anywhere but here

i remember interviewing
for a job
in a tall building
beside other tall buildings.
i took a cab,
had a brief case full of
nothing, old brown shoes
and a shiny suit.
i sat in the chair as they
asked me
questions.
why do you want to work for
us, what brings you here.
tell us about yourself.
your troubles, your skills,
your fears.
tell us, if we hire you,
where do you want to be
in five years.
close your eyes and think
about it, they said, lean
back and imagine
five years,
no need, i said, clear
headed, and standing up,
i'd want to be anywhere
but here.

pink fuzzy slippers

unwanted things
are on the street tonight.
a gathering of items
once
used, once bought, or given
to, are on
the curb, ready for pick up
in the morning.
old shoes.
lamps, a desk. a bird cage.
empty.
a stack of books,
a mirror.
a sofa showing
springs.
clothes laid out on chairs.
i see a pink bath robe,
and fuzzy slippers
that match, these remind me
of you.

his one hope

I read his words of survival.
the prison
camp. the shredded clothes,
the crumbs.
spoons of broth,
hardly enough to keep
one alive,
let alone working in the cold,
digging
graves
for those that have died.
he talks about
seeing the sunset
in a puddle of sewage,
of seeing a bird
beyond the gate, the barbed
wire.
he feels the bones
of his body, he smells flesh
burning, the grey
smoke of chimneys full
of the dead, now ashes.
he remembers his wife.
her hair, her eyes.
the softness of her skin.
her gentle smile. he can
go on with this.
this hope. this one hope.
love.

triage

you should have that checked
out, she says,
pointing at a spot on my shoulder.
oh, there's
another one.
right there on your back.
does it itch?
it looks suspicious.
i'd have that looked at.
she says, examining my skin
with a fine
tooth comb.
she puts her stethoscope
on my chest and tells me to
inhale, exhale.
oh my she says. do you hear
that?
it's a strange wheezing sound.
she looks in my ear for wax.
tells me to look into the light
as she moves her hand
back and forth.
i show her my jammed finger,
the blue
bruise on the knuckle,
then point to my knees
as i slowly unfold them
and make them crack.
we need a stretcher for you,
she says,
stat.

wedding belles

i remember going to a wedding
once
on a boat.
two women were getting
married.
they'd been living together
for years
and decided once the laws
changed to go ahead
and do it.
they seemed quite happy,
but something about the ring,
the paperwork,
the pressure of it all
got to them.
after living together for
nearly twenty years,
they separated after a brutal
honeymoon
of non stop fighting.
finally they got divorced,
but stayd friends. in time
they moved back in together.
putting their minor differences
aside.
i saw them the other day
licking ice cream cones,
holding hands, walking down
the street, happy as they've
ever been.

not funny

we go to the comedy
club
for a few laughs, but
it's
not as funny as we think
it's going to be.
so we have a few drinks,
still,
not funny.
you should go up there
she says to me.
you're funny.
you make me laugh
all the time.
I shrug. I got nothing.
let's go home I say
with a yawn.
finish you're drink.
did I ever tell you the one
about the priest,
the rabbi
and the monkey?

God is my Gardener

I have allowed God
to be my gardener lately,
leaving the yard
to his discretion,
and to be truthful He hasn't
done that great of a job.
the weeds are out of control.
bushes have leaped
the fence. the bird bath
has disappeared.
the grass is high.
the ivy runs wild.
it's a jungle out there.
what must the neighbors think.
I should get to it at some
point.
put the boots on
to protect me from snakes,
the gloves, get the shears,
the shovel, the rake.
just forge through the mess
that He's made.

the hunger

it's a dangerous thing to shop
when you're hungry,
to peruse the long
aisles of food
at the grocery store
everything looks good
for the moment.
what's it going to be.
Italian,
something south of the
border,
Chinese?
hot or cold. ready
to go.
spicy or mild.
I smell a world
of food, my stomach growls
with need.
I should get a bigger
cart, this may
take awhile.

the autumn night in july

it's a cool night
along
the boulevard, in the mosaic
district
along gallows road.
the heat is gone,
the rain
has stopped and left a breeze
to dry
the walk ways.
people are out, umbrellas
down,
puddles hold the sky
as we sit
and drink, eat
in the perimeter
outside.
it feels like fall
in the middle of summer.
which is nice,
life has it's desserts,
its quiet
and calm surprise.

how we respond

in reading Frankl's book,
man's search
for meaning,
I see
a truth.
a way.
I see how suffering
is inescapable
at times.
each to his own unique
path of life,
and each
to how he responds.
therein lies
the key
to staying alive.
finding hope when
there is none,
seeing the light when
there is
only darkness.
seeing joy and blessings
in a place
where the
dead lie side by
side.

early morning walk

the woods are empty
this time of day.
the sun
just barely
up,
a soft yellow through the trees.
gold glimmers
on the water.
the slips of violet streams.
i walk briskly down the mud
path,
the gravel,
the pavement, it's a full
circle of five
miles.
I've walked this path so many
times,
so many years.
it's a home, a place of memory.
a way
of getting back
to where i'm from.
it's a quiet joy to be
there, to smile
at all that was, and to
look forward
to what will be.

waiting for more

the books are everywhere.
i need more shelves.
more space, more room to stack
and store,
to align them
in some order.
i am eating words,
devouring pages,
the ink runs from my mouth,
my eyes go red
in the late hours,
the light on, as i read
before sleep.
i can't live
without books.
each new one is a gift,
a window a door to somewhere
else,
to make me see a new light
a new way,
a place to rest, to grow,
to escape.
i wait for more.

through different eyes

I visit the old neighbor hood.
do a drive by
through
the narrow streets.
down the boarded up rows
of duplexes built
in the late 50's.
flat roofs, casement windows.
graffiti
in black spray paint
marking territory.
chained dogs,
chain linked fences.
drive ways full of rusted cars.
it was paradise
at one time, though
little has changed.
just me.
I see it now through
different eyes.

