other stuff.
this time you get out
on the other side of the bed,
and you say to yourself.
hello, there.
let's have a good day,
my aren't you a perky
nice fellow.
let's get the show
on the road, and get
some work done.
have a nice day.

running into fire

the fire looks
inviting, so I run into it.
bare feet,
loose clothes,
crazy eyed.
of course it hurts.
of course
my clothes catch fire
and my
feet are burned
black.
what did I expect
with fire.
those golden flames,
those red
licks,
that warm embrace
of heat,
they were nothing,
nothing but dark whispers
and danger
trying to win
me back.

no home

some people never have
a home, a nest, a place they
can call their own.
a place they can feather
and decorate,
paint the walls, put
a pot on the stove.
they go from relationship
to relationship
moving in, moving out.
sleeping
in a guest room,
a basement, on a living room
couch.
the years go by,
there is grey in their hair,
they stare
into the mirror, older
now. unsettled still.
they wake up and wonder
where they are.
not a picture gets hung.
not a box unpacked, they
are gypsies,
vagabonds, half in
half out, always looking
through a window trying
to figure where to go,
who's next, trying hard,
with luggage in hand,
to understand what this life
is all about.

brain junk food

bored out of my cotton
picking
mind
I go back onto facebook
to stir the pot.
post a bunch
of questionable junk,
then delete it all.
friends?
sort of.
but not really.
good friends call.
good friends meet
for lunch, or coffee,
or just to sit on the porch
and shoot the breeze.
it's a distraction though,
a mindless
amount of non nutritional
junk food
for the brain.
like a bag of chips,
or a bowl of popcorn
minus the butter and the salt.
before you know it the whole
bowl is gone,
and the hour has flown
by.

free love

I skip around the tube
searching for something to watch.
lots of channels, lots
of nothing.
cooking shows, the news, baseball,
a documentary about
sun spots. I watch
the moon landing from 69
then go over
to Netflix to peruse
pulp fiction for a while.
finally I settle on
Woodstock.
the original movie from
the original concert.
lots of hippies
in the mud. ten years after.
the who.
jimi, Janis.
sha na na too.
it was never really like
that though.
it's mythology. the drugs,
the dirt, the free sex.
it's polished up nice and
neat,
fits the era, romanticized
like a well fit glove.
it was a tough time
of broken homes and war,
runaways, overdoses,
lost children, fighting
the generation that held
them down before.

sundown

it's the sundown
syndrome
that hits the aged when
incarcerated
in their rooms attached
to tubes
and needles, monitors
and gizmos
all beeping and blinking
at once, each
meant to keep them alive
for another day,
another night.
they go delusional. they
make up stories, make
up lies.
invent entire tales of
mystery and suspense.
it's a lot like real life,
but with jello
and oatmeal
in the morning, sandwiches
cut in half
with plastic knives.

things have changed

things have changed.
but for the better not worse.
change is the hardest
thing to
go through, but the best
thing
that could happen
to us when times are hard,
when the road is
rough,
go in any other direction,
but go,
get off this crazy
road with no
apparent end or destination.
take another road,
and change.

low on the food chain

I was going to call
you
but my phone was down to 12 per cent,
so I didn't
want to waste
those precious few bars
of energy on you.
sorry, but you're just
too far down on my personal
food chain,
otherwise we'd be chatting right
now and shooting
the breeze,
saying pithy fun
and clever things to one
another.
when I power up, i'll text
you, or send you a picture
of me eating
something
at this restaurant i'm going
to with my
friend betty.

Milagro

she's in she's out.
vacuum, brushes, liquids,
buckets and rags,
brooms and mops,
swish, vroom,
every floor, every counter,
each shelf
and under the bed
in every room.
no dust, no dirt, no
nothing but the clean
smell of pine.
the books are stacked,
papers aligned,
the sheets are changed,
the dishes washed,
the bathrooms
shine.
the pillows arranged just
so. how have I lived
this long without her,
my Milagro.

coffee then roses

i'll get this day started at some
point.
first coffee though,
an email or two, a crazy poem
or three.
a shower, etc. etc.
but at some point i'll put some
clothes on and go out
the door to work.
what's the rush though,
work will wait.
everything will wait, time
to slow down and smell
the roses. maybe I should buy a
bundle of roses later
and put them in a vase
on the table. putting roses
on the list.
coffee first.

