walking on coals

Jean Paul Sartre said
in an epiphany type
moment,

that people are hell.

which can be true
or false
depending on the day,
the status of the relationship,

at times it's heaven,
and other times well,
you know how it goes.

you're sweating,
and in pain with each
moment you're together,
each hour feels like a year of
nothing but
arguing and sorrow,

walking on a path
of burning coals.

But when it's heaven,
There you go. there's
peace and trust,
there's harmony.
It just flows
And flows and flows.

time and distance

it takes time.
patience.
quiet and reflection.
you need to slow your heart,
still
your mind.
it takes time to get
to where
you need to go.
to shed the trouble of a
former life,
to get back home,
to become
you again, and whole.
slow down.
one foot then
the next.
revel in the quiet,
the solace
and peace, time
and distance
will
take care of the rest.

nine bells

the church bells are ringing
upon the small town
of water and old homes,
it's a sweet
deep sound.
it reminds me of another place,
another life,
another town.
nine tolls are heard
as we sit here
with coffee, the harbor
stretched out like
a picture postcard.
I reminisce, I ponder,
I wonder what tomorrow
will bring
as I type
these careful words. how
many more bells
are there to be heard.

did it rain

it must of rained
last night.
but we didn't hear
it fall.
the cushions are wet,
the cloth of
blue is dark blue.
the deck has the shine
of water.
but the sky is clear.
if a storm
passed through, we
didn't know, we were
sound asleep, lost
in dream,
we didn't hear. so much
of life
happens that way.

quiet ships

there is a cool breeze
on the veranda.
the quiet sailboats slip
into the harbor, sails down.
you see
them arrive, for fuel,
for food,
for drinks, then go
back out again. it's a
different life out here.
like us,
there is no rush
in leaving, or arriving
traveling from here to there.
so many seem to know
one another, names
shouted out, greetings,
it's been too long,
almost over a year.
we watch them leave,
the ruffle of soft
water, the green, the
rise of blue as the sun
settles into a hot
summer day. we watch
as they disappear, sailing
off towards
the homes that wait,
so far away.

looking back

i think of last year
at this same time,
this day, this hour, this week.
curled
in a heap of bone crushing
anxiety,

disillusioned by the life i bought
into.
strange
and disembodied. My identity
Stolen. My world
Turned upside down
By a pathological liar.
Manipulated
And beaten down.

I was lost
in what i thought was love,
but had nothing to do with
love. I was
Duped and abused.
lost in
a quagmire of doubt, of fear,
of pain.
cringing at each new lie
That came out of her
Sick mouth,
each new betrayal
With her married boyfriend.

what a difference a year makes,
i think, as i look out across
the blue water, relieved
That her
Darkness is gone.
That the nightmare
Has ended.
At least for me
But not for her or
Those around her.that
Will never end
no matter how many years
go by.

tranquility

there is a neatness,
a prim and proper
quaint confection
to this town, St. Michael
across the bay in Maryland,
the houses painted bright,
or pale
in candied colors, white
trimmed.
the yards a sweet green,
cut just so.
it's clean and old.
a step back into time.
main street is full of tourists
like us,
hand in hand,
going store to store,
to wander, to enjoy all
things, trivial and small,
but a joy, and
once unknown.
new treasures to behold.
if not for the news one
would think
that the whole world
is like this. at peace,
and tranquil, with nowhere
else to go.

a different bed

the bed away from
home is not like the one you
sleep in.
it's different.
soft and sure,
pillowed, thick sheets
and blankets,
but it's different somehow.
the light,
the water and dock
outside the large
window.
the way the sky seems
bluer,
the gulls, so many
squawking in their busy
way, to and fro.
it makes sleep seem different.
the world
is different.
the air we breathe,
each thought within now
changed
somehow because of this.

a walk through town

we eat on the deck
overlooking the boats, the flags,
the sailors
and tourists
walking below.
the breeze lifts our umbrella
enough
to tell us we're close
to water.
coffee arrives and arrives,
the waitress
is young, the waiter is
old.
eggs, avocados, toast
and jam.
more coffee, cold juice.
the hours are soft and slow
this far from
home.
a book by the pool, a drink
in hand.
there are no problems
at the moment.
not decisions to be made,
no tears, or arguments to
be found.
we talk of dinner, a walk
through town,
what to eat, to buy,
maybe an ice cream on a sugar
cone before the night
is over, before we lie down.