foot prints

there are footprints in the snow.
I can see them
in the moonlight.
soft shoes, hardly a sound
was heard,
whoever was here, is gone.
no note, no pebble to a window.
no knock at any door.
just footprints in the snow
that have come,
and gone. an angel landing?
who's to know.

bring milk

I crack a few eggs.
some flour,
sugar,
vanilla.
the mixer
goes on.
in no time the oven
is ready.
I slide the pan in
at 325.
thirty five minutes
later,
I hear the ding,
I turn on
the light and take
a peek.
push a toothpick in.
we have cake.
I let it cool on
the window sill,
then I ice it with
deep dark chocolate.
come on over,
bring milk.

ask

ask.
it is not black magic,
or even white magic.
the power
lies in belief.
ask
and you will receive.
no need for tears
or to be on
your knees.
just close your eyes
and ask,
be sincere.
ask and it will
be given,
what is unknown
will be uncovered,
the truth of so much
will be seen.

I ring the bell

i ring the bell for my butler
to come up
the stairs.
he knocks on the door
before entering.
i tell him i'd like two eggs
over easy
wheat toast with jam,
three strips of bacon,
hash browns, juice
and coffee. the morning paper
would be nice too.
i tell him to schedule
the masseuse for twelve.
deep tissue, after my swim.
then to pull up the Benz.
my love and i might go
for a drive through the
country, i tell him,
and stay overnight
at the edge of the bay,
where the long road ends.
anything else, he asks
with a smile.
nothing i can think of,
i tell him, but if i do,
i'll ring the bell again.

years left

you count your coins.
your dollars.
you take stock of your bank
accounts.
you add it all up
to see how many years
you could survive
doing nothing much, but
waking up.
you list your bills,
the gas,
the food, insurance,
all down the line of
things
you need, or use.
maybe twenty years,
maybe thirty if you stop
buying coffee.

rebuilding

I build muscle.
I lift the heavy barbell.
up and down.
curls.
deep thrusts. I see
the bulge
in my legs, my arms.
each day
I see the strength
return. I see my body
renew itself
with sweat and
repetition.
but that's nothing
compared to the work
done within. the prayer.
the books read,
the advice and comfort
of friends.
the music.
the love. the embrace
of wisdom.
the heart is healed
once the truth
is known, and you've
let go of what
was revealed.

changes

changes are good.
it's the hardest thing in one's
life
to do.
but once done, you have
the clarity
of newness.
the smell of fresh flowers.
the touch of
a new hand,
the kiss of loving lips.
once
you decide to move on,
move up,
to be free
of harm,
to be done with the trouble
brought
into your life, you
enjoy the new.
changes are good.
paint the room.
a new rug,
a new photo on the dresser.
a new you.

flood warning

a flood warning
comes over the airwaves.
the water will rise.
the stream will overflow.
beware, be alert,
stay inside.
you look out the window
and see the trees bend
in the blue
darkness of day.
you hear it come.
a fat rain. a full blow
of wind. it's nothing.
you've been through so
much, this is a minor
thing compared to the last
year of your life.
you will survive.
let it rain, let it pour.
let the water rise.

we abandon

we abandon mines.
factories.
skid row
houses. school and cars
are left
on the side of highways,
in the alleyways
of desolation
we let the fires burn,
the cities fall
onto themselves.
we abandon children,
loved ones,
we
dispose of so much.
the new is better.
we move on, we move on
at the least sign of trouble.
it's a never ending road
with no pot
of gold at the end.

off the grid

I go off the grid.
erase.
delete. move.
change my name, my face.
my id.
i'm out of sight,
an unknown.
alone.
I pour all evidence
down the drain.
bleach
the prints,
burn the files,
deny, and hide.
half in half out.
i'm on
my own.
i'm off the grid.
i'm barely alive,
but happy.

show them the door

I used to bend
and bend
and bend as if I was made
of rubber.
pleasing everyone,
whether they were right
or wrong,
sane or crazy.
I enabled the abusers,
the liars.
I looked the other way
when they cheated,
or broke all the rules,
made life miserable
for me or others.
I wanted to keep the peace.
I wanted little
to do with anger, or arguing,
confrontation.
let it be, I said.
but no more.
I have no tolerance for
the sick of mind,
now I shake my head
and leave,
or show them the door.

their own drum beat

she had happy feet.
the jimmy leg.
he had
a nervous tic.
a slight stutter,
she pulled at her hair.
together they were a small
band
of eccentricities.
he always had a stick
of doublemint for her.
she'd snap it and make
a sound,
blow a bubble,
crack a bone,
a misfired wink,
or slur
or knee that would give
out. his shoe was
untied,
her skirt misaligned.
they were a pair.
bound
together by fate,
by
gum, by love and being
kind.

who they are

is it true, I ask, when I
listen
to the words on the phone.
the dirt the gossip
that comes down the grapevine.
did that really
happen, are you sure.
both of them together once more?
how do you know, I ask.
I can't believe that actually
happened. not again.
it's unreal,
shocking.
wow. unbelievable.
I can't believe my ears.
but in all honesty.
I saw it coming. it's who
they are.

crazy roses

I buy a dozen roses.
red roses.
it's not like the old days
when I was a young pup
new at the game of love
and infatuation, thoroughly
addicted to the new
cupcake on the block.
it was a time
when you
had to go to a florist,
or call them to deliver.
every store has
roses now. gas stations.
7 11 s.
half price.
a third of the price.
at the next light there's
a man on the corner
with a shopping cart
selling roses.
I remember telling the florist
at the desk
what to write
on the card, to make amends
for some silly thing
I did or said.
begging for forgiveness.
hoping she'd take me back.
that flowers would persuade
her to let me back
into her crazy self absorbed
world. I was a glutton for
punishment.
my girlfriend at the time
had roses everywhere.
I nearly went broke.
it seemed I could do nothing
right. nothing ever
pleased her. she was happiest
when she was unhappy.
her house looked like
a funeral home.
which in reality that's what
it was. it was my pattern
for a long long time, but
i'm over that now. after
the last so called love of
my life,
I've seen the light.
no more roses, no more
crazies.