plant based diet

my doctor says to me
over drinks
at the local pub,
i'm putting you on a plant
based diet
starting tomorrow.
I finish up my plate of baby back
ribs,
and wipe my mouth from
all the sauce, and say, okay.
but no lima beans, I hate lima
beans. and kale. can't eat kale.
too raw and tough to chew.
okay, okay, she says.
there's lots more vegetables to
choose from.
how about mashed potatoes with
a big wad of melting butter
on top, salt and pepper, maybe
some cheese and sour cream
too. sprinkles of dry bacon.
no. she says. i'll decide
on the menu.
okay, I tell her sadly,
as she shakes
her head and says I think
this is going to be harder
than I thought.

golden

no news is good
news
as they say. silence
is golden.
no emails, no calls,
no texts,
no smoke signals.
no cards in the mail,
no hand written notes
slid through the slot
in the door.
no frantic contact
from the near
past.
ah, it's been a good
good night
and a very good
day. let's make it a
week, or a month,
or better yet
a year if that's
okay.

far better

there are far better
things ahead
than any we leave behind.
said c.s.lewis.
hard to disagree
with that sentiment.
though easier said
than done.
courage, dear boy,
courage, push on.

pour some sugar on it

at times, we pour some sugar
on it,
on the people we love, or
used to love
when describing who they
are, or were. whether friend
or foe.
we pour on the syrup,
sprinkle on the sweet and low
to make
the person more kind,
more nice, more than what
they really were.
we cut up some fresh fruit
and drop it in the bowl.
the truth is too hard to
tell, so it's easier this
way. why bother with
the details of what went
wrong, went sour, went
rancid and bad, all of
it gone to hell. let's just
pour some sugar on it,
and let it go at that.

the light is on but no one is home

they do a brain scan on her
to try and finally find
out what the problem is.
they lie her down
on the big table
with a paper sheet.
the motor goes whirr
as it pulls her under
the big metal machine
full of bright light.
they look into her brain,
taking picture after
picture, but there's
nothing there,
it's an empty cavern with
only some small birds
fluttering about
from side to side,
but that's about it.
the light is on but
there's no one home.
there's no rational
thought, no guilt
or remorse no moral
compass. no empathy,
or emotional intelligence,
no sense of
self, of what's real,
or false. it's just a big
empty cage of nothing.
just birds. birds
fluttering about,
birds, that's all.

drop the mike

we all have a drop
the mike
moment. when the right words
are finally uttered,
when the deal is done
and there is no turning back.
the mattered is settled,
there's no mincing, no
sidestepping, no cautious
whispers. it's a straight
up shout, face to face,
eye to eye.
the words spill out
without thought, but
convey perfectly what
needs to be said
and heard. I laugh
when I think about it.
it's such a fine
moment. a release
of frustration and
anger. finally here's
what I've been meaning
to say to you for quite some
time. so you say it.
boom. you drop
the mike and walk.
there is no going back.

death in michigan

her sister
dies in Michigan. so she goes
up
to see it through.
grieve with the family.
sit in her room.
touch her things. look out
the window
where they both
once stood
when little girls.
there are no answers.
no words that can ease the pain.
you nod.
you hug, you say you're there
for them.
and go back to your own
life.
heavier from it all, but knowing
that in time
we all will eventually
disappear into that
mysterious fog.

the blue house on the corner

after brushing on six gallons
of midnight navy blue,
it's a blue
house on the corner, you can't miss
it.
with gold shutters
and white trim.
there's little yard, some grass.
a bush
a tree that
bends.
but it's a bright house
now.
hard to not see.
parking is difficult, but you
can't miss it.
it's blue as blue can be.
the neighbors aren't happy
about it.
but too bad.
they can go inside and not
look out,
if it bothers them.

the grapevine

I hear things
on the grapevine, the whispers,
the gossip
the dirt.
I hear
what's going on and am glad
i'm no longer
a part of that
conversation.
there isn't enough soap
and hot water in the world
to be cleansed from
all that noise going into
my mind.
I take out
my scissors and clip
the vine.
I pour
some weed killer on it,
some gasoline too
and throw down a match.
I no longer need or
want to know
what's being said or
done.
i'm done with that toxic
vine.

at the waters edge

she has a shine
about her, an inner glow.
a warm
fire burns inside.
when you stand close to her
you no longer
feel cold.
you no longer feel
or want
what is old.
your days of wind and ice
are gone.
she embraces
you at the waters edge,
and says, it's okay now.
let go.