paddling upstream

the water is placid
and green
as it sways from side to side,
up against the grey
piers,
the decks, the hulls
of boats.
the world is gently
singing a watery lullabye
as we
paddle towards deep
sea, out of branches,
the tributaries where
we launched.

bald eagles are perched
on nested poles,
herons, thin and silver
lean out
from the green thick
tangle
of shore brush.
painted houses and bungalows
are quiet as stones
along the river.
shuttered and shaded,
it's hard to tell if anyone
is home.

in a long wooden chair
we see a woman in a white
dress reading.
she looks like a saint
with quiet smile.
she waves as if she knows us.
we raise our hands to her.

it's neither hot or cold,
but calm,
no wind to speak of
as we row, and row,
to where we're told,
towards a red barn,
then around and back
to where we came from.

friday at five

it's five o'clock.
everywhere.
I can hear the corks pop.
the ice
tumble into glasses,
ties come off.
the phones are muted.
the happy hour crowd
huddles at the bar.
rings are slipped into
pockets. lipstick applied.
calls are made.
i'll be late tonight
honey. work is killing
me..
don't wait up for me,
they say, as they tap their
feet to the steel band,
throw down another drink
and cross
their fingers with each
new lie.

Around the Pool

sitting around the pool,
drinking margaritas,
you hear the chatter of men in plaid
beach wear,
the women in white,
bejeweled and tightened by
good surgeons from
jersey or new York.

sunburned and half lit
from pina coladas,
all talking about their boats,
how large, how much larger
the new one is,
how they live on them, where they
go.
where they dock. what it
costs to fill them up.
it's all money talk.
bragging without bragging.

my boat is bigger than yours,
they whisper beneath
their salty breath.
they pretend to be sailors.
it's an illusion of grandeur.
of being one with the sea,
the world, nature, God.
it's worse than listening to
people talk about golf.

St. Michaels

it's a small water
side village. quaint with
nothing but postcard views.
it's over the bay
bridge, then another bridge.
the boats
are docked, settled in because
of wind.

the flags are stiff
in the breeze,
in blue stripes, red, with
white stars within.
the british flags too
blow bright,
posted on the pier.

crab houses, tackle shacks.
old men in khakis and white
shirts, ball capped and
bent, but strong, still
at the fishing,
the crabbing. children at
the pool,
not quite ready to swim.
women, with their drinks,
weathered with time and sun,
their husbands out at sea,
staring at what future might
be left for them.

from this window I can see
far up the miles river.
past the fishing lines, the
crab pots, the strung nets,
all the way to kent narrows,
almost to the bay.
the water blending in with a
cloud covered blue.

it's a good day for
nothing. for sitting on
this veranda.
legs up, shirt off,
the sun collapsing yellow
and white delicious and warm
against my skin.

it's easy to get lost
in thought, in time, in
memory, this far from home.
a day to decompress,
a night to stargaze,
to listen to water sway,
the end is where we begin.

The Wedding Ring

I've thrown so much
sentimental garbage
into the woods, bad karma,
metal plates, ripped
from trees, iron pigs
with wings, (yes, they do fly)
piano parts, broken keys,
and things.
wedding invitations
Never used,
A wedding prayer
In glass. A wedding ring.
cards and trinkets,
shreds of sentimental,
sappy debris.
birthday cards to him,
not me.
tickets, notes.
it's an exorcism of sorts.
getting rid of all
that wasn't true, all
that wasn't anything
I wanted to keep.
That brief imaginary life
was a sick
And devastating joke.
The punch line
Being me.