New Locks on the Door

i go to my local
locksmith to have some new keys made.
he laughs
when he sees
me coming.
not again, he says.
tell me it ain't so brother.
i thought she was the real deal,
the true love,
the soul mate.
the one and only.

shut up,
i tell him. don't even
get me started on this one.

i just had new locks installed,
front and back doors.
a motion detector,
and one of those new fangled
camera doorbell gizmos
so i can see anyone approaching
the house.
i strung some barbed
wire along the back fence too,
so i'm all set.
i just need three duplicate
keys
made.

why three?
my lucky number i tell him.
my lucky number.

skeletons

we all have skeletons.
some real
some imaginary
hanging in the closet.
some
are asleep beside you.
or sitting
at a table next to you,
eating.
or not eating.
we all have secrets.
have troubles.
have
things or people we
need to get rid of.
pick any Saturday, say
today,
and get started.
bring on the boxes,
the bags
and clean. take that
phone
and drop it in a bucket
of cold water.
there you go.

morning hoops

it's a sweat filled
day.
a drenching.
there is no escape from
the sun
on the squared court.
but we go,
we run.
it's a weekend thing.
thirty years and more,
still at it.
all friends.
some gone, some done.
a handful, the core
still
coming, weekend after
weekend.
the real life is left
at home. rarely is
it brought to the game.
death, divorce, illness
are vague nods or short
words mumbled before we tie
our laces
and bounce the first ball.
we just show, joke,
make fun, rib, and play.
it's an island.
an escape. a wonder
and a joy, this court
where we get away.

Souls untied

there are cords
between us,
those out there in the world.
spiritual
connections.

emotional ties, soul ties
through love and trauma,
through intimacy
and friendship. relatives too.
some are true angels, but
some are toxic and demonic,
dark
and dangerous, filling
your mind
with ruminations and lies.

controlling the peace
of your own soul
as they once did in the flesh,
but do now from afar.

you need
to be done with them, to cut
the cords, the ties
that bind
and be free
of your past, of those
lost souls
that wreaked havoc
in your life.

bring out the axe,
the knife,the torch,
cut them now,
you're wasting precious
time.

more good days

there are more
good days now, than bad days.

each rising of the sun
brings
a fresh look,

the bitterness dissolves.

there is pity and compassion
for the sick.

you see them as who they really
are, once gone.

the memory of the past fades
as each wave
hits the shore.

the nights
are blessings. the stars,
the moon.

sweet dreams.

time and distance rolls on.

silence
and prayer.

love is nothing to fear
anymore.

in the wind

there are people in your
life
that you will never see again.
or talk to.
your paths will never cross
again.
so many friends
and lovers disappear in time.
the ocean
of this world is
large.
but you wonder
where they are, who they're
with,
if they're dead,
or alive.
where do they live now?
are they well, are they sick.
it's a fleeting thought
wondering
about them.
once friends, once lovers,
now forever lost,
they've disappeared,
like paper
tossed into the wind.

the aging star

it's a crowded night
at wolf trap. it's hot and steamy.
blankets are positioned,
chairs and food.
we've come to see another aging
star
gone grey,
but still a gem, a bright light,
his voice
unchanged,
steady and smooth.
running on empty, he's not.
he plays his hits.
the pretender,
doctor my eyes
and songs you've never heard.
he talks politics but knows
when to stop
and begin another song.
the crowd, as old as he is,
is polite.
some whistles, clapping when a
song begins or when
it ends.
we linger in our chairs, stretch
out,
hold hands and steal
a kiss under the stars.
we pour wine.
but then it's time. time to go.
the finale plays on
and on
as we stream towards the cars,
out to the lot to go home.
happy to have been there,
making a memory that will be
stored and savored
in future years.

home visit

she travels light.
her bag, her tools of the trade
with her.
everyone is sick
to some degree. she listens
to their hearts.
takes their pulse,
examines ears and eyes.
takes notes.
she does what she can in
the chaos
of the deaf.
televisions turned to loud,
the arguments
unheard.
she does what she can
while there, then goes to the porch
to smell the ocean,
to listen to the gulls
sweep by.
to inhale the memories
of aging air.

a line in the sand

we need boundaries.
vows.
rules,
we need a line in the sand,
deal breakers
and things
that define
who we are.
we need them to establish
trust,
that love is real,
the deal
is done, that we are not
two
separate souls,
but through
love, merged as one.
we need to know where
each one
stands.
for the good of each other,
unselfish,
compassionate.
willing to bend,
to apologize, to make
amends.
we need boundaries
honesty
and truth, to know
that betrayal is
crossing the final line,
it isn't the beginning
of the end,
it is the end.

the wear of sun

the sun
fades the fabric of the couch.
the rug has a square
of white
where it once was silver.
there's lines
on our faces,
arms
our hands.
the curtains
are faded.
the floor warps
and rises as old wood
in the sun
does.
our children
are grown.
there are less tomorrows
than
there once was.

it could be love

there are no spots
in the lot, so I drive to the street.
to the church
and park there, then walk up.
it's warm.
no one is out.
one by one the lights
go down.
it's late, as I walk back home.
I remember
things I used to know
as true.
there is no forgetting, no
present without the past.
I see a couple kissing by
a dark car.
they embrace and whisper
into one another's ears.
it could be love,
or less.
who's to know anymore.
I avert my eyes, and move on.

the moon together

though miles apart
I wonder
if she sees this same moon
that I see.
this brilliant full
silver
coin in the sky.

we used to talk about the moon.
we used
to say go to a window
and look
out.

do you see what I see.
do you feel
what I feel.
tell me it's all true.

tell me that you see the moon,
through the trees,
above the roof,
tell me you feel
the same
as I do.

we dance

there is music.
the light strings,
the tap
of percussion, the voice.
we dance
slowly around the room,
into the kitchen,
across the floor.
we dance.
arms around one
another, the candles lit.
there is music
we dance.
we kiss.
we dance.
we go upstairs,
we dance some more.

good genes

I enter a hot dog eating contest
for the 4th of july
picnic, but I can only eat a half
of one.
mustard and relish are all over
my shirt.
the winner eats 59 and washes it
down with sweetened tea.
she's a little
Chinese woman, slender as a reed.
I ask her what her secret is and
she laughs,
good genes she says. good genes,
then she staggers around the back.

mishmash of things

this one
has a life. she's normal.

I confess i'm less
normal, I have my faults,
more cracks and fissures
than
the san andreas fault.

i'm a work
in progress, a beginner
at the end
of life.
or at least the autumn
of life.
that sounds so much
better than the twilight
years, or the golden
years.
or straddling the grave.

I heard a joke the other day,
a Rodney
Dangerfield joke.
he said, I tell you, i'm old,
i'm so old.
in fact, the other day

I was walking by the cemetery
and two guys started chasing
me with shovels.

(he pulls on his red tie
at this point and his eyes bug out)

no respect.

but back to the topic at hand.
she's normal.
this one.
this girl, this woman.
she has a life,
she's responsible. is truthful
honest,
forthright.
she's fun and smart.
she's gentle and kind.
sensitive
and true. she's beautiful
without even
trying.
morning, noon and night.

I've been sifting, panning
for gold at the edge
of a cold stream for years,
biting into the soft pebbles
of fool's gold,
and here this
gem, this amazing heart of gold
sits beside me.

the mask slips

ask questions.
scrutinize, look them in the eyes.
get close,
examine
the words, the mouth,
sift through things said,
are there even the whitest
of lies?
what's hidden?
look under their bed,
in their closet,
the basement in boxes.
what's omitted? what's gone
unsaid? is it
charm, and sincerity,
kindness, does she really
have a good heart, or
is this a devilish
disguise, one she's practiced
and honed her entire
life.
be patient. don't let
the affection
fool you.
be open, be alert.
go slow, let her
mask slip as it will
given time, as it always
does
with these types.
this is your life.
there are few years left
to be
fooled again,
to be captured and taken
alive.

beyond that

it's not about religion.
church attendance,
or
kneeling, genuflecting,
repeating
prayer after learned prayer.
it's not
ritual,
or rote,
or communion, or
singing. it's beyond all
the trappings
of
the pews, the altar,
the rosary,
the cross hung
in the air.
all these things are fine
and necessary
for some, or many, but
it's within. it's deeper
than all that.
it's emptying your soul,
confessing,
repenting,
forgiving.
accepting, believing
that all things work
together for good
to those that love God.
this will make you whole.

it's going around

i hear from an old
friend. she calls out of the blue.
she tells me about her boyfriend
who
lied
to her, betrayed her,
found someone else to be
in love with.
she's sick
with it all. devastated
and crushed.
she can't eat
or sleep.
she's reading every book on
the subject
of narcissism, going to
therapy once a week,
she's consumed by what
happened. at how cruel
he was to do this to her,
when she thought
it was real,
thought it was true
love. she begins to cry
on the phone.
i hate him, she says,
but i miss him too. i can't
stop trying to figure
it out. it seemed
so real at first, before
it turned sour
and full of gloom. why do i
miss someone so toxic,
so sick, so without conscience?
i tell her, that i'm sorry
that she had to go
through such a thing,
you're better off without him,
it will take time, but you'll
heal and get well,
that this sickness is
pandemic, it's been
going around.

as long as i'm with you

I hope it doesn't rain
tonight.
we have
music to listen to.
to linger
on the lawn,
with a blanket, food
drinks,
and song.
but if a cloud does
burst we'll find
something else to do,
it doesn't matter,
rain
or shine,
lighting or thunder,
nothing
matters
as long as i'm with you.

visiting again

her voice
is the wind. the storm.
the rain.
the whisper of her is in
the trees.
i see her aged face
in the crawl
of water
down
the pane.
i listen to it pour,
the sorrow
and sadness of clouds
come visiting again.
nothing and no one
last forever,
i repeat
and repeat, it's my
mantra,
my refrain.

my joy in you

i go without sleep
for a few nights. rising at 3 am,
then again
at 5. there is no one
there beside me,
to wake up
and talk to.
to ponder
these dreams, these
nightmares. so
i get up and go down the stairs.
the sun
is still blue
below
the arms of clouds.
unrisen.
i want it to stay down.
i want to remember everything.
i want to forget everything.
in time
sleep will return.
in time, life will be back
to what it was.
in time i'll embrace
without bitterness the past,
and find
my joy in you.

we had words

I shake the snow off my coat,
and set it on the chair,
I unravel my scarf, take a seat
and remove my boots.
there's a fire
burning.
my legs ache after the long
walk
through the dark woods, alone.
she's asleep on the sofa,
she didn't hear me come in.
I turn the light
off
and go sit beside her.
I take her hand and touch her
hair, her cheek.
you're home, she says,
looking up,
the fire in her eyes,
melting with tears.
you're home, she says again,
then kisses me.
I love you, don't ever
leave me
like that again.

what about you

it smells like
rain, she says, her long hands
buttering
bread, turning the tea pot
towards
a cup.
it's been a hot summer, she
says.
staring out the window
at a small
grave.
what's next for you, she asks.
drink your tea,
so I do.
she pushes the cream
towards me,
the sugar bowl.
she taps a spoon
against a plate then
hands it to me.
what's next? I say,
I don't know. what about you?

