let's talk about love

we sit in the cooling
shade
near where
the stream collects
into
a lake. a cove of woods.
we have no where to be,
or go,
so we talk. we look into each
other's eyes
and talk about love.
have you ever been in love,
she asks,
looking at her hands.
yes. I tell her. twice.
and you?
just once, she says, but
it was true love.
real and unimagined.
that's the best kind I tell
her.
with who?
she smiles, then looks away.
how nice the sun
is upon the water she says.
I could stay
like this all day.
who?
I ask again.
she takes my hand,
why do you ask, no worries,
don't
be afraid.

for now though

as the july sun
settles down, a melt
of yellow,
it's a swift ride
through the woods
pedaling as fast as
I did last year
and the year before.
churning, head
down, the lake not
far away,
but time
does catch us when
least expected and
the legs will get
heavy, the lungs won't
be what they were before.
suddenly I will no
longer be young.
for now though. i fly
quickly through the thick
green woods as I've done
for decades and hope
for decades more.

i had a dog once

i used to have a dog.
long
and fat,
just barely off
the ground,
smooth, the color
of chestnuts.
crazy as a loon.
his sister may have been
his mother.
maybe evil, i'm not sure,
smart
as a whip,
but a barker.
a chewer, a strange
beast, who barked at planes
in the sky,
who loved to watch
tv,
or eat glass,
or cans,
or bring rocks into
the house
that he would try to hide.
he was the Hannibal
lechter of dogs.
always into trouble.
he ate clothes,
hats,
gloves,
underwear,
shorts and bras.
belts, shoes.
he absolutely loved leather.
(who doesn't?)
computer wires.
his teeth were razor
sharp.
he couldn't be trusted.
he'd break out of cages,
gates,
fences
and run wild in the woods.
but at night
he'd curl up next
to you, exhausted from being bad,
give you a lick
and sleep like an angel.
he reminded me so
of someone else i once
had in my life. very similar
breed.

she called it the devil's music

I make a playlist
of all the songs
she wouldn't let me listen
to
while we were together.

she called it the devil's
music. evil and filling our
minds
with dirty thoughts.
sinful ideas that we should
be ashamed of.

al green.
then there's marvin gaye,
and barry white,
not to mention teddy
pendergrast.

all of them
sweet and tender,
romantic to the nth degree.
the words
filling the candle lit room,
the night. poetry
for lovers
under the full moon.

music to
dance to.
music to make love to.
music to heal
the heart, soothe
the soul. God's
music, not hers.

we were lions once

someone says
we're getting old, as we stand
up slowly
from the table
and stretch.
getting the kinks out of our
legs
and shoulders,
yawning at the time.
out of old stories.
nine already.
it looks like it's raining
someone says.
I forgot my
umbrella.
we wait until it stops.
huddled
under the canopy
of the restaurant, then
hug
and wave, go off to our
lives.
we were lions once.
believe me.
we were.

one for a dollar

the large print gives
and the small print takes away,
I hear tom
waits sing.
going out of business,
everything must go,
half price.
fire sale,
bargains galore.
one for a dollar.
one for a dollar,
no salesman will visit
your home.
step right up.
step right up. it's a song
I wish I would
have written.
would have sung.
would have invented.
but I didn't, so I'll
just have to steal
a line or two,
keep the beat and sing
the song.

you ain't no moses

you ain't no moses,
the old woman
says
as I tell her my story.
you ain't got no
reason
to wander around for forty
years, let
alone forty days, or
forty minutes in no
god dammed desert.
pick yourself up boy.
and get out of here.
git boy, git.
the lord takes no pity
on the weak, when they
should be strong, when
they are strong.
look at you and all you
got.
inside and out.
what's done is done,
thank your lucky stars
she's gone.
now get out of here
and have some fun.
the promised land is
right here, no need to
look any longer
or dwell on what's
been done.

we're not old

it's a ribbon of road
that takes
us there.
black tar, white striped.
it rolls
along, beside the corn fields,
the melons
in rows, all the way
to the eastern shore,
where the ocean
waits, like it always has
each summer.
we roll the windows
down
and sing to the radio.
we're not old,
but we're getting there.
we're getting there.