morning cup

the coffee shop is full
of young
hipsters with
strollers and kids,
newly weds,
college aged
and older.
it's loud and bright
on a sunday morning.
the walls are red,
abstract
paintings, large
leafed plants.
the music is loud.
there is a whirl of
life going on. the door
keeps swinging open.
the machines keep pumping
out cup after cup.
the beans are
being grinded.
it wakes you up, too
awake
for a sunday morning.
you just need
a paper,
and quiet and coffee,
to be able to lean
towards each other
and say, hey.
I love you. good morning,
let's walk
and not stay.

when it rains

we share an umbrella
as the rain
starts to fall.
we huddle under it.
closer
to one another than
we've ever been.
a little rain can
do wonders
to push along
new love
when it begins.

the emergency room

the emergency room
is full
of the elderly who have fallen.
bumps
on their heads,
blood in their eyes.
weakened
by lack of food
and drink,
sleep. tired of
fighting over the temperature
in the house
with an ogre
husband, or wife.
they lie on the sterile
cot
waiting for sons
and daughters to arrive,
telling them,
it's okay,
you just fell again,
no worries, everything
will be alright.
they like the attention
though.
the flowers that arrive,
the notes
and cards, the phone calls.
they wonder why
they don't fall more often.
love
seems to come more easily
when you're
injured or about to die.

me too

I see a bird
on the sill, he's shaking his head,
twig
in his beak,
a worm too.
he looks at me through the window.
Monday,
I tell him.
yup, he says and flies
off,
after saying, I know,
I know.
me too.

A few Years Back

i dream
it's a few years ago.
and everything that i know
now,
hasn't happened.
that those memories never
occurred.
that i am free from
all
the water that has passed
under that bridge.
i wish that all the names
and faces
and the drama attached
never existed.
in my dream, i float
back,
and back, until someone
no longer exists.
that words were never said,
vows never taken,
i dream that
mistakes were never made.
i go back in my dream
to a day when
i was carefree and happy,
my joy still in tact.
my life secure and
in bliss,
way back, way back,
so far from this.

The Cold House

there's a chill
in the air. it's too cold in this
house.
it might snow
any minute now.
there's frost on the chair,
the couch,
the table,
the lamps drip with icicles.
the windows crackle.
the pipes are hard.
the bed is a frozen
pond of blue sheets
and white snow drifts of pillows.
come over soon and defrost
this house,
light your fire and
melt the ice in me.

see you later

i'm not a fan
of hot air balloons,
or jumping
out of planes
with a parachute.
no bungee jumping
off tall bridges for me.
no walking on hot coals,
or skiing, or
under water diving,
wrestling crocodiles,
or snake handling.
I almost faint if I get
a paper cut, so
just give me a drink
and a chair at the lodge,
i'll be back there waiting
for you, when you return,
if you do return,
my feet will be up,
and i'll have the sunday
paper in hand.

many roads

we commiserate over the phone.
sharing war
stories. mine, then hers,
back to mine.
it's been a long hard road,
with bumps
and turns, detours.
the bridges have been
washed out
at times
and there was no way around.
so we had to stay put
and wait until help
arrive,
but we get to the other side
somehow and the skies clear,
the sun does come out.
if you live long enough.
you go down many roads, some
north, some east or west.
some south.

lots of shoes

i know i have too many
shoes.
under the bed, in the closet,
on the steps,
in the laundry room.
but i understand
the reason why.
when i was a kid, i had
to put carboard
into the sole of my one
pair of sneakers to keep
my foot
from scraping against
the pavement
when running around on
the street.
in time, every sock
had a hole in it
where the skin would bleed,
and the cardboard didn't
last too long.
so now i have a hundred
pair of shoes
all colors, all types.
not a single one has
a broken lace
or a hole in the sole.
i have a lot of shirts
too.

Storm

the power goes on
then off.
lights flicker. the tv
goes black,
the phone beeps.
all the clocks have
to be reset.
I hear the crackle
of lightning
not far off.
a storm arrives and shuffles
the leaves,
bends the trunks
of old trees, it
throws
buckets of rain
down upon the roof,
the shutters rattle,
the fence gate opens
and swings,
bangs.
the house goes dark
and scary. a wet
gloom
settles in the wind.
it's chaos,
it's crazy, it reminds
me so much
of a relationship I
was once in.

the melt of day

some people burn
the candle at both ends.
the middle too,
they put the whole thing
right smack
into the fire
and watch it melt.
day in day out.
by the end of the week,
the month,
the year.
they have many puddles
of cold wax
lying about.
work. life. etc.
the days
all melting quickly away.