Finishing the Book

i don't finish the book.
i know
how it goes.
i knew from page one,
but kept going, hoping
against hope
that the plot would enfold
differently.
but it didn't.
i chased it though.
pretending not to know.
i knew how it would end.
i knew
the dialogue, the twists,
the turns,
the bends.
finally i skipped to the back
and said, yup,
there it is.
just as i imagined how it
would go.
life and love can be like
that too.
why wait until the end,
to close the book?

there was nothing left

she followed me down.
down
the steps, those concrete
steps, crumbling
with the rusted iron rail
to hang onto.
she followed me down the stream.
silver
beneath the green
sky of leaves.
we found a place to sit
against the hard rocks
that overlooked the water
below.
we carefully watched our
steps,
watched our words, guarded
our hearts.
it was near the end
of whatever it was we had,
there was nothing left.
she followed me down.
she followed me down,
then we went our separate
ways.
there was nothing left.

one sided love

we talk about the dust
bowl.
those years.
the fields dry and blowing
with dirt.
the air
full of poverty, dark
and
thick with no hope.
there is no rain.
the cows
are bones on legs.
what grew here, ain't coming
back.
so you stay
or leave.
all the prayers in the world
won't
change the weather,
won't raise
a stalk of corn, or feed
the children.
being a good person means
nothing.
all the love in the world
won't change a thing
if it's one sided.
it's time to move on,
move out,
move somewhere where we
can pick
fruit off of trees.
somewhere where the dust
isn't in our eyes, our
lungs, our mouths.

fingers to the bone

I've never been a workaholic,
one to burn
the midnight oil, or work my
fingers to the bone.
I know when to stop, when
to say enough
and go home.
the work will be there when
I get back.

I have that kind of job,
i'm lucky in that respect.
it's different though if
your a doctor, it's a matter
of life and death. lives depend
upon you picking up
the phone, or paying a visit.

but I live in a different
world.
when a job is done it's done.
no looking back.
I don't need to tell others
that I worked seventy
hours last week, and the weekend
too. punching the clock
on holidays. answering
the phone at midnight for
something that can wait
until the next morning.

I get it though, having worked
for slave drivers,
greedy souls who crack
the whip upon your back.
everyone thinks that what they
do is so important,
that they are irreplaceable,
they drink the koolaid,
they kneel and pray to boss
who calls from his villa
on the bay.

how many forks and spoons
do you need, how much food
can you eat, or beds you
can sleep in.
how many cars do you need
to drive around in. I don't
want to lie on my death
bed and say, I wished I had
worked a little more,
a little harder. having had
no fun, no joy, no time
to relax. no bliss.

soul ties

I take the sharpest
imaginary knife i
can find, and build
a green fire, flames
not real, just ribbons
cold and burning,
in my mind.
I find the cords, the soul
ties, the psychic lines
that tether me,
that bind me to another
life, and I cut,
I sever, I burn, I
disengage and move on.

it's all connected

it all matters.
it's all connected.
each dot.
each line drawn.
each birth,
each death.
love gained, love
lost.
each grain of sand,
each wave
that breaks upon
the shore.
every word spoken.
every truth, every lie.
it all adds up.
every sparrow
that falls, every hair
on every head.
it's part of something
bigger.
the unseen
mystery, the reason,
the strange plan
that engulfs us all.

Take Out Your Own Trash

i hear a sermon on
youtube that makes me laugh.

the pastor says in his
guttural deep
voice, gesturing as he
keeps his glasses
on his nose.

take out the trash and put
it on the curb, he says
forcefully,
don't expect God to take
out your trash.
do it your self. it's your
trash, you got yourself into
this mess
and you have the power to get
yourself out.

there's a rumble and a roar
in his preaching, applause
and cheers, amens
as he preaches the paint
of the walls.

i can't help but laugh.
He's so right.

sometimes you let that old
bag of trash sit in the kitchen
or in the basement way too
long, stinking the place up.
what good there was in it,
is long gone.

but
of course it has nothing
to do with trash in the literal
sense of the word.

it's another kind of trash
altogether.

a day at the pool

home early I go to the pool.
it's free
of kids.
which is good. no screaming.
no crying,
no lingering
with toys around the edges.
no parents yelling.
I put on some lotion,
lie down on a long soft
chair.
the guard is in the shade
busy with his phone.
the sun is just right,
high above the canopy
of trees, but not too
hot.
after a while, I go
to the side
and slip into the blue
cool water, still
and calm. i'm the only
one in, I go deep and swim
below to the other side.
life is good.
it's summer and i'm in
the pool.
reminds me of years gone
past.
when life was all about
days like this,
that you never wanted
them to end.
to have summer forever
last forever,
delaying
the start of autumn
school.

She's Hanging Lights

she's hanging lights
on the porch.
four metal poles, painted black,
black strings of
Edison bulbs,
criss crossing the white
deck, above the blue cushioned
couches.
the table,
the chairs, the grill.
the umbrella.
she needs a saw, a drill,
screw drivers and a hammer.
anchors,
screws, clips.
extension cords and a measuring
tape.
there is no stopping her.
up on the ladder,
down, then up again
to tighten, to make it just
right.
sipping her white wine,
then putting her hands on
her hips and smiling,
as she hits the switch when
the sun goes down. perfect.

great owl on sunday morning

we walk up
for coffee. it's hot out even this
early in
the morning.
it's a short stroll from
the cul de sac on
great owl
to northside.
the regulars are there.
dogs,
and kids,
strollers, runners,
walkers.
a boy scout troop has
gathered in the parking lot.
preparing for some
journey
somewhere. arranging their
canvas gear.
we sit in the shade.
knee to knee.
unfold the new York times.
we have no where to be,
there is no rush, no hurry
on this sunday
morning.
this is what sunday is
all about.

vague apparitions

i think about the dead.
the friends
gone.
deceased way too early
for my liking.
the relatives who have passed.
the relationships
of my life
still living but essentially
no longer

in the picture.
those ships have sailed
and sunk
completely out of view.
i see their numbers in my
phone.
i see their faces

their pale images, like
ghosts
vague apparitions.
in time they too will fade
from memory, and be
replaced by the new.

we're ready now

it's a good storm that passes
through.
no one dies.
or is injured.
some trees go down
in strong winds,
the stream rises,
the ground thickens with
the weight
of new water.
but we survive.
the power goes back on.
the lights
are lit.
clouds disperse.
it was wise for us
to be patient, to wait
it out. but we're
ready now.