Collin Chute

he's thirty tomorrow.
hard to believe this baby boy
that I carried
like a sack of sugar in my
arms
just a blink ago is a man
now.
how proud I am, I
don't say that enough, but he
knows I am.
his intelligence and imagination
brightens my day
each time we talk or share
our lives
by phone by text, in
person.
he works so hard, is so
passionate at his craft.
his courage of going west
astounds me even today.
his work ethic, his love
of parents and friends,
his beautiful companion.
his strength of self
and character brings joy
to my heart. he left
the nest so long ago,
his wings have spread.
he's aloft in the blue
sky, it will be interesting
to see where he lands.
there is nothing he can't
do, I believe that. his
heart and soul are gold.
I love, admire and respect
him, more and more
each day. happy birthday
baby boy.

blowing leaves

the landscapers,
have their machines out
blowing
a leaf or two
towards the woods, or
to a bag
near a truck.
it's loud. it's endless.
the mechanical roar.
not a broom
or rake in sight.
just the constant blow,
the rumble,
the noise all morning long.

one lie too many

i remember her saying to me
once after another
circular argument
full of accusations
and denials,
finger on her chin,
wide eyed and innocent,
just back from church
or meeting her married
boyfriend, or ex husband,
let me think,
have i lied to you
today?

i laugh now and shake
my head.
i wanted to say, have
you ever actually opened
your mouth and not lied
to me or anyone else?

one lie, is one too many.
exit, stage left.

happily onward

i see something that reminds
me
of something.
old things, long ago.
or a smell,
or a sound
that echoes into my ear.
it's all connected
by
strange dots.
this life, this future
death.
each flower grown,
each bouquet bought.
perfume
and cards.
i see someone that reminds
me of someone.
i smile and happily
move on.

her new book of poems

my poet friend Neva
calls to tell me about a new book
of poems
she has coming out.
at 87 she's still at it.
finding joy
in the written word, the sound
of syllables
collected and honed
to a fine
sweet tale
of joy or grief.
nuanced and sweet.
i buy two, one for the shelf,
signed,
and one to read.

planning ahead

i look at my calendar.
the days circled happily in red.
vacation.
a well needed rest
to the ocean.
to the eastern shore.
I've got my bags packed.
my bathing suit
on.
the umbrella by the door,
sunscreen.
books to read on
the sunset side
of water.
she laughs at me and says.
three more weeks, or
four,
relax.
it'll be here before
you know it.

it's a living

I see the same man
on the same
corner
everyday.
eight to five.
red bucket, sign. sunglasses
on.
he's neither young,
or old,
pacing back and forth,
leaning towards
each new car waiting at
the light.
it's a full time job.
he's tall
and large.
red faced. clean clothes,
good shoes.
it's a living.
I suppose.

a nice ending

there are days that
I miss my therapist, not having
talked with her in some
time now.
she probably wonders how i'm
doing,
what i'm up to, if I've finished
all the books
I told her about.
the friends who helped
me out.
I miss her comfy couch,
the window
to the street below.
her clock keeping time
on the fifty minute sessions.
what started out like a greek
tragedy took a nice
turn at some point. a light
went on.
and we would laugh.
it became easy
and clear.
we would nod in agreement,
both at last on the same
page,
at the end of a book, ready
for the shelf.
she knew the ending long before
I did.
but she waited patiently
for me
to read on, to go slow
and catch up,
to turn one page
at a time until I got there.

what follows next

the wedding
is in the backyard.
she's younger than he is by
decades.
a handful of guests
stand around,
their jackets off in the white
heat of
afternoon.
it's Tuesday.
why not?
there's a dog lying in the shade
a bowl of water
beside him.
we see it all from our deck.
we see
the preacher with his book
opened,
words are said.
the groom and bride kiss.
there's light applause,
then they all disappear inside.
for cake I assume,
and what follows next.

work and love

I think of all the jobs
I've had since childhood.
being a paper boy with a red
wagon
and a dog trotting beside
me in the early
twilight
of morning.
I washed dishes
in dingy diners, swabbing
plates of cigarettes
and potatoes, slippery
remains of
jam and eggs.
I've carried bricks
for men who flicked their
finished cigarettes at you,
for fun. i've
dug ditches, hung pink
loaves of insulation
between the studs of new
homes.
I been a carpenter,
a painter.
I've swept and mopped
hallways in the stair wells
of half lit
apartments in hard times.
I've loaded lumber onto
box cars,
pushed mowers over wet grass
up to my knees. i've
sold suits and sharp dress
shoes, before I owned either.
I've worked in
cubicles, punching at the keys,
never seeing the sun.
and yet, behind it all,
it was never about money,
never about,
shelter or possessions.
it was never about things.
it was always, now that I
look back on it, it was
always about finding
love and it finding me.