a knock at the door

there's a knock at
the door.
it's late, it's dark,
it's a loud
rap
of knuckles, then
the metal banger, again
and again.
I cautiously go to the door
and look out the peep
hole.
it's no one that I know,
I put the chain
on the door,
and carefully open it
just enough to look
outside.
it's a man in a white
shirt and a black
tie.
he wants to know if I've
met
Jesus.
he slides a me a religious
tract
between the door.
I tell him, I haven't
physically met him,
it's not like he's
showed up
for a cup of coffee or
anything, but
we've had some very long
talks lately.
it's mostly me doing the talking,
I tell him,
he's very quiet, but
occasionally He does
have a way
of getting my attention,
and telling
me some very important
stuff
which affects my life in
a positive way. so to
answer your question, yes,
I have met him.

they found a way out

who doesn't have problems.
some
more than others.
the mundane or complex.
some solvable, some a life time
of
feet stuck in the mud
with no way out.
who isn't under pressure
from
the past, the present,
or tomorrow. work,
a kid,
a parent, a spouse.
a dog
who sheds and just jumped
the fence.
who isn't under the gun,
unnerved,
wary,
feeling lonely, or lacking
in more fun.
who isn't stuck in
traffic, or wiping
coffee off their shirt,
or dealing with the turmoil
of the recent past.
nearly every person
I know,
almost everyone. who doesn't
have problems?
only the completely
mad and out of their minds.
locked in an asylum,
they found a way
out.

Heading Down Stream

for so long
the water was muddy,
murky,
full of dirt and sludge.
it leaked
in brown green swirls
of deceit and lies,
all pouring out
daily
from her rusted pipes,
her infected
mind.
old fish floated
dead on the surface.
nothing was clear
until I got
downstream
away from her.
suddenly the water
was cool
and kind, refreshing.
you could drink it again.
there was life inside,
below
the water line.
there was
the clarity of soul,
how quickly I drank
and took back myself,
something that I should
never have given,
for it
was always mine.

I like this ink

i like the way this ink
paints
a picture in my mind and on
the page.
how it flows,
and goes,
and writes itself out.
the pain, the love,
the heartbreak.
work and life.
sex and death.
dogs and cats, kids and food.
i write about the train
leaving
and the train arriving
over and over again.
i'm always there,
waiting, or waving farewell.
i'll keep at as long as i
can.
as long as there is time
and health, i'll pound
away at these
keys and write my story.
for better worse. and if you
don't like, please
go somewhere else to read.

i need spicy

i open the fridge door
and let out a long sigh,
i'm in my socks,
so i do the ballet spin
around the room,
going from cupboard to
cupboard.
hmmm, leaves my lips.
not a thing to eat.
sure,
there's eggs, and peanut
butter,
and frozen fish,
frozen chicken wings.
but i need something spicy.
something to make
my bald head sweat,
something hot and delicious
to get my heart a thumping.
i wonder what she's up
to right now, and if she
can deliver me something.

that much i know

I bend to a kiss.
to a hug,
to a kind word,
I bend and bow to
a good soul.
a good friend, a sweet
person
that I adore.
I give everything of me
to someone
I love
and is true,
and hold back
everything, when its over
and she's gone.
i'm selfish when it
comes to love,
that much
I know.

kindness

sometimes
all we need is a drink.
a sip
from a hand.
a drop of rain
falling into our open
mouths.
sometimes a little
bit of
kindness
is enough to see us
through
the dry times,
keep us quenched
when
a lush green
earth has
turned to sand.

finding a pearl

it's rare,
the pearl inside a shell.
perfect
and round,
clean and pinkish
white.
this kind of gem
is hard
to find. a miracle
of sorts
on this long
deserted beach,
but when you do
find her,
this shiny star,
lay it
in your hand,
put it where you can
see it everyday,
before you go to sleep
at night.
keep it, adore
her, but
don't hold too tight.

making love

it's not sex,
it's not a fling, a wild
ride.
it's not
an affair, it's not
lust or need, or a
desire that burns, or
a hot thirst,
that needs to be
quenched,
a longing deep inside.
it's
something different.
making love
when love is true,
when it's mutual and kind,
thoughtful
and open. when
there is nothing
in our minds to hide.
just us
together.
no pretend. no lies.
just love, side by side.

the waitress

the waitress
is young, it's her first
night on the job,
things get spilled,
forgotten,
forks and spoons
fall to the floor.
she brings the salad
out last,
the bread too.
gives us the wrong
drinks.
but it's her first
day on the job,
who hasn't been that
young, that new?
it's all okay.
it's just her turn,
a big tip will help
her through.