come inside

it's hot.
it's the desert.
no wind.
no relief.
the sand burns your feet.
the pavement,
the black top
swirls with heat.
the world is melting.
the sun has moved
closer to the earth.
can we survive
this onslaught
of temperature rising,
sure we can, come
over here,
put some ice
in the glass, i'll
pour you
a drink,
get under the fan,
come inside, let's
burrow in the basement
where
the ac will make us
shiver with
glee.

two scoops

is it too early for ice cream?
I say no.
it's never too early
for a double scoop
on a sugar cone from
the ice cream
store.
rocky road, mint chip,
maybe pralines and cream
this time around.
or French vanilla.
coffee bean.
it's going to be a hot
one out there. mid nineties
without a cloud in the sky.
you deserve it. in fact
you deserve a gallon
and to sit under a tree
in the shade
with a big spoon.

thread count

I don't know how it happened,
but I have too many
bath towels, hand towels,
wash towels,
too many sheets, mostly blue,
or pale blue,
or white, or peach.
an occasional set of pink
towels is
folded on the shelf as well.
don't ask.
I can't go through a store
without touching
sheets and towels, feeling
for softness, for texture
and thickness, color, looking
for one just right.
setting the mood
for a long sleepy night.
hotel sheets, thread counts.
at some point I need to
purge, make room for newer
and better, as I do with
all things in my life after
a point of no return occurs.

the night concert

we'll bring a picnic
she says,
blankets and chairs,
drinks and food.
we'll sit on the wide
circle of grass
beyond the stage and listen
to the music we
grew up with.
she has tickets for two.
running on empty.
Jackson Brown at Wolftrap.
we'll let the sun go down
upon us
on this warm summer
day.
let the stars come out,
let us sing softly to ourselves
as the music plays.
we'll pray for no rain.

nothing gets lost

nothing gets lost,
all is saved and savored
boxed
and bagged,
carted off to some attic
in your mind,
or stored behind
some cellar door.
each word uttered, each curse
delivered,
each laugh, each kiss,
each time you made love and fell
asleep in each other's
arms,
each joke, each tear bottled
you will forever hold.
nothing gets lost,
or forgotten.
nothing gets thrown away,
when we move, when we leave,
it goes with us,
even into the next life.

meditation

breathe, she says.
sit
and be still.
relax, take a deep breath,
hold it,
hold it,
then exhale.
let it all out, clear
your lungs,
your soul,
your heart and mind
of fear,
of doubt.
let the darkness
turn into light.
do it again, slower
now.
let go. let go of
everything.
breathe in, breathe
out.
you are not alone, you
are loved.
you are one
with all that's good,
all
that is above.

The Full Cup

the cup
is full. not half, not
a quarter
but full to the top.
in fact
it flows over.

there is so much to
be thankful
for. to be grateful
for.
there are so many blessing
in your life.

it's a long list.
I see it more clearly now
than ever.
now that i'm out of the fog,
out of the darkness,
not just
for the moment,
but forever.

in the early morning

a lone deer
stands in the woods
along the bike path.
silent and still,
he watches me as I ride
by.
unmoving.
not knowing which direction
to go,
a feeling I well know.
the trees are full
around the stream.
it's just me and him
on this early morning spin.
he watches
as I disappear around
the turn,
crossing the steel bridge,
into the rise
of pavement,
towards home again.

chit chat on FB

after a short break
to settle back into a normal
life, to clear the cobwebs
of the past year or so,
you jump back onto facebook,
dive right into
the pool
of gossip and
chit chat.

right away so many want to know,
where have you been,
we missed you,
what happened, we see that
your status has changed,
you did some updates,
pictures are missing. what's
up with that?

don't even get me started
you tell them, trust me,
it was beyond crazy, you
really don't want to know.
read my poetry if you want
to get even a snippet of
what went down.

so how's the weather where
you are? bake any new cakes
lately? any pictures of bumps
or sores you want to share?

the ice cream man

i hear the ice cream man
coming up the street with his
bells
and strange out of tune
percussion of dings and dongs.
his truck is old
and blue, coughs as he shifts
gears.
he moves slow
through the neighborhood,
his head looking
from house to house.
in time the kids appear
with dollars in hand,
parents on the porch
making sure the streets
are clear.
the dogs come running too.
i put on my shirt, my pants,
my shoes.
i grab a quarter from
the bowl and run out,
trying to decide on a nutty
buddy, or a creamsicle.
either one will do.

The Good Times

I remember
everything, so that's a problem
when it
comes to forgetting.
I remember
the good times,
the bad times.
most of them skewed by
the adrenaline
of infatuation. hardly one
thing
true, there are
no absolutes.
we romanticize the past.
make up
our own version of
stories to fit
the mood, placate our
sadness or grief,
or emotional
confusion.
what we thought was love,
forever,
well, it never lasts,
we alter our memories,
smooth out the rough patches,
say remember when,
then we smile,
we laugh.
no one is who you think
they are.
but once you find out
the ugly truth,
keep walking, forget it,
and don't look back.

the knot

sometimes the knot won't
give.
it's too tight.
when you pull or bend
in any direction
it won't budge, won't
loosen.
sometimes you need
to take drastic
measures to make things
right again, to free
yourself from strife.
so you take to the knife
and cut
the knot away, one
clean swift slice.
then
string in a new lace,
and at last be on your
way.
shoes on, laces tight.

When the Mask Slips

it's a mask
she wears, she has no idea
who she really is.

she's a full blown
narcissist, like her
father before her
and the other men in
her life.

the ones that kneel to
worship her,
but they have no idea
what the truth really is.

from day to day
she's playing a role,
manipulating,
lying,
betraying, it's all
about control.

pretending for the sake
of blending in.
she's a fake
wearing her costume,
the weekly dyed hair,
three pounds of make up,
the bling,
her on sale expensive clothes.

she's an emotional wreck.
a time bomb
ticking.
there is no love,
no empathy,
no true life.

she wreaks havoc
in those that fall under
her charm,
her snake like spell.

she'll look you in the eye
as she bites you,
poisons you, like the apple
in the well.

it takes some time,
but eventually you discover
what lies inside.

the place where she's dragged
you, into her living hell.

oiling the squeaks

i spend an hour or so with a can
of w d 40, oil in a small
blue can with a red spout.
there's a lot of things squeaking
in the house.
i start with doors, both front
and back.
then go to the chain on my
bicycle
in the shed.
the kitchen cupboards,
the drawers, the fridge door,
both top and bottom,
the attic swing down door
and stairs. i even
give the creaking floorboard
a squirt.
also the steps, a few windows,
then the couch, the springs
are jumpy,
then to the bedroom on all
four corners of the queen
sized bed.
i scratch my head, what else?