emoji

some like
the emojis, the smile,
the frown,
the tears, the praying hands.
the snarl,
the kiss, the happy
face.
it's childish,
but it fits who they are.
not good with
words, or real
emotions, unable to say
what they mean
face to face.
they need cartoons
to express who they are,
how they feel
in the moment.
true words are dead.
poetry
and expression.
emojis are the new
hallmark card, sappy
and gooey.
just click and send.

she's so busy

she's a busy woman.
what with the kids and the dog,
the ex,
the parents
sick and old.
the house and all that
it entails.
her work, the patients
with all their problems.
she feels guilty at
times,
for her lack of time,
her tight
schedule.
but it's fine. I tell her
so.
no worries.
no problem.
all things will work out
for the good,
with trust, with faith,
with love
with time.

under ground

we stop by the cemetery
to visit
the dead.
a one way conversation.
we pull up and walk to the grave,
flowers in hand.
neither happy
or sad, just curious as to
what this all means.
all these stones
leaning in the weather,
the grass cut,
the flowers and flags,
the angels
the statues, the marble.
what's going on here,
what's below
the ground, no one that i
know.
we stand there, we say a prayer,
not just for the dead,
the dearly departed,
but for the many lost souls
that are still
walking around.

bring your camera

i remember
excavating the basement.
purging, tossing,
removing
another life out
in boxes and crates.
sifting through the debris
of the past
few years or more.
like glue these things
were stuck
to me.
but i found it easy
to let them go.
there was no sentimental
value at all.
cards, letters. pictures.
rings,
clothes.
once done, once no longer
needed or loved,
or used,
i have no problem
seeing them go out
the door. i have no
problem starting over
with a fresh coat
of paint, new carpet.
new everything.
bring the camera,
let's take some pictures
to be framed,
let's begin once more.

farm raised or wild?

we go out to dinner.
the waiter hands us a menu
thicker
than war and peace.
we ask for a flashlight to read
it, or one in braille.
bread and drinks arrive
but we're only on page nine.
the appetizer section.
tell me about your fish, she
says. farm raised or wild.
the young waiter, says,
well, they're farm raised,
but we get into the pool
with a broom and chase them
around a lot, so that makes
them wild. sounds scrumptious
she says.
i'll have the chicken, I
tell the boy. free range,
right? oh yes, the waiter
says. we lasso them every
Thursday night out on the prairie.

it's hard to explain

I go to the hospital
to visit her.
I peek in through the narrow
window.
she's in bed.
a white bed,
she's wearing white.
she's asleep.
she's disappearing,
just bones now.
the wires keep her alive.
the machines blink
with white,
with green,
with red eyes.
she's not long for this world.
it hasn't been easy.
for her or anyone around
her.
finally her heart will cease.
was it dark, or light,
who knows.
it's hard to explain.
what isn't?

nothing less than her

she shines
in the summer. a bright
light
on the beach.
under the glisten
of blue
sky, the wide
umbrella.
book in hand, legs
dangling
in the ocean drawer.
she dips
her glasses, her hat,
and kisses me.
I want nothing
less than her,
I need nothing more.

waiting for the splash

I send a dozen poems
off
to a variety of rags
that publish
grudgingly
whatever this is, whatever
we call and name
now,
as poetry.
it's not unlike throwing
a rock
into the air,
through the woods at
night
and waiting to hear a splash,
or the applause
of the universe, that
finally sees and understands
everything
you write.

who we are

we are cells.
bits and pieces of energy
massed
together
to make us who we are,
who we think
we are, who we pretend
to be. the unseen
is more
predictable than
the seen.
in time we find that
we can't alter
what is, some things
can't change, for better
or worse we just have
to be.

his true love

he had an aquarium
in his living room.
it was his one true love.
a 50 gallon tank full
of water and tropical fish.
he gave them all
names.
joey, Susie, mac and George.
Sylvia.
they had castles
and greenery
on the rocky sand below.
there was the hum of a motor,
the filter to keep
it clean and pristine.
all day
they'd swim about.
there were lights too.
greenish
and blue.
he'd feed them with a sweet
voice.
spreading the crumbs
onto the surface.
come look at my fish, he'd
say when you came
to visit.
and the fish would stare
back, blank eyed, their
mouths opening and closing
all night,
all day.