what about us?

we play a game
at the airport. guessing who
everyone is, or might be,
where they're going,
what they're up to, either
good or no good.
who's in love, who's breaking
up,
who is going to a place
where they won't return.
where they'll live happily
ever after
madly in love full of hope
and trust.
and she smiles and says,
I like that destination,
so, what about us?

more good

it's positive
thinking.
the thumb up, the good
spin,
the prayers,
the cheerful words,
a smile,
a joke,
a light touch or
kiss
when someone hurts.
we need more
of this.
of this kindness
and compassion, there is
enough evil in the world.
too much lying,
too much
betrayal and hatred
too much that's not right,
not fixed.
too much denial.
we need heartfelt
communication,
not silence,

help arrives

help arrives
when least expected.
out of the woodwork
they come
in droves.
those you once thought
lost, ancient history,
gone where old friends
go.
be here they are
at your door, with food,
with drink
with open arms and love,
kind thoughts and prayers,
happy that once again
you are who you are.

finding love

I knock
on the melon, onto
the green
and white striped side.
it's thick with spring
coming into summer.
I look
at the label
to see where
it was grown, where
it's come from.
I turn it in the stack
and knock again,
look at another
and wonder.
finally, I pick it
up, settling on it's
size and weight.
i put it into
the cart, still not
sure if it's going
to be sweet or not
when I get it home
and slice it apart.
we'll see. we always
do.

just slap me, please

she pulls me
aside and says hey.
enough.
just kiss me and be done
with this
dame, this babe,
this broad,
this catastrophe that you
crazily mistook for
love. so I do.
I kiss her, i
put my arm around her waist,
I listen and absorb
the wisdom of what she
says. just slap me,
throw a cold glass of
water into my face,
I tell her,
if I even begin
to go off the deep
end ever again.
I have the ice water
ready, she says.
no problem.

where the pictures go

they have a thousand
pictures, all framed, all dated
on the back.
1931 and forward
up until a year ago.
it's the family outing.
the graduation.
the wedding, the funeral.
the birth,
the party,
the farewell.
most are black and white.
some in koda chrome color.
each to a place
on a nail
on a wall carefully measured
some decades ago.
the lines of dust
and dirt
show where they go, where
they'll hang
until everyone is gone
from memory,
including those who held
the hammer.

unripe and green

it's the core wound.
the mother
father
influence or lack thereof
that does
the damage
at an early age.
the narcissism, the anger
or violence,
the obvious lack
of attention and love
that sets us
on a tumultuous path
of pain
and sorrow. unable
to secure
love when we find it,
or throw
it to the wind
when it appears safe
and sound
at our doorstep.
we are fighting the normalcy
of chaos our whole
lives.
seeking comfort in pleasure
or pain,
or both.
getting our fixes
to get through
another day of wanting
to be needed
and needing to be wanted.
we don't fall far from that
rotted tree,
with their brown
fruit,
inedible, or unripe
and green.

the house in order

all things are in order.
the house is clean.
the bills are paid.
the bed made.
the dog is walked.
the windows
have been wiped.
the dust is gone.
not a cobweb is found
anywhere in any room.
even the attic
where the memories
were stored
is spotless, not a box,
not a picture framed,
not an old rusted sword.
no trinkets, no nick knacks,
no photos or
rings. no shoes left behind,
no clothes on a hanger,
no strings attached
anymore.
all things
must pass.
the trash pick up
is on Monday.
there is little left
to haul to the curb,
no bitter reminders,
at last. a joy to behold.

let's go for a swim

the sky is not falling.
the end
is not near.
there is still time,
still
a few hours left on this planet
to have
fun again.
okay, maybe more than that.
glad you're here
to join in.
put on your bathing suit,
let's go for
a swim.

lie beside me

come here and lie beside me.
don't say a word.
lie close to me, let me feel
your skin,
your lips, your hair.
i almost lost you for another.
no words can describe
such a loss,
such a scare.
come here and lie beside me.
don't say a word.
we'll make love in
the morning, and linger,
listening to the trees
out side, now full, and
swimming with birds.

the empty space

I leave an empty
space
in the room. it's fine that way.
no need
to fill it with
another object.
art, a vase,
flowers or otherwise.
the empty space
is fine.
imagination
depends upon the empty
spaces
in our lives.
without them, our
brushes go unused, our
pens
go dry.