These Are Better Days

sleep comes easily now.
food taste better,
life is once
more interesting.
there is meaning and hope.
the aches and pains have
subsided.
the headaches are gone.
friendships
are stronger.
poetry is written,
books are read.
movies are enjoyed.
you see now what love
really is, not
what it pretended to be.
colors are rich.
there is joy and laughter
in the house.
there is peace
beyond all understanding.
what's changed?

she's gone.

fresh blood

it's not a deep wound.
but
there's blood.
crimson ribbons of red
that swirl and
flow
so easily from my
lacerated arm.
how fragile we are.
there is so much within us
that we
can't see,
that no one can see.
the mystery of our minds,
our souls
are barely visible
through our eyes, but
for the most part
others are blind
to who we really are
deep inside.
this blood though is out
there.
it's on the floor,
there's a trail of me
behind me, now clotted
dark
on the white cloth,
seeping through the bandage
as it's
wrapped tightly around
my arm. they stop
the flow at last, so for now
at least,
I will survive.

My Personal Censor

i finally get all my channels
back on the tv.
Netflix and Prime,
Starz and HBO. Showtime.

i was not permitted to watch much
tv
a few months ago, unless it was
an animated feature
by walt Disney,
or mass on the catholic channel.
or a show about bugs, or owls
in North Dakota. perhaps
a special on camels in Timbuktu.
lots of public tv.

it's been a while since I've
seen some of my favorite shows,
or a football game.
there is so much to catch up
on. i need more popcorn
and a bigger bowl.

come on over, I've got fresh
batteries in the remote.
let's watch a show, or two or
three, what the heck,
take your shoes off,
let's binge, let's watch
until the sun comes up.
here we go.

the queen of clean

I have an hour of free
time
before getting back out on the road.
it's good to be busy,
to have work,
to have money to live on,
to play with,
to tuck away beneath
a mattress for a rainy
day, or so i'm told.

I sort through some books,
putting at last
the ones away that helped
me through those dark days.
into the closet they go.
shaking my head at how worn
and battered they all are.

I delete the heart wrenching
diary from my computer, all
the emails that documented
and dominated
the last two years
of my life.
better to think they never
happened than to have
those sad reminders
so close.

I pick up
the laundry on the floor,
gathering socks, and shorts,
shirts and pants,
to the laundry
room they go.
then the cups and dishes,
plates with forks and spoons
upon them, into the sink.

I don't do any deep cleaning
though, being nice I want
to save something for the maid,
the queen of clean,
Milagro.

the handy girl

she's a handy girl.
bright and smart as a whip,
makes a mean
dish or two as well,
blueberry pie, or
cinnamon crisp,
no problem,
she knows how
to lay down
a long awaited kiss
or hug,
or back rub, if time
allows.
there she goes with her
power washer,
her paint can,
her driveway tar
and chandelier about
to be hung.
she looks good in a tool
belt too, with
work boots and little else.

room service

like lazy cats
we stretch out on the sunlit bed,
the sheets as
white as freshly fallen snow
and we yawn.
we sigh.
we look at one another
and say, I wish we had a butler
to bring us coffee
and breakfast,
a newspaper
from outside.
if only there was a button
we could push
and he would
knock smartly
when he arrived.
yes, she says.
a butler would be nice,
and a maid too,
an intern as well
to take notes when we need
to remember
all the things that have slipped
our minds.

a lucky dime

I found a lucky dime
the other day.
Wilson on the front.
the sun hit it just right
before I passed by,
so I picked it up
and put it in my pocket.
when I got home I put
it in the green bowl
on the counter where
my lucky pennies, nickels
and quarters
and all the other
lucky dimes
happily reside.

The Full Time Job

she was a full time job.
twenty four seven.
open all night, all day.
holidays too.
there was no break from
her.
every moment was walking
on eggshells, fearing the worst,
keeping her placated,
putting out her emotional fires,
waving at the smoke alarm.
every word spoken could cause
a three day irrational
explosion. a word, a glance,
a wink, a nod, a rolling
of the eyes.
she was a time bomb ticking.
everyone in the room tried
to keep her calm, keep
her happy, which was impossible,
happy was a place she never
knew, and a place she made
sure she would take
from you.
it was a grind, a coal mine.
a grueling life with her in yours.
she was a weathervane spinning
on a tin roof.
a cold front moving through.
a mystery without a clue.
she was a full time job,
with overtime, but no reward,
or joy, or payment due.

remembering how to forget

it takes a while
but i'm remembering how
to forget.

it's taken time to get
the knack of it back.
but it's coming.

forget and move on.
forget, forget, forget.
wash the slate clean.

erase the board,
dissolve the pain,
start fresh, rewire

that tired and
broken brain.

carving ducks

all day he sits
on his stool carving ducks.
glasses on his nose.
ducks with
bills, ducks in the air,
ducks
wearing sweaters,
wearing red boots.
they're everywhere you look.
in restaurants
and stores,
in the windows of homes,
on boats.
all day, he turns a block
of soft wood
into a duck.
his hands working
the chisel, the awl,
the sanding,
the paint and varnish.
the ducks are his life,
his world.

Your Second Brain

your gut, your
stomach has more neurons
in it
than does your spine,

it's your second brain.
listen to it.
listen well,
it will guide you,
keep you from harm.
it's never ever
wrong.