I feel
bad for the woods though,
those lonesome trees,
having to cradle all that
junk, rusting
And disappearing,
but Forever gone from
my eyes, as all false things
Should be.

christmas dinner

it was a nice Christmas.
a family
thing.
the dinner table set.
gifts exchanged.
candles lit, the tree
ablaze in color.
lights strung white
around the house.
the dog, the kids.
the music.
a thoughtful prayer
as we joined hands.
it was a memorable
time.
for better not worse.
it was near the end
of one thing, and the
beginning of a new
life, which was mine.

travel

I make a list.
parking pass. bags packed.
sunscreen.
toothbrush.
clothes.
pills. lap top.
charger, pillow, just
in case.
magazines and books,
fiction,
I stress that, fiction.
okay,
some poetry too.
sunglasses.
hat.
keys, phone, money,
cash.
a map.
print out.
lock the door,
feed the cat.
tell the neighbors.
put out the trash,
now go
and don't look back.

start here

we go back to child birth.
the first slap,
the bright lights,
men and women in masks.
what's going on here?
already with the deception.
they hand you off
like a loaf of bread
from stranger to stranger.
where's mom,
where's dad, what the hell
is going on here.
I need milk in a bad
way.
I was safe and warm,
snuggly for nine months,
now this?
it gets worse.
before you can think for
yourself, they're telling
you about santa claus,
the easter bunny,
the tooth fairy. they tell
you that you can be whatever
you want to be in this
life. go to school.
be good. they make lots
of promises they can't keep.
you'll meet the girl
of your dreams, get married
have children.
it's a piece of cake,
a slice of pie.
hush little baby, don't
you cry.

The Laminated List

I hadn't seen her in quite
a while, but there she was
pacing the corner in front of
a coffee shop. from what I heard
nothing had changed, although

it reached a point
where she draped herself
in black to reflect
the mourning she was
perpetually in.

she made a list of all her
ailments and problems,
both medical and mental, and
all the slights she had
suffered in her life,
whether real or imagined.

they were written in gothic
print,
in a long row on a sheet
of white paper.

there they were,
all her issues typed
out and laminated,
then strung around her neck
with a wire chain laced
in thorns.

at the top,
in bold black letters it said.
I'M A VICTIM,
please, take your time
and read. help me.

nice, i told her, good
idea. saves you a lot
of time in telling everyone
your troubles when you see them.

i see you still have the
same basic twenty problems from
twenty five years ago.
still working on them, eh?
that's a shame.

but the laminating though
is gold, it's a great idea,
what with all this rain
we've been having.

can I get you a cup of coffee,
I asked her,
i'm going in for my usual.
want one? sure, she said, thanks.
black, she said.
no sweetener, no sugar, no cream.
just black.
I winked at her,
of course, I said.
of course. cold?
yes, she said. cold and black.

man on the porch

i see the man on porch,
across the street from the house
i'm working in.
upper north east, dc.
he rocks.
he's old.
he's seen this street go
from slum
to gold.
row houses.
crack houses. whores
and johns,
a night parade
of bums,
and lost souls.
it's gone pale now.
gay now.
money now.
it's a rainbow neighborhood.
everyone is young
and upscale. kids and strollers.
dogs on leashes.
lawyers, capital hill
staffers.
but my man,
he's still here though.
dark
and quiet in his chair,
in the shade.
a tilted hat
on his head,
saying nothing, no smile,
no words,
just a simple
soft wave.

behind me

it's a zig zag day.
back and forth, from here to there.
work.
work.
work.
but there is rest
straight ahead.
when the clock strikes done.
a sweet retreat
away.
food, drinks, love and fun.
the day
and the week behind
me.

the boyfriend at the mall

I run into the boyfriend,
lumpy and bent,
at the mall,
he's in line at the jewelers,
nervously looking around,
buying another
tennis bracelet
for his true love. he looks
exhausted by the sudden
turn of events.
it's the
twenty ninth
piece of jewelry
he's given her this year
alone, engraved
of course, with the date
and names, hearts
and crosses. etc.
he'll write a note and save
the receipt
for her to keep,
to forever hide
and hold. he has a bundle
of flowers too,
and a gift bag
of trinkets, baubles
and books.
I almost go over to him
and slap him
on the back, and say
you poor sad man.
good luck, good luck
again with that. she likes
shiny things, this much
he's learned
and knows. once again
they're back at it.

find joy

there are no victims,
just volunteers, we choose
the misery we stay in.

just say no,
and watch them
show a side of them
you never knew.
the mask will slip off
with that simple word,
no.

hate your life,
your job,
your family, your husband,
your wife.

do everything you can to make
it work,
and then, when it doesn't
slap your hands
together
and go.

life should be a joy,
not strife.

you can leave anytime you
want.
what will you miss,
add it up, make a chart,
a balance sheet, the odds
are, not much.

That's A Shame

I've watched too much
Seinfeld.
binged on it, know every plot,
every line.
every
absurd and wonderful
twist
that comes along
in each fresh
though old episode.
to live that life
so unaffected and able
to move on
from any calamity that
pops up.
to just say oh well,
that's a shame,
seems the right way to go.
a mantra perhaps
that i'll make my own.

the fortune in the cookie

settling back
in my chair after a full
meal, having devoured too much
crispy beef at Peking Gourmet,
I break open the fortune
cookie,
it reads so true.
today
you'll be with the love
of your life.
she will
make you happy
and you will make her happy
too.
it's a long
fortune, it goes
on and on.
it's a scroll, rolled
up in the sweet
stale ribbons of
the cookie. trust your
gut,
it reads. move on
from the past mistakes
and enjoy the rest
of your life.
you deserve someone
like her. you've been
through hell and back.
no more.
she's wonderful,
beautiful, honest
and true. have a good
life together.
it's time, it's way
overdue.

plant based diet

i'm on my second day
of a plant based diet.
i'm starving.
I need some chicken,
a steak.
I need a potato covered
in butter,
sour cream, bacon.
I need a glass of whole
milk.
French bread.
I stare at the lettuce
on my plate.
cut carrots.
kale.
spinach.
beets. olive oil.
I shake my head and dig
in
with a trowel and a rake.

a Jesus Moment

she has a come to Jesus moment.
it happens.
but it's temporary.
think of the sun coming
out for one minute
on a rainy day.

confession,
communion.

toss some money into the trough.
it feels good to get
clean.
it lasts a few days, this sanctity,
but it can't be sustained.

maybe a week, or less,
but being human is hard,
in no time
it's back
to the life she'll
never leave.

the stars are cold

he's legally blind now.
can hardly
hear a word I say to him.
he walks
at a slow pace.
catches his breath
at each
street lamp.
he leans towards the ocean,
smells the salt,
the brine,
the waves of his long life.
at 92, it's
amazing he's still alive.
living
at his own pace.
it's been a wild ride.
but it's oatmeal,
meals on wheels,
hearing aids and asleep
by nine.
the bars are closed.
the women are old.
the stars at night are dim,
are white,
are cold.

She's a Summer Day

I like the way
she moves. the way she's natural
in her walk,
her talk,
her laugh,
the way she kisses,
not a bone in her aloof,
nothing hidden,
no closed doors,
no secrets to disclose.
what you see is what
you get, true as the day
is long,
she's
a summer day.
a holiday.
she's quiet and thoughtful,
smart,
how can you possibly
go wrong.

tell me about your mother

tell me about your mother,
the therapist asks me for the hundredth
time.
i let out an audible sigh.
now Stephen, she says,
we have to talk about this,
or you're never going to get better
and move on with your life
and find true love, not like that
catastrophe you recently went
through. now, do you want that again,
or not. tell me about your mother.

i blow my lips out making a
balloon like sound stuck
to a kids bike.
okay. my mother. here we go.
she was messed up in a lot of
ways.
codependent on my cheating,
whiskey drinking sailor boy
father.
she'd wait by the window for
him to come home before
the sun came up the next day.
she cried a lot and her
hands shook.
but she'd knit or crochet,
i don't know the difference,
poodle sleeves to slip
the liquor bottles into.
they lined the cabinets.
pink, purple, yellow and blue.
i can still see them till
this day.

she made us go to church every
sunday and pray for my father.
which never seemed to work.

and.
well. she had a tough life.
but she did the best she could
with what she knew. her options
were limited. she couldn't leave.
no money, no education.
she loved us unconditionally,
all seven of her kids,
though often in a daze,
lost and lonely,
bitterly confused.

She Looks Familiar

i see someone on the street
that i used to know.
at least
i think i knew.
it looks like that person.
but i say nothing.
she looks up,
looks me in the eye.
there's something there.
is it someone
that i kissed, or loved,
or lived with.
maybe we were married once,
had children,
a house with a white
fence.
a dog, a garden.
i'm not sure anymore, the
lengthening years have suddenly
become a blur.

Making Stew

she asks me how do you make
stew.
so I tell her
in exacting detail.
I tell her about the chopping
of vegetables.
the beef stock.
the meat. oh, I tell her,
the meat is so important,
kosher steak cubes are
the best.
don't scrimp on the meat,
I say again,
banging my hand on the table.
salt and pepper,
red wine.
potatoes of course.
a bay leaf. some other
ingredients too. but you need
all day.
you have to braise,
you have to boil,
you have turn the heat down
low and let everything
come together.
tasting it as the hours
go by.
then by dark, there you
go. crusty bread, more wine.
sit, let me get you a bowl.

swinging a dead cat

it's easy to eat poorly
in this country.
it's cheap, it's everywhere.
fried chicken on every corner.
12 inch subs.
two for the price of one.
you can't swing a dead cat
by it's tail without
hitting a 7 11 or a baskin
and robbins,
or a donut shop.
the country is slowly sinking
into the sea
because of the weight.
the onion rings.
the beef,
the pies, the cakes.
corn syrup and packaged treats.
carbonated sugar water.
is there anything not
charred or deep fried in
a pot of Wesson that
we don't eat?
is there a piece of broccoli
out there that hasn't
been slicked with butter?

someone she can love

she's lean
and wobbles in her high heels
when walking down
the cobble stone street.
she likes
strange food.
livers and brains.
odd dishes
from places I've
never been.
she's traveled far to get
here.
dodging men
and jobs that drained the life
out of her.
but she wins.
there is iron in her blood.
steel
in her spine.
she's alone, but like everyone,
dreams about
finding an honest person,
someone she can love.

as if nothing is wrong

you get used to it.
the drip
of the faucet.
the splinter, the pebble
in the shoe.
the leak
in the roof, after
awhile
it becomes your new
normal.
the noise next door.
any pain
or suffering
from a loved one
is in time endured,
and you think
this is the way things
are,

a prisoner in your

own cell.

you adjust, accept
and go on about
your day
as if nothing is wrong.
when everything is.

reserved seating

we go to the movies
and sit in our big leather chairs.
reserved online.
recliners
like dad used to have.
cup holders.
they lean back, lean forward.
you could almost fall asleep.
there's plenty of leg
room.
we have our food. a meal.
popcorn too and twizzlers.
a large drink,
napkins.
we're early so we have to
watch an endless stream
of ads, but so what, we're
comfy in our seats, smack dab
in the middle, in the back.
it's not like the old days,
squeezed together,
in hard seats, knee to
knee, elbow to elbow,
scrambling to find two
spots together in the dark
before the movie
starts. it's a wonderful
new theater, with a curved
big screen, the sound shakes
you to the bone.
it's a shame though that
the movie stinks and all
the good stuff is on Netflix
and amazon at home.

What a Difference a Year Makes

almost overnight
my indigestion disappeared.
I stopped sweating
profusely.
anxiety was no more.
my nerves became unjangled.
I was hungry.
food began to taste better.
I was relaxed.
my vision cleared, the tightness
in my chest
went away.
I had more energy and pep.
I felt optimistic,
and hopeful,
I even laughed.
I began to sleep better.
have amazing dreams in color.
the clouds cleared,
the sun came out, birds
chirped cheerfully in the trees.
what happened, someone asked,
what's going on,
you're different now.
just one thing, I told them.
one thing and one thing
only, she finally packed
her bags and left.

new rain

the stream
is fat
with new rain. cold
rain.
the water is clear,
the trees
have fallen and been swept
away.
so much of what was
here is gone
now.
how quick the present
becomes
yesterday.

Get Out of My House

I flush,
I toss, I throw,
I burn
I crush, I destroy
and mutilate
each and every item
she ever
gave me under the false
impression
of love
everlasting.
she was doing the same
for others.
the same love cards,
love bombing,
flirtations,
and impersonations
of a real human being.
ah, the snakes,
the rats,
the evil among us.
the witches on
their brooms, circling
for the next
victim.
when she looks in the mirror.
who does
she see.
how in God's name
can these sick people
live with themselves.
they lie,
they manipulate,
they traumatize,
they deceive. day in day
out.
it's how they live.
it never ends, until you
tell them
it's over, get out,
take your dark sick soul,
you have to leave.

The Collection

some collect stamps,
or coins.
old postcards.
porcelain figures
of cows
or dogs.
some collect antiques,
or
phones, or clothes,
magazines,
rag dolls.
it's a hobby, a joy,
something to do,
a way to pass time,
while others
collect people.
feigning love,
keeping them all on
a thin
thin line.

the new mail man

i see the new mail
man
with his leather sack
strapped
across his uniform,
his blue shirt,
his sweat.
hey, i say. where's the old
guy.
haven't seen him in a while.
he's dead, he says
calmly.
died. had a heart attack.
he hands me my mail.
a bill or two.
flyers.
something from the IRS.
he tips his hat,
then moves on
to the next house.
i go inside and put
the mail on the table.

No Refund, No Returns

it's hard to put
a price
on the damage done,
who cares
about the diamond or all
the other useless
things
i purchased in the pursuit
of love.
it's what's been done
to the heart and mind
that can't be paid for.
there's no insurance policy
for that.
no refund.
no receipt,
no returns. what's done
is done.
you take it home, it's
yours, despite
how broken
and unknown the person was.

a suit for the occasion

I buy a new suit for the occasion.
the old suits,
though very fine
and fairly new
have the stain of bad luck
upon them.
a wedding, a funeral.
is there a difference?
but the new suit is light
weight.
a pale grey.
it fits fine on a summer
afternoon, a white shirt,
crisp in the collar
and an indigo tie.
I hardly know I have it on
as we drive
to where we need to go.
to see a play. to hear
music, to eat and dance
the night away.
it's a good suit and i'll
wear it
only for memories newly
made.
both hers and mine.

We're all Waiting

we're all waiting.
waiting for something, for
someone.
for the bus to arrive,
for the train.
we're waiting in line.
we're waiting to live
to die.
for love.
for sunlight, for rain.
we're waiting for something
to begin,
something to end.
we're praying for peace
and sanity
when there is none.
we're all waiting, waiting
as if we had all
the time in the world.
everyone is waiting
for something or someone
to change,
when they never will.
we're waiting for the
weekend,
when we can be back with
the one
you love again.

we go down to the river

we go down
to the river. along the banks
of the Potomac.
where the rocks are.
where we can see the bridge.
the ferris wheel
changing colors.
the boats are out there.
the sails
up in the silver sunlight.
we go down
to a bench along the shore,
we say little.
everything that needs to be
said,
has been said.
we wait. we breathe. we listen
to the children play.
it seemed easier
back then.
that young. that innocent.
it's different now
at this age, far from
the beginning,
closer to the end.

wheels keep turning

she's tired.
I can hear it in her voice.
low
and hoarse
on the phone.
it's been a long day.
a long
year.
she wakes up
to get at it again.
the wheels keep turning.
another day
slides by.
it's hard to do it all
alone
with no one by her side.
I do what I can do.
I try.

Just Ask

call it God,
the universe, synchronicity.
call it what you may, but
don't ignore it when
it appears.
ask and you shall receive,
pray and your
prayer will be answered.
seek and you shall find.
the truth will
set you free.
it's not a coincidence.
it's not luck
it's beyond this life
that we see. it's the energy
and love
that surrounds us
that's waiting to be found,
waiting with open
arms to be tapped into.
I know this first hand,
not once,
or twice but several times
in my life.
finding what needed to be
discovered.
it altered the direction of
my life.
saved me from the path that
I was wrongly on.
released me from a hell where
I didn't belong.

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.