the line pulls them along

all day,
all night the chickens die.
strung
on cords
by their feet, their
red claws,
their bodies
white as cotton,
fat
for the slaughter,
bursting feathers in
tight cages.
nothing near human
in their black
eyes.
they are pulled along,
the music
of the machine, a string
orchestra
of maddening noise.
they are
shocked at first
with a bolt of electricity
then
their throats cut,
to get the blood out.
to drain them dry,
heads come
off,
feet.
then stripped clean
to the skin.

once you've seen
it,
you never again eat
a wing, or leg, a breast,
or thigh.

by the age of seven

they say
it begins at birth,
until the age of seven.
if you
aren't getting the right
amount of love
and care by then,
you're pretty much doomed
to live a chaotic
existence
until you get some serious
help to straighten
things out.
you're screwed by
the angry father,
the ambivalent mother.
weigh down by their narcissism.
the self worth is chewed
up and spit out
by then.
they do a number on you.
they beat you down,
and you in turn
will do the same to others
who want you
in their lives. unattached
and distant, cold
and aloof,
causing havoc wherever
you go.

drama be gone

I hate drama.
queen or king, or prince
induced.
princess, be gone from my sight
you
whining baby.
don't speak, don't wallow
in self pity.
I don't want to hear another word
of your tormented
life.
your childhood, your
toxic
world, no relationship
or friend, or sibling, parent
or coworker is ever
quite right.
I hate drama.
please don't drag me into
this swirling vortex
of pain
and confusion,
this tornado, this rollercoaster
ride
where everything is a
Shakespearean tragedy full
darkness and night.
I can't sit and watch this
anymore, this play,
that never ends. I've heard
it all time and time again.
I almost know the lines
by heart.
please be gone with your drama.
I need a fresh
new idea. I need a positive
perspective, a clean new
start.

cold turkey

he tries to go cold turkey.
no smokes.
but he has no back up plan.
no gum
no patch, no inhaler,
no
method or plan
to escape
the addiction to nicotine.
there is no safety net
to catch him
when the nerves get jangled.
when anxiety hits.
instead he
walks out in the freezing
rain
to buy a pack
when the toxic habit overcomes
him.
he doesn't want to be in
this sick
relationship with cigarettes,
but it's what he knows,
what soothes him,
what makes him feel better
when the chips are down.
despite
the smell, the coughing,
the gagging,
the stink
and sickness that it
causes to his heart
and lung,
his soul. it's no unlike
bad love.
trust me. just quit.

more than enough

i see her in the yard
on her knees,
those weeds, those endless
weeds,
the clover.
she's into it,
with her gloves her rake
her bags
full of debris.
she likes to dig, to wash
and clean,
scrubbing the deck.
she makes
thing pretty, but
she doesn't have
to.
she's enough. more than
enough. flowers don't
have a chance
around her.

the hole inside

it's the tone.
the words,
the carefully,
laid out
sentences.
the control
of it all.
it's manipulation.
nothing has changed.
the heart of the problem
has not
been touched.
what lies deep within
is still there.
the dark hole has
not been filled
with anything new.
it's all window dressing
while the house
is in shambles.
while it teeters
on rotted beams,
a crumbled foundation.
I can feel it,
smell it, taste it.
scary,
it truly is.

listen to your mother

it's an old wound,
hardened, scabbed over.
it's been there for awhile.
I have a tendency to pick at
it,
like a child
not under the watchful eyes
of his mother.
there is no one there
to tell me to stop,
what are you doing, you're
going to make it bleed
again.
so time and time again,
I rub, and itch,
scratch at it until it
bleeds and starts all
over once more. but
I finally stop, and suddenly
I wake up once morning,
and it's gone.
listen to
your mother.

going slow

what I thought was blue
was less
blue, and more green.
what I thought was cooked
wasn't,
still raw and pink
in the cut.
the car I bought didn't do
it for me either,
too slow, to big,
or the clothes
I found
in the bottom drawer.
nothing fits.
I've made some bad choices
in my life.
some I regret, most I just
laugh about,
and try again,
this time around though
i'm going slow,
taking my time, and finding
what I really want,
who really wants me.

weather

the trees
swim in the early morning rain.
the breeze
picks up
the world and tosses
it around.
there is nothing we can
do about
the weather,
or much else for that matter,
we just have
to out into
it,
and be truthful
with our lives.