I wished I had obeyed
the warning signals,
not ignored the strange
pain, the immense
presence of butterflies.

others can so easily lie,
but your gut won't.
without fail
it tells the truth,
everytime.

small girl in the window

there's a small girl
in the window of the cottage
looking out
as we walk past.

her hair cut short,
her brown eyes wide.
hands on chin,
elbows on the sill.

she looks neither sad
or happy,
but in the moment with
no cares to speak of.

she just seems to be
watching the world
she will one day join
pass by.

she waves, we wave in
return. no rush, I want
to tell her,
be patient, enjoy
your life, all in
good time.

the graveyard

a graveyard
borders the great and grand
stone church
on Talbot Street.
men and women,
children too are beneath
the ground
dating back to the 1600's
until now.
we read the tombstones
as we walk by
with coffee in hand.
name after name,
the dates of birth and death
carved in.
we're so close to yesterday
so near
to tomorrows,
but in the present is
where we want to stay,
it's where we stand.
it's hard to imagine death
and burial
when you're on the outside
looking in.

The Waiter at Limoncello

the waiter knows
what we want, intuitive
and savvy,
he's been here three summers
now, working the tables
inside and out
at the Italian restaurant.
he's efficient and polite.
his wild hair,
brown and blonde
by the sun is bunched
up
in a knot upon his head,
he's tanned
and young. a surfer perhaps,
a boater?
he points to the pastas,
one for me,
one for her.
right? he says, smiling.
yes.
we say and shake our heads,
closing our menus,
asking how did he know.
I just do, he says.
I just do.

Eastern Shore Produce Stand

Late in the afternoon
It's a roadside stand
We find
along route 50, heading west from
the eastern shore,
in Talbot County
beyond the fields of corn
That grow
As far as you can see.
fresh produce, the sign reads.
Hand painted.
cukes and corn,
lopes,
melons,
asparagus and more.
crabs too, fresh from the bay.
we pull into
the side road and slowly
roll up onto the gravel
parking lot.
they sit in the shade,
the man and his wife,
they look almost alike,
close in age. Squinting,
round and sunburned, him
with a ball cap,
her with a wide brim
hat made of straw,
providing an island
of shade.
they look us over and get up.
hands on hips,
no smile on their faces,
but not unwelcoming, it's been
a long hot day.
we buy a melon, some peaches.
tomatoes, that the woman
says are the best this side
of Annapolis.
got live crabs out back, she says,
pointing around
the tin roof shack.
caught this morning.
no thanks, we say.
he packs us our fruit into
paper bags and tips his hat
when we tell him to keep
the change. they go back to their
lawn chairs as we drive
away. he lights a cigarette,
she turns back to her magazine.
we'll remember them, but I
doubt they'll remember us,
as they close up,
and shut down, the sun setting
finally
at the end of another summers
day.

Payment Due

it's difficult in chasing down
the money owed.
small companies don't answer
their phones. They become ghosts.
Once the work is done.
their message boxes are full.

everyone is a vice president
of something, all three or four
of their miniscule staff
Are V P s. with business
cards just printed to tell
you so, but they can't call back,

or answer e mails,
or text about payments due.
Lazy to the bone and arrogant.
You're not important
Enough. your pockets not that
deep. Its callous
And rude.

Service is only for the new,
not you.
no one ever picks up the phone
When it rings.
they are too busy reeling in
more business.
they leave you hanging, they
just want more customers,
more money,

Another bonus
Another slice of the pie
and don't give a
damn about you, the vendor,
who waits and waits for
A payment over due.
the bottom line is greed.

it's more for us, more, more
more, once they have you,
they leave. they're unreachable,
unless you're new, unless
You have money
and a place you need to lease.
Or sell, or show or buy.
How do these people
Live with themselves
How do they sleep
At night?

things can wait

sunburned and vaguely
blue, having the long
weekend disappear
so quickly,
you find
everything is as you left
it
when arriving home.
that chair,
that sofa, that dish
in the sink.
the plants
on the sill. a white vase
that sits on the buffet,
unflowered, unused.
what little the
ice box holds.
the pictures on the wall
are where
you placed them,
years and years ago.
the bed too
is where it was. made
as if new,
pillows aligned on
the spread tight
sheets. corners tucked
as they should be.
there's mail on the floor,
messages
on the phone, but there
is no rush
to begin a work week,
there is more rest still
to attend to.

coming home

it's nice to get away
and not think about the past.
the grind
of life.
the hell on earth
that was.
it's nice to finally relax.
to not
be reminded of
anything, those dark
days,
the things that didn't
last.
it's nice to get away,
under a golden sun,
with blue water before you.
at the pool,
or on a walk, or paddling
in a long
orange kayak.
it's nice
to get away, it makes
life easier, to smile
and be thankful,
to be grateful when
you do come back.

Perry's Cabin

The care of flowers
Tells
You much
About the inn at
Perry's cabin.
The luxury
Of land and water
Joining at rock
And sand. time seems
To stand still,
The view never changes.
the dining is sublime.
tables
set in white, and silver.
Crystal.
five star
food, and wine.
desserts that make you
smile.
It's a place where
Lovers arrive
And make vows under
Golden stars,
So much of the good
Life ahead of them.
While the aged
Come to remember
And savor the joy
Of love and
Friendship that
Stayed true
beyond all troubles
and years.
it's clear why
Anyone that stays
Here, returns again.

Needing directions

I have no sense
Of direction.
If I need to go
Left
I go right.
Straight
I make a u turn.
I'm lost with my
Head in a cloud
I make the same
Mistake with
Menus
Or
Drinks
Which line to get
Into,
Apparently with love
Im no different
I make the wrong choice
nearly everytime
There as well.

The Sicknes of Secrets

Secrets
Are psychic
Poison
According to carl
Jung.

They erode love
And trust.
Relationships.

They poison
The well of hope.

like an ocean wave
they crush
everything built.

The walls,
The floor
The foundation of
Of any home,
any relationship.

all in time
Are washed away
destroyed by
the sickness
Of secrets.

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.