the covert self

it's easy to judge others.
to say,
i wouldn't raise
my children that way,
or
i'm more polite, i'm better
at this or that
than they are. look at me,
how i dress,
and walk, how i talk.
i'm we'll read, i pray,
i give cans of food to the church.
i do so
much for others.
just a text message away.
i'm an empath with a heart
of gold,
but beneath it all,
there is darkness,
there is deception and lies.
in private
there is this double life
kept hidden.
the public image is one
of good, one of charm
and smiles,
while beneath the surface
the true self, the covert
life lives on and
thrives.

fairy tales

i build a wall around me.
bricks.
stones.
mortar, some wood beams.
thick tiles for overhead.
i'm protecting myself,
I've been too vulnerable
lately,
I've let the wrong people
in, they've
gotten too close, I've
believed them, when i
shouldn't have. i didn't
listen to the voice inside
of me.
i believed in fairy tales,
in rainbows.
in miracles, when there are
none.
so up goes the walls,
four sides.
a door, a window.
a roof.
it's going to be thick
this time.
it won't happen again.
there are no second chances.
it's one lie and done,
this time around.

the mission statement

what's your mission statement,
she asks
you
over coffee.
her pen ready for your answer,
her survey nearly
complete
about your business.
work hard, do the best you
can, get paid,
then go home and take
a cold shower
and a nap.
eat, drink, relax.
then do it again the next
day.
I like it, she says.
I like your mission.
me too.
I tell her, me too.

a single fly

one fly
gets in, somehow.
an open door,
a crack in the window.
I hear the buzz
as he circles the room
like a wayward thought,
in and out of
the lights,
never landing.
never quite
reachable to chase
out, or hit.
he has his day with me.
his night.
but in time,
i'll win out.
fly for now. have fun.
soon it ends. as all
annoying thoughts will do.
no doubt.

the gift horse

i gave her a horse for Christmas.
a chestnut
horse.
lean and fast.
but it didn't make her happy.
i put a saddle
on the horse, fed it oats,
fed it grass.
gave it water.
take a ride, i told her.
give it chance.
but she said no, i don't want
a horse
i don't want any gifts that
cost more
than a dollar.
it's too much. i'm not worthy.
how dare you show love
like that.

the dull quiet

the pendulum swings
from
disgust to hatred, to dismay,
to feeling sorry,
to being thankful,
to
feeling lost, to being
found,
to being overjoyed.
it keeps moving from side
to side,
up
then down.
i'm ready for the middle.
the steady
unswinging, the dull quiet
of nothing.
just a normal day,
a normal
thought, washed clean,
scrubbed sound.

the crack of the whip

i hear the crack of the whip.
the alarm
going off on Monday morning.
i crawl out of bed
and into the world.

i hear the scramble of cars,
the trash truck outside,
the bark of dogs,
the yawns,
the muttering.

is this the life we choose,
or has it chosen us.
we are farmers going out
into the field, planting,
harvesting, praying for rain,
tending to our crops.

indigo glass

the blue glass
jars
and plates
on the window sill catch
the light.
indigo.
full of color, deep
blue.
an ocean,
a lake,
the sky at night.
I set them
beside one another
for no reason other
than I just
like how they look,
the joy
in their strange
and mysterious color.

power outage

the power goes out.
but we are not lost
in the dark.
there's no electricity
no force
to light our lights,
but we will survive.
we have each other to lean
on, to get
to where we need to go.
whether day, or night.
we have legs
and arms, voices.
lips and hearts to move
us to where we need to go.
who needs lights?
it's within us.

let's be cold

I dream of snow.
of ice.
of Alaska.
of the north pole.
I am
in the blue water
of the north
atlantic.
you shiver and smile.
our teeth happily chatter.
we're wearing fur
coats.
boots, and hats.
only our faces show.
we are eskimos
rubbing our noses
together.
our cheeks are
a happy red.
later, we'll make love
and turn
the heat up,
but for now. let's be
cold.

the vampire blues

once you pull back
the curtain
and you reveal what
you know
to be true.
game over.
once
the light shines
on that cave of darkness.
like vampires
they can no longer
exist in your life.
they fall apart,
skin and bones dissolve.
they've lost their
source that you provided.
you no longer
enable and turn
the other cheek, you
no longer
allow a single white
lie to exist.
you laugh at their
pretensions.
you bring the sun, you
let it shine.
they run. they hide.
a part of them dies
and you survive.

scrabble under the stars

we sit under the strands
of Edison lights and stars
and play
scrabble.

we sip our gin and tonics,
the slice of lime
adding color
to the swim of clear ice
in our tumblers.

we play one game, then start
over.
stuck with nowhere to go
on the board. not a single
tile
can find a home
to make a word.

life is like that.
when there's no moves to make,
let go of what's
not working, begin again.
clear the slate,
start over.

keys

I have too many keys.
old keys.
cars,
houses, mysterious keys.
gold
and silver keys.
mailbox keys,
keys to locks I've
lost,
keys to boxes, or trunks,
keys
to someone else's house.
the garage key,
the back door,
the front.
I have a drawer
full of keys.
a ring of keys.
keys that won't turn,
broken and bent.
keys
for the maid, for
the plumber.
a key under the mat,
under the plant
out back.
a key in the shed
hanging on a nail.
I have a key
in an envelope, no
note attached, sent
via
mail.

hungry

I wake up hungry.
go to bed hungry.
but it's not for food.
it's for something else.
some
intangible thing
I can't put my hands on,
wrap my
brain around.
something deep within.
a spiritual longing
to get things right.
to dispose of the past
and let go
of all that was wrong,
all that was darkness,
not a glimmer of truth
or light.
my stomach grumbles
with it,
my heart aches, my
mind races with ideas,
I need a buffet of
affection, or knowledge,
I need a large plate
of love, I need to feed
the emptiness within.

the smiley face

i remember when my friend in seattle
texted me
a photo
of nine ambien pills
aligned in a smiley face
beside a bottle
of rum.
good bye she wrote.

this time i'm really done.
but she wasn't of course.
she was never quite
done
with drama.
there was always another
page to turn,
a cliff hanger
of sorts.

even in death, it
continued when her husband
called her friends
and lovers,
to keep
it going, trying to unravel
her secret life, both
tragic,
and fun, but finally, at
last,
after so many threats
and attempts,
it was finally done.

the honeymoon

my father
rarely drank alone.
the scratches and lipstick
on his face
proved other wise
when his car pulled up at
some
ungodly hour
to his so called home
holding a wife
and seven children.
then the battle
would begin.
Italian women don't take
a liking
to men like him.
in the morning
there would be glass
on the floor,
the phone cord cut
to keep the police or
good Samaritans out of it.
the bottle of
brown whiskey
would be empty.
cigarettes filled the ashtrays.
the both of them
would be asleep in their
room, exhausted
by each other,
cuddled together like new
lovers
on their honeymoon.

from cradle to hearse

the trouble with troubled people
is that
you can't help them.
fix them,
bring them to water
to drink.
we have no say in the matter.
they are
what they are,
for better or worse.
unchanged by
you or others, love
matters not to them,
no apologies or empathy
is ever known,
from the cradle
to the hearse.

sleep to come

there is a sleep
to come
soon. I promise myself,
turning pages
of books, the tv off.
the window
full of moon.
I lie awake in
the dim
light of the table
lamp.
pillows punched just
so.
tea beside me.
I am alone, but not
so that it bothers me
as it once did
long ago.
my years have brought
me,
surprisingly,
a clarity that I
rely on
as each day arrives,
as each
new moon fills
the room. there is
sleep to come, I promise
myself.
soon.

they are new to this

they are new at this.
the young couple.
the children
knee high.
a cat,
a dog in the yard,
tied.
flush
with love and money,
they put
time
and sweat into this
new home,
though old.
they make it theirs
as best they
can.
as they do with their
lives,
now out of the shadow
of parents,
friends.

Four Across

the cross word
puzzle is puzzling today.
the brain
needs
a boost. four letters
across, a word
that expresses a deep emotion.
a word that
brings joy to your heart,
enriches
your life when it's given
or received.
the second letter
is O,
the fourth letter
is E.
I scratch my head,
tap my pencil against
the table.
I pace the room,
make a cup of coffee.
then finally after sweating
bullets, it comes to
me.

sweet karma

there are days when
you feel light, when you smile
and the world
is spinning at just the right speed,
when the weather
cooperates with your mood,
when all thoughts are clean
and good,
and true.
when you have on the right
clothes,
the right shoes.
when you have the right
words to speak
to anyone you meet,
or who calls you on the phone.
the right song comes on
the radio as you drive
along,
the tank is full.
the lights are all green.
it's a beauty of a moon.
there is synchronicity.
sweet karma.
it's bliss, and then of course
when the day is done,
there's her kiss.

siberia and lower regions

the fridge is full
of left overs. the problem is
that I don't,
or rarely eat leftovers.
too many nights out
bringing home the Styrofoam.
the Chinese boxes,
the pizza
in the wide awkward box
that hogs
up so much space
on the middle rack.
I need a dog, or a pack
of dogs, or a compost
barrel
in the yard.
I can't keep bringing
home uneaten food
to be thrown away three
days later, three days
seems to be
the tipping point
when it feels nuclear
and must be done away
with.
not to mention the freezer.
the Siberia
for meat and fish,
squares of lasagna
that i'll never unthaw
or eat.

under the lights

let's have a party she says.
keep it small.
outdoors.
under the stars, the lights.
casual
and fun.
music, good food, friends
we love.
out on the deck.
we'll dance, we'll laugh.
it will go on and on,
all night long,
we'll talk and talk.
we'll sneak a kiss when
the children are gone.
let's have a party she says.
before the summer
ends, before the weather
turns, it's been
way too long.

pebbles in the shoe

some worries are larger
than others.
some are small, but like
pebbles in your shoe
they get your attention
until you stop,
take the shoe off and shake
the pebble free.
each day has something,
some trick or trial
to it, something to overcome,
or accept.
but so it goes.
we live, we move on.
no regrets.
no looking back. today,
will be fine,
yesterday is long gone,
tomorrow is next.

photo from afar

she sends me a picture
of herself.
she's in white
in a foreign country.
there's a fountain
beside her,
a blue sky, a bluer
ocean in the distance.
she's happy.
content.
there is a smile on her
face.
a knowing
in her sharp brown
eyes
of what's coming soon.
she's tanned
and beautiful, patient,
as she waits.

fall

summer used
to be my favorite time of year.
the beach,
the sun, the warmth
of it all,
a long stretch of months
in casual
wear.
but now I lean towards fall.
the cool
air,
the breeze
before winter arrives.
the open windows.
a fire,
and you beside me
curled on the couch
watching
an old movie, or taking
a long
walk, doing nothing
at all.

Spices for Sale

I have so many spices
in the cupboard,
some new, some old,
ones left
by others
that have cooked
or baked here
and moved
on to other kitchens
in the great beyond.
everything from sage, to
red pepper,
bay leaves
and oregano.
I might have thirty
bottles
of them all.
salt grinders,
pepper mills,
little cans of nutmeg
and cinnamon.
I was thinking of having a yard
sale
for them.
some unopened
never to be used.
a nickel each,
or best offer.
how they got here
and aligned themselves
on the shelf
above the stove,
I don't have a clue.

i got you babe

the going out of business sign
is up,
again.
everything must go.
half price,
forty per cent off.
limited time only.
last chance.
I go in, credit card in hand.
it looks like it did
last month,
in fact there's new stuff
on the shelves,
boxes with new inventory
are stacked in rows.
it reminds me of cher's
farewell tour
started twenty years ago.
it's still going on
and seems to never end.

I got you babe.

no second date

I met her maybe ten
years ago
on a dating site
called bottom of the barrel.
she was an unregistered nurse
who lived
near Spotsylvania.
she liked to hunt
and fish,
go tubing and mudding
in her old ford
truck.
her three kids were in
the front seat, waiting,
faces to the window,
looking at me.
pondering if I was going
to be their new daddy.
she gave me a handwritten
recipe for squirrel
stew
as we sat on a bench
at a gas station
in west virginia, sipping
cold coffee.
it was
complete with instructions
of how to skin
and debone
the little animals.
i noticed that her
coat was
made of a dozen or so
squirrel hides. she was
quite proud of it, but said
she couldn't go out
into the rain
or snow with it on.
which puzzled me.
I told her that I never
had squirrel before, to which
she laughed
and said, we'll aren't you
in for a surprise
on our second date.

holiday feast

the church
would leave food on the porch
for the holidays.
somehow
they knew we didn't have
two sticks
to rub together.
i remember opening the door
and seeing
out in the cold
enough food
for a month of holidays.
potatoes,
a turkey, a fat ham,
vegetables,
the trimmings,
cider, milk, pies.
i woke my mother up to
tell her.
i remember her going to the door
and putting her
hand on her mouth,
her eyes looking around
the street for neighbors
eyes.
quickly she brought
it all into the house,
sobbing,
and me wondering why.

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.