getting over it

my friend jimmy
broke up with his wife last month.
irreconcilable differences.
i run into him
down at the local pub,
crying in his beer.
they were married for almost
a year.
i loved her so much, he says.
loved her like
I've never loved another woman.
she was my life,
she was my wife.
i miss her so much, he tells me.
then i see him open his phone
and a picture appears,
who isn't his wife. some woman
in a red dress.
who's that i ask, as he
wipes away his tears
with a bar napkin, and blows
his nose.
oh that's betty, met her
the other night
on tinder.
she's coming here
later tonight, she's a school
teacher
from La plata.

the red sauce family

i dnn't really have a favorite
aunt
or uncle.
although there's a dozen of
them floating round
in jersey and philly.
lots of johnnies, and Lennies
and stephens, and
dolores.
Gloria, marie, lena.
Sophia.
it's the spaghetti side
of the family
tree. meatballs and red
sauce. extra cheese.
everyone has lost touch
since the parents have died.
the grandmothers,
long gone.
you find out now second
or third hand
when someone passes.
facebook, or an obit,
but there's no phone calls
anymore.
everyone's has lost touch,
despite there being so many
more ways now a days
to keep in touch.
oh well.

need air or die

sometimes
when I don't get enough air
into my
lungs
the world starts to go dark,
I feel faint,
and woozy,
I find a chair to sit down
in, get a glass
of water,
locate my rescue inhaler
and take a couple
of hard puffs.
sweat beads on my forehead,
and I think
about being found stretched
out on the floor,
ready to start pushing up
daisies.
no will, no combination
to the safe, no way for anyone
to get onto my
computer and find out
what I've been up to.
loose money lying around,
the milk on
the counter,
the doors unlocked and i'm
just gone.
oh well, it's not my problem
anymore.

released

having recently been
released from a mental institution
I stand outside
the iron gate and wave
to my doctors and fellow patients.
they smile
and wave back.
there's joe, who thinks he's jesus,
and jim
who believes he's
the king of England.
mary, the bride of Frankenstein,
and elaine, joan of arc.
it's a lovely bunch of nutcakes,
to which I was once
a part of.
why they think i'm better,
I have no clue,
maybe they need the bed, the space,
the shackles
that held me down.
I see the doctors in the their white
coats,
holding syringes, and electrodes,
long wires where
the electricity flowed,
their hammers and saws and scalpels,
bottles of fat pills,
books and books
describing how to heal.
they wave and wave as I wave
back and walk away.
free at last of so much crazy
stuff that go in my way.

the scrambled egg mind

I try to think
of new metaphors
related to food, that describe
certain
relationships that have
come and gone, or are new
and will stay
for longer than a night,
or day.
scrambled eggs
comes to mind, a scrambled
mind with a side
order of bacon.
or emotional lasagna.
layered and gooey with cheese.
bad for the heart.
cotton candy.
sweet and sticky
with no value.
then there's the fish gone
bad,
a flounder that sat
in the sun too long,
or the apple with the worm,
the hidden brown
dent on the side you never saw.
soup, cold and old
with a thick
brown froth
comes to mind, as does,
left over pizza
or a box of Chinese
noodles, stiffened and hard
by the cold air of
a fridge, and time.

The family room

they sit and ponder
around the table, there is cheese
and grapes.
crackers. slices of thick
stale pound cake,
cheap gin,
tonic water. nothing fancy
or elaborate,
paper plates and cups,
old chairs,
torn cushions,
the ac just barely on.
the stereo whispering
a song
by Sinatra, perry como.
the house has not changed in
thirty years,
the same thin drapes,
the rusted sheers.
there is the awkward silence,
the dryness
of the afternoon
settling in.
the unasked questions.
the elephant
in the room. it's deadly
this time of life,
to see your children so lost,
so late,
so full of sadness, so
stuck
in gloom. but hugs will
happen as each child departs,
kisses on the cheeks,
all is well, they'll reply,
everything is fine,
not to worry,
we'll see you again,
soon.

papers in the wind

some have the curse
of object
constancy,
keeping everything
ever touched
as if gold,
while others,
similar to me
need to scrub clean
the rooms,
to remove all items
related
to what's past.
it's just tin now.
rhinestones
made of glass.
I seek the big can,
the box,
the curb where all
things related
will be tossed away.
what's real is kept,
that stays in the heart,
the rest is fake,
debris,
papers in the wind,
trash.

one place to the next

a thought or two
surfaces,
it's a scent, a whiff
of something
in the air,
from the past, perfume
perhaps,
a flower
outside the window.
skin,
lips, her breath.
these thoughts are
like
thin dreams found
in daylight.
clinging for just
a moment,
in passing, in going
from one place
to the next.
funny how life clings
as it slowly
disappears, as it should,
to begin
what's next.

love can be like that

I find a twenty
dollar bill in the dryer
and think
how lucky.
how nice to find money
when least
expected, even though
it's been there
all along.
right there in front
of you.
love can be like
that.
in fact it is.

Ready to Go

she's a very good planner.
I love that
about her.
tickets
to a show, wolf trap,
to philly
for a concert,
to the beach before
it snows.
new York, of course,
in the fall
before
the winds and ice
come on.
a bed and breakfast
off the bay
with a window
to see the sky, the water,
the clouds
that sway.
a cruise in the spring
to venice,
or spain.
I like how she plans,
how she thinks ahead
towards fun.
i'm all in, i'm down
with that,
my bags are packed,
i'm ready to go. Let's
follow the sun.

The Happy Stone

you can take
this to the bank.

engrave it
in stone
where you can read
it
everyday
of your life.

when you know how
to be happy
you will no longer
tolerate those
who make you
unhappy.

you will move on.

dour and sour

some people have no sense
of humor.
they are dry
and dark, sour
and dour, shaking their
heads
at the slightest
of cracks,
of attempts at lightening
up the moment.
you can see it on their faces.
it's all about
work
and repetition.
duties
and trying not to sin.
god forbid
that a sarcastic
remark is made with
no harm intended,
no malicious thought
in mind.
they go through life
as if going to the gallows.
walking
the plank,
pacing the green mile
waiting for it all
to end.

the fish aren't biting

the fish aren't biting tonight.
but it's okay.
they need their rest too.
i'm tired
of swimming in this cold pool,
so I get it.
I see them in the clear
green water,
their silver shells in plaid
along the sides.
the
fluorescence of their
short lives.
I reel in the line, and lie back
on a stone
beside the river side.
it's a good night for this.
letting things be.
letting the water just
flow on bye.

to the drive in

I remember back in high
school
washing the car before
going out
on a date to the drive in
with my
sweetie.
let's call her lou la belle
for lack
of a better name.
i'd pick her up
and beep
the horn outside her house.
making her father shake
his head
and yell at her to be home
by midnight.
not likely.
then off we'd go.
chap stick in hand, a six
pack of beer
on ice.
three horror movies on
tap, the werewolf of London,
a vampire flick,
and the house on the haunted
hill, all
starring Vincent price.

Monsters under the bed

there a monsters,
both real and imagined. who hasn't
known one
or two, or three
or four.

who hasn't as a child
looked under
the bed or in the closet
before going
to sleep?

left the hall light on.

there are demons and dragons,
goblins
and witches
throughout our life.

some real, some imagined,

some you know,
some you wish
you had never met,
and others,
who are waiting in the shadows

for their turn
to wreak havoc,
and dread.

I'm All Yours

I go to my favorite doctor,

she says without hesitation,
take off your clothes.

she examines me
from the head
down
to my toes. she weighs me.

checks the reflexes by tapping
each knee.

cough she says.
bend over, blow your nose.
say ahh.

let me listen to your heart.
put my hand
in yours, lets see that pulse,

the blood pressure, too.

let's take some blood.
look into
those ears.

now kiss me, she says,
and take one
of these each day.
she hands me a bag of
sweet
sugar candies, heart shaped,

each one saying
i'm yours.

the true life

we hear
what we want to hear.
see what we want
to believe.
we selectively live
our lives,
half in shadow, half
in sunlight.
it's easier that way
at times,
to not question what's
right,
what's wrong.
I did it for so long.
we go a little deaf,
a little blind,
when two souls, become
entwined.
but at some point,
you
have to live that true
life
and move on.

A Card in the Mail

she sends you a card.
a sweet
card, something she's held
onto
for years.
there's a note inside.
it's poetic.
she waited for the moment
to drop
it in the mail.
it's heartfelt, genuine,
real.
I read the words
and wipe a tear away. i
savor
what she's written,
I feel the same.

some love, true love,
is meant to stay.

father Leo

i run into the local parish priest
at the 7-11. father Leo.
he's buying a six pack
of beer,
and a cartoon of lucky strikes.
hey, he says.
haven't seen you in
church for awhile, not you or
the wife.
oh, i tell him.
grabbing a newspaper and a
box of donuts.
things have changed. it didn't
work out.
oh, he says, sorry to hear that.
oh well. what can I say,
but hey, Thursday is bingo
night, why don't you come
on out. some singles will
be there, pot luck,
if you're ready
for that. he winks, and pats
me on the back. bless you my
son, he says.
keep your chin up.
see you in church.