true north

once you find true north
do not
be swayed in another direction.

do not let charm fool you.
do not listen to the siren's song.

don't listen
to those who want you to go
their way.

it's a disaster in the making.
I have wandered
off course many times.

persuaded with a kiss and more.

so I know, at least for me
which way
to go.

my true north, not theirs.

the outside

when I look back,

I see how beauty made her smile.
the shape

of people.
the size, the weight,

the clothes one wore.
a superficial take on the world.

a house just so.

the perfect chair,
the perfect rose.

her hand always on her phone,
saying look,

scrolling through a hundred
photos,

look how beautiful these young
people are.

never once, saying how kind
or good they were.

spiritual books

i dive
into another one of Henri
Nouwen's
depressing
takes on spirituality.
the joy is flattened
with guilt
and sin, with remorse,
regret and
depression. at times
it's brutal
and dark.
a sunless field of grey.
you can feel his wounds
bleed,
see the bruised heart,
his conflicting
faith,
not matching his desires.
his unflinching commitment
to the catholic
faith, despite so much
he doesn't agree with.
it's a hard read,
one I seldom go back to
anymore,
quickly putting it
down, skimming the pages,
finding little
in relief.

A Mere Spark

a spark
sets aflame so much,
just the mere twitch of metal
on metal or
lighting
in rain.
a wire frayed,
a thrown match, a word,
a glance
in anger
does nothing if not
the same.
it takes
so little to set the dry world
on fire.
the house,
the love, a marriage,
all so easily
set asunder,
so quickly devoured.

life music

there are songs
that feel like soundtracks to your
own life.

they resonate. they feel like they
were written for you.

the words are true, the melody.

whether sad, or joyous songs.
they fit the moment.
the mood.

Gordon lightfoot does that for me.
beautiful and if you could read my mind.

in the early morning rain.

or Costello's almost blue,
Allison,
or ship building.

al green, let's stay together.
tom wait's

I hope I don't fall in love with you.
blue valentine
Kentucky avenue.

everybody's talking by nilsson

old friends, the dangling conversation.
paul simon.
a hazy shade of winter.

it's a long list, a bevy of songs
that you've heard
for years, for decades
and will listen to
for more to come.

they fit, they capture where you are
in the moment.
in love, or without love.

they feel like home to you.

he meant no harm

you get the call.

your man jake is gone.
he's finally let go of the wheel.

there is sadness, grief, sorrow,
but a strange
feeling
of relief too.

life was hard for him, each
day
a struggle
with addictions, broken
dreams, promises
unkept. always
on the move.

shelters, the woods, a couch.
a friend's
shed
to lay his things, rest
his head.

every soup kitchen knew him.

I see him now in old town,
at the fountain,
cigarette hanging from his lips,

combing his long hair
in the summer sun,

a pocket full of cash
from a days work,

checking out the women
as they walk
by, ignoring his whistles
and cat calls.

he meant no harm.

the ghost of christmas past

as a new year approaches,
a new decade
you look back at the last
twelve
months
and take stock of the good
and bad,
the wrong turns
taken,
the people you've lost,
or allowed
into your life that you
shouldn't have.
you see the error of your ways,
but don't get too hard
on yourself.
you're human, you expect
the best out of everyone,
you believe that people
for the most part are good
and honest, true,
and when you discover that
they aren't,
it's not on you.
it's on them. let go,
release the darkness,
the ghost of Christmas
past,
and live in the light again.
it's a new year, a new day.

when Santa's sled broke down

it's still dark
when I get out of bed
and go see what the racket
is in the other room,

I see
santa, half drunk on the floor.

his boots are off.
the place is full of elves too,

eating everything they can get
their little
hands on. they've wiped
out all my cookies

and are slicing up tomorrows
honey baked ham.

apparently the sled broke down.

hey, hey, I say to him, shaking
his shoulder.

yo, like what up dude?
kids are waiting,
they're depending on you.

he pulls off his fake beard,
and scratches his face.

I don't know, he says. i'm getting
too old for this.
something's wrong with the sled.

these new sleds, with the computers
and all.

I miss the old ones, with reindeer.
you don't have any reindeer?
no prancer, dancer, pluto
and and...the other ones.

yeah I do, but they're just for show.
they're up on the roof.
probably freezing their acorns off.

some of them got shot when we flew
too low over the red states. sorry
about the blood on the roof.
but I think it's going to rain tomorrow.

the sled runs on plutonium now,
very high tech.

I think the software needs a reboot,
or something.

I get my phone out and google
santa's sled and we work through
the problem.

I get my friend Jimmy on the line
in India and he texts a link
to get it up
and running again.

Santa sends one of his elves up to reboot
the system.

we all hear it start up on the roof,
and the elves start cheering in
their strange high pitched, jockey like
voices. I can't wait for them to
get out of my house.

okay, thanks, he says. I guess
I should get going. he snaps his beard
back around his face
and puts his shiny black boots back on.

do you mind if I have the rest of this,
he says, holding up a half empty
bottle of tangueray?

sure, I tell him, sure. take it.

I look around the room,
under the tree,
where's my stuff, I ask him, no gifts
for me.
oh yeah, sorry about that.

I checked my list, but I got nothing
down here for you. seems you've been a bad
boy, most of the year. I just landed
here because we stalled out.

but look, here you can have my fit
bit.

he takes it off his wrist and pats
his belly. it's useless in my line
of work, with all the cookies and cakes
along the way. alright, got to go.

hi ho silver, or something like that.

bowls of hard candy

my mother would put out a bowl
of hard
candy each year.

Christmas candy.

most of it was left over from
the year before,

or the year before that.
striped
and hard.
ribboned green and red,

orange too.

some gooey on the inside.
others
too sweet or bitter,

impossible to chew
without breaking a tooth.

it never went bad.
the ashtrays were full
of slick white
pieces.

clean of color, unfinished
and spit out
into hands

when no one was looking.

past present and future

if we could back,
go forward, see the present and
what
could be if not
for mistakes made, sins
committed,
lies,
betrayal and array of
bad decisions.
if we were in the Christmas
carol,
given a tour
of our life by the spirits,
would we change,
repent.
get it right. most would,
I do believe, and others
yet,
will see no wrong,
and change nothing.

two cups of chicken broth

I have no chicken broth
for the stuffing.

I have no celery either, but
who gives a damn
about celery.

in a panic I look up a substitute
for chicken broth, then
wonder if the grocery store
is still open.

probably. It seems that selling
stuff is more
important than celebrating
the birthday of Jesus,
savior of the world.

heathens.

maybe 7-11 carries chicken broth.
they have every thing under
the sun now.

what is chicken
broth? I wonder.

I have a whole chicken.
can I make some?
can I squeeze a chicken's
thigh, or breast and get some?

(don't go there)

it's a dilemma.

I search the cupboard and come
across a box
of vegetable broth left over
from
a previous wife.

I look at the expiration date.
looks good.

I take a chance.

a box of coal for christmas

I go through my box of coal

left on my doorstep, hoping beyond
hope
that it's not just coal,

that a bag of sweets might be
at the bottom.
some thoughtful gift.

a card, or letter sealed with
a red lipped kiss.

but no.

it's just coal. black and chalky.
cold soft stones.
the powder stains my
hands, my lips
when I touch them.

but it's a very nice box.
wooden. sturdy and strong.

It will hold my weight when I
turn it over.

it'll make a perfect stool
for the closet.

they're together again

together
in church, in their pew.
at last again,
husband, wife, son.
family.
waving gaily to the priest,
their dearest
and closest friend.
all bowing their heads.
hands pressed
together.
repeating the rote prayers.
rosaries and hymnals
in hand.
pious and perfect.
what a pretty picture it is.
though most of it
will always be untrue.
the married man
in her phone,
in her heart, he's never
not far away, never giving up,
never through.

to be fair

to be fair,
to be Christian is not
always
easy.
to submit to forgiveness
is hard
when the ache
is still there.
when the bones
are cold,
the heart a remnant
of
stone, chipped and
fissured.
to be fair, even now,
with time
past
with the spirit of
holidays here,
it's hard to look back
with a gentle
heart
and say, no worries,
it's fine, go on your
way. I wish you nothing
but
good cheer.

the questions of tomorrow

a dozen or more
black birds find the wire
across the highway.

undisturbed by the day, or weather.
they sit

in curious judgement, or
ambivalence.
who's to know

their minds sitting still
like this,
together.

how black they are, oiled
and large, tightly feathered
in their coats,

in no hurry for whatever
lies before them.

no worries. unlike us.
shivering in the cold and
questions
of tomorrows.

dash board saints

the homeless, out early.

looking much like actors
in a cecil b demille
movie.
they look like prophets.

like dashboard saints
on each corner,

layered in long coats.
bearded.
bleary eyed and worn.

persistent and undaunted by
the harshness
of wind
from cars speeding by.

what will a dollar buy.
five,
ten, does it matter.

how much will change things,
and not bring
them here again,

flushing us with a strange
guilt, or
some emotion
we can't reason with.

early christmas morning

they are dragging the lake
on this early Christmas morning.

the men in blue, gloved,
with over coats and hats standing
at the edge

of the broken pond, the shards
of ice
opened to a sky
of blue.

someone has wandered off
in the night,
full of gin or rye,
perhaps fallen,

stepping gaily onto the sheet
of ice,

sliding, sliding until it
gave way.

no one is sure of anything, so
they're dragging
the lake

on this Christmas morning,
while the children in their houses,
warm
and gifted,
pay no mind.

sleep easy

it will be easy to sleep
tonight.

the glass of wine makes sure
of that.

the meal,
the pie. the cold
outside.

dreams will come fast on
this night.

folded tight between
the sheets,
the heavy blanket.

so much good, so much to
be grateful
for.

so much to delight in
within this sweet life.

the gift basket

when the church
left a basket
on the porch my mother cried.

a ham, a turkey.
potatoes.
everything. bread.
milk.
eggs.

chocolate.

she stood on the porch
and cried,
her hands upon her tired
face.

quickly she brought it
all inside.

embarrassed at being poor
and without a
husband,

but happy
for her children. hungry
no more.

a light in a window

as a paper boy,
I would pull my red wagon, with
my dog
beside me
in the cold mornings
of Maryland.
i'd bundle the papers
and toss them onto porches
as I ran
the streets, the wagon
squeaking behind me.
the quiet of Christmas
morning
was magnificent,
not a soul out, but a milk
truck rolling,
the clink of bottles,
a barking dog.
a yellow brush of
light in a window
far off.

a different light

I skip church this year.

nothing to do with faith, or disbelief.
that's never
been
a problem.

but it's different now.
I see
a different light, walk a different
path.

I went
and prayed with darkness beside
me.

believed in someone, that wasn't
worth believing.

she tested my faith, and failed
at

everything.
even the devil quotes the Bible,

and offers you peace.

the best is yet to come

I've always expected good things
to come.
for good people to appear,
for love to arrive
on time.
true love, not the other kind.
I'm optimistic by nature
despite
what's come along. I always see
the light
at the end of every dark
tunnel, no matter what's
gone wrong.
and truly, nothing's changed.
I still look up, and expect good.
expect joy, expect that the best
is yet to come.

let's hurry to bed

I put a plate of cookies
out on the table,
a nice assortment,
freshly baked.
a cold glass of milk,
before turning in.
I check the chimney to make
sure it's clean and ready.
the fire out.
I look out the window
with my son,
and stare up into
the sky. it won't be long,
I tell him, soon, soon.
let's hurry to bed.
scoot, scoot,
i'll be up shortly, now
say your prayers and tomorrow
will be here,
in a very short time.

the crooked lines

i'll go tomorrow
to the hospital to visit a dying friend.

he's no longer conscious,
but just the same,

i'll touch his hand. say something
i'm unsure of.

merry Christmas perhaps or
i'll say goodbye.

but I know I won't be
coming here again.

i'll try and imagine

the end of my own life,
i'll compare his to mine.

no different, no better or worse.
but he's found his peace

at last
after years of living outside
the crooked lines.

as if it snowed

I take a long walk
through the narrow streets,
the high hills
of town.
the stars are out. it's nearly warm.
an odd
December day.
houses are lit
with flickering strings of lights.
the bright glow
of green and blue and red,
sleighs
and santas,
a thousand ornaments
on display.
I stop on occasion to look in,
and see inside
some windows the gatherings.
the laughter.
the food, the opening of gifts,
the toasts and pouring
of drinks.
i hear familiar music play.
there is no one out, but me.
no cars, no trucks.
my boots step softly on the pavement.
there is the purity of quiet
as if snow had
fallen and fallen
on this Christmas eve.

fresh bread

it's nearly done.

this bread I've been cooking for
so long.

months in fact, in the hot oven.
it's sweet bread
full
of raisons and cinnamon.

a buttered crust, baked to
a satisfying crunch.

it's hard on the outside, soft
within.

it's me.

tomorrow, she says

the little girl swirls
in the warm
winter day, a day before Christmas.
she sees
me and says howdy neighbor
as she always does
before her mother waves
her away.
but she whispers conspiratorially
to me,
with a small hand cupped
to her mouth
and says,
santa is coming tonight.
then she spins off to retrieve
and kick the ball, to tire
herself
and try to fall sleep before
midnight.
far past my own bedtime.

hands in the dough

I see her hands in the dough,
the powder
of flour,
the cutting board,
the kneading, rolling.
her radio on.
Christmas music.
her bird in it's cage.
snow
in the air.
the tree is up, the train
slowly
chugs around the toy track.
a mirror pond,
a miniature town
around it.
there's a phone nestled
between shoulder
and neck.
her laminated list of numbers
on the counter.
I see her hands making
pasta.
the sauce on the stove.
the wooden
spoon, the oven on.
in this world, all was well.
nothing felt wrong.

wait for it

the bend of the tree
straining under ice and wet snow
reminds
me of days,
I came to know.

the desire to rise
and straighten,
to get warm in the suns
embrace.

but like so much of
this world
and pain,
it's temporary.
spring does come.
just wait.

the butterball turkey

i put a big fat turkey in the oven
and set the table.

table for one.
but i go all out with the good china.

a lit candle, music on.

roasted potatoes, carrots and
cranberries.

i take a peak at the bird
every now and then, only five
more hours to go,

i baste it with butter,
talk to it like a small child,

encouraging it.

soon, hopefully before Christmas ends,
it will be done.

it lingers

it lingers.

the smoke, fog, the windows
running
with traces
of tears.

it's clear though.
the past,

the future is so close,
so near.

we empty what was full,
we discard
remove,

we blow at the air,

but it lingers,
the memory,
the fear.

the juice bar in o.c.

i remember the first juice
bar
i went to in the early seventies.
a hippy joint
at the beach
full of long haired
red eyed
too friendly and happy college
drop outs.
carrot juice,
beet juice.
any fruit or vegetable
on the planet had
been squeezed
and put into a blender
with celery stalks.
horrible.
bitter and tasteless.
not cheap either
for free loaders
like me and my pals.
it was the end of free
love, end of the war,
end of an era. end of
Nixon, end of the beatles,
and all that came before.
now this.
carrot juice. good lord.

a woman i hardly like

I fall in love with a woman
I hardly
like.
it's a line I've stolen from
a bob Dylan song,
a line
that I like.
I want to put her in a wheel
barrel and
wheel her the street.
things have changed.
i'm a vegetarian now,
I've stopped eating meat.
not really.
but i'm in a rhyming mood.
next.

a magical time of year

the mom in the van
flips me the finger as she speeds
through the light
gone red.
kids on board,
a dog, a cabin full of bags
and boxes.
she has those reindeer things
flopping on the roof,
and an evergreen tree tied
tight.
she's wearing a red hat
and smoking a cigarette,
holding a can of beer.
it's such a magical
time of the year.

hands

i remember hands.

i can see them, still. the long fingers,
the veins
roped blue
under the olive skin.

or the fat hands, the stubby
thumbs,
the hard grips,

the nails polished or bitten.
the scars,
the callouses.

the softness of some.
i remember how they felt in mine.

when walking, when meeting, when
saying goodbye.

strong hands, weak limp hands.
cold
sweaty hands.

ringless, or with a diamond.
a gold band.
silver.

some were

beautiful hands. so many once
entwined
in mine.

parallel lives

we speak the same language.

we are of the same species, cut
from the same cloth.

our lives are two parallel lines
running side by side,

never in an infinity of years
would we ever
cross.

she starts a sentence, I finish.
I search for a word,

she gives one to me.
soul twins, perhaps.

life mates, who knows. but for
now,
we'll settle for a conversation

well said, and accept it for that.

the open road

it's a long drive home
from Annapolis. the traffic thick
with holiday travel
you can see the children
asleep in the cars,
the boxes wrapped and bowed,
stacked high.
the parents at the wheel,
weary and tired, wanting to
get to where they need to go.
so many miles before they sleep.
for me too. me too, as I steer
my life forward and find
the open road.

the story teller

in Ireland they say that a writer
is a failed
conversationalist.
there is a fine art in telling
a story.
some can, some can't.
with some it's hard to tell when
a story begins, or when it ends.
the middle is muddled in unnecessary
details, you want them to cut
to the chase. to get through it,
you blink, and hold
back the yawns and wait.
and wait and wait.

glass and jewels

what are days for,
but to be lived in, to be made
full
with our doing, our
work, our play.
our thrills and boredom.
what are days for, but
a box of sunlight
to endure, or enjoy.
each to has own length of
time, each to his
set of rules.
each to his own days,
made of glass, or
made of jewels.

the soured dream

i'll never see her again.

i'll never look into her eyes.
there are no
pictures,
no reminders, no things
left behind.

i'll never be in the same room
with her and feel that cold air.

i'll never
touch her reptilian skin,
or hold her. listen
to her lies.

the miles are few between us,
but in truth

it's an ocean, deep and wide
that will keep
us apart forever.

i'll never see her again.

in time,
the fading will be
complete,

she'll disappear like a soured
dream from
the attic of my mind.

blowing smoke

he tells me that his life is hard.

that the world is against him.
he wants
money, he wants a woman.
his own place.

he talks about tomorrows as if
they were beans in a jar.

as if there were more to steal.

he wants and wants, even now
at the end of his days, he desires
more
of what he never had enough of.

light me a cigarette, he says
on his death bed.

put it in my mouth. it's not over,
he whispers. inhaling the harsh
smoke

and exhaling through his nose.

it's not over.

christmas lake

I see the old men,
the women too, with their walking sticks.

off they go, around the lake,
ice blue and
cold.

the melt of a white sun is in the trees.
it's five miles
around.

I used to run it in the morning, but
now,
I join the pack, find
my stick
and walk

the beaten path. each
turn, each hill, each bend
in the road

is full of memory. each Christmas
I find myself
here.

alone, but happy.

the fire bucket

you arrive home late,
a little woozy under the spell
of gin,
but able to find the keyboard,
the button,
the light and begin.
you write a long letter
once more.
but this one you won't send.
it goes on and on
into the dark night.
the words, the emotions,
the anger,
the fear, the primitive soul
pounding
at the keys.
all the horrors of the past
two years.
it's nothing that you haven't
said before, a hundred
times or more.
it's a mess. you laugh
and print it off,
read,
then rip and tear it into
shreds. into the fire bucket
it goes.
amongst the fallen leaves.

the story

it is the story of our life.
this book with words.
so much has been written, so
much left to be said.
we turn each page, from
front and back. we make
notations, we edit, we change,
we alter the past,
rewrite the future.
we want it to be more than
what it is. which is impossible.
but we try just the same
when asked.
it's our book, our life, our
story. we can do whatever
we want with it, for in
time it won't matter, like
all books, like all of us,
each will be gone, gone
to a place not yet written.
the memory, like paper will
turn to ash and in the wind
be blown.

the love paper

the wallpaper comes
off in easy dry strips, just a little
prying of
the wide blade
lifts the dusty
ancient paper
from the walls, beneath it
someone has put the date
and the name
of who installed it.
1932, it reads. Bill and Emily
Harrison.
there's a heart with an
arrow drawn through it.
I keep going, taking the paper
down, then sand the walls,
preparing them to prime
and paint.
I leave the names and the heart
for as long
as I can, until I have
no choice
but to cover them up.
I wish them well, wherever
they are, if they are still
alive, most likely not,
and wonder did the love
work, did the romance
hold up as well as this
ancient wallpaper. we could
all do so well in
keeping things together.

the photo album

she shows me a picture
on her phone of her
when she was twenty one
in a bikini with a banner
wrapped around
her tight tanned torso.
ocean city, it reads.
I won that contest, she says,
slurping on a bowl of soup, dipping
a hunk of sour dough bread
into the steam.
she scrolls through her phone.
more pictures at the beach.
glamor shots,
modeling shots. high heels
and tight dresses. slinky
and lean. nearly forty years ago.
she's on a motor cycle,
leaning on the hood of a car,
posing on a bar.
stretched out like a cat
in heat.
nice, I tell her, as she reaches
for the dessert menu.
split some cake, she says,
pulling at her oversized
sweatshirt with a hoodie.
sure, why not, I tell her.
I used to be a dancer too,
she says, did I tell you that?
a belly dancer.
no, not yet. Pictures?
she picks up the soup bowl
to bring it to her mouth,
pulling the hardened cheese
off the rim with her teeth.
one second, she says.

the system's fault

people die
in hospitals, in hospice,
in nursing homes.
old, diseased, broken,
done,
expired.
and often you hear the words
of those left behind,
that more should
have been done,
they didn't do this or that,
his or her care
was mishandled.
it's the doctor's fault,
the nurses,
the system.
it's what the grieving
do when
life ends.
the complaint is the same
with almost everyone.
but never, or hardly once,
did they
help or say a word to the
dearly departed about
smoking, or drinking
or eating too much,
or living a dangerous
life. they looked the other
way.

my daughter

I see my daughter arriving
through the window
she's beautiful beyond words.
she brings me joy.
I want to weep for her,
to take whatever pain that
life may bring her and take it
upon myself.
in my mind she is still
a child. a girl on a swing.
a girl with books, and drawings.
but now a woman.
she is careful with the world,
but not enough.
I want to tell her that, but
don't. she needs to go,
be on her own, away from
parents, from what she knows.
I have given her all that I
have. that's all one can do
and then surrender, let love
and compassion do the rest.
she's arriving.
she's leaving.

the yoga class

I decide to join a yoga class
to stretch
and get ready for the new year.

limber up.

I feel like I need to be more flexible,
both in body
and mind.

I have a hard time though with finding
the right outfit to wear.
the yoga pants I bought
are so tight, but feel kind of
nice
in a strange sort of way. I feel
like spider man.

red was never my color, but this will
have to do. it was the only one
in my size.

i like my instructor, Lulubelle.
she used to work
at the coffee shop around the block
but now
teaches yoga full time.

as the class progresses,
we do the praying mantis,
and the other stuff like the shovel,
I mean the plow, but then

she puts her foot over her
head and around her neck
while standing there and asks
us to do that.

i touch my toes instead,
then do some windmills with
my arms out and hope
that's okay.
hey, she yells out to me.
what are you doing?

i'm not ready for that pose,
i tell her. in fact i don't know
if i'll ever be able to put my
foot around my head.

the last time i did that i was
still in my mother's belly,
not ready to be born.

she shakes her head and tells me
to go stand in the corner, but
on my head,
which i do with the help
of three people holding me up.

into the cold

a blue sky appears
over the iced
streets and cars, the sheen
of cold
on everything,
the crystal branches,
the icicles
coned
above the windows.
we bundle for it.
gloved
and hatted down.
boots.
off we go, with each other.
into it.
this December blitz
of cold.
hand in mitted hand.
scarfs
around the bloom of
our mouths.
we go.

the price of her lies

her house, a rented place,
had a dark feel to it.
a temporary spot on a folded
map.
not haunted
but cursed in some suburban
way.
as if joy
had never been present.
a burial ground
of secrets. hers and others.
she kept the walls bare,
simple
and clean, devoid of any
imagination or sense
of hope.
a bus stop on the way to
another bus stop.
nothing was hers, someone
else
bought the bed, the chair,
the television.
even the pots and pans
had stickers on them.
she built an altar
for her prayers, but
there was a price to pay
for being here. being a
mistress. and she's still
paying, once more, for
all those she has lied
to and betrayed.

what the world offers

they remove
air, the tubes, the lines,
the tethers of life
that are holding
him here.
but he refuses to leave.
lying there
in cold white sheets,
at peace,
at last, still breathing,
still
waiting on the steps
to be picked
up and taken
to work.
something within him
clings
to whatever this world
offers.
as do we all.

the lather of love

the lather of love.
the cream
of it,
the tender soft stroke
of love.
the meringue
of it.
the pudding, the cake,
the sweetness
of love.
the silk of it.
the icing.
the gentle sway,
the summer breeze
and soft rain
of it.
the delight, the delicacy,
the dance
and wonder of it.
the kiss
and embrace of it.
bring me love.
a plate, a dish,
a cup.
keep it coming.

the whole catasrophe

in the zorba
the greek
he's asked if he has a family,
and responds
by saying, yes, yes,
the children, the house,
the yard,
the goats, the dog,
a life,
a wife, yes, the whole
catastrophe.
and you laugh, everyone
laughs.
it's both sweet, and bittersweet
sad
all at the same time.

nouveau riche

there is rich.
the poor,
the fat middle that holds
most of us,
and then there is the nouveau
riche.
money acquired by theft
or luck,
by death
or lottery, a lighting
strike from
above.
you see it in the cars
they drive, the enormous
house
with chandeliers,
the parties
that scream we've
arrived.
the accumulation of so
much
that glitters and glows,
how it all
quickly appears
and
soon,
the weight is lost,
the knife
does wonders in taking
the years off,
new teeth, a new nose,
hair is grown.
they are different now.
at least on
the outside, but in,
has hardly changed, that
needle of who
they really are
has barely moved.
the mirror hardly knows
them anymore,
but we do.

shangri-la on route 7

she used to talk about
Shangri-La,
a rented room away from her
abusive
husband.
down the busy road,
among the strip malls,
with mattress stores,
and garages,
nestled off the beaten
track
of run down apartments.
tenement shacks. it was
a place
of peace and self indulgence.
a place
where the married
man could come
and not be found
by his bitter wife.
the balcony over the man
made lake,
the tired ducks.
each of them stretched out
on the rented bed.
without a care or regret.
happiness was found.
la dolce vita
she often said.
la dolce vita.

Nota Bene

observe and note well
the averting
of eyes, the said
and unsaid
words
that slip out
in whispers, or
not at all.

pay careful attention
to the
sly ways of another,
the body
language, the folding
of arms,

the distance between
two souls,
entwined,
watch for
the hidden things,
the slight of hand,
the closed doors
where
they keep putting
things away.

bookmark
those pages of her
behavior,
take notes in the margins
to study
who she really is.

life is extremely
precious
and short and there is
very little time
for error.

apples and water

into the late hours
of night
you watch a film,
a documentary, on a woman
who
slowly dies
in an abandoned house in
new Hampshire,
surviving as best she can
on water and apples.
she keeps a journal
for the few months she's
alive.
no lights, no heat, no
contact
with the outside world.
it's moving as she scratches
out into her notebook,
with less and less
strength, her
dying days. the film
is interspersed with
childhood friends, a sister,
a daughter, doctors,
each never knowing what to
do with this woman who
went off the rails
and needed help, but never
got it to the degree
she needed.
sometimes you feel that we've
all been at there
at some point in our lives,
lost and lonely,
and now, at the end,
hardly sixty, she's alone,
a prisoner of her own
mind, in this farmhouse
off the road,
eating apples, sipping
water, biding time.

the asylum

I make a trip to the insane
asylum
to visit a few ex-wives.
they're accepting
visitors this time
of the year.
I bring flowers and a
fruit cake for each.
seems appropriate.
they don't seem too
pleased to see me. oh,
so now you visit, flowers
too? you must have done
something wrong again,
right? slip the fruit
cake through the slot
in the metal door.
there'd better be a hacksaw
in it. they all seem
to say the exact same
things, wriggling around
in their
straight jackets.
bone thin and hair
frayed and gone white.
you never loved me, they
all say, you never accepted
me for who I really am,
that's why I lied
and cheated and deceived
you. I nod and smile,
keeping my cool. well,
just wanted to stop on
by and wish you a merry
Christmas. have a nice
holiday. Guard!
i'm ready.

the marriage apple

my grandmother
used to sit on a small stool
in the kitchen
with a bucket between her knees
and peel apples
for pies.
slowly she'd spin the apple
against the knife.
she said that the letter
the shavings
formed when falling to the floor
would tell you who
you'd marry in this life.
she was often
more wrong than right.

jekyl and hyde

we wish to see the best in everyone.
it's the Christmas spirit,
a strange spell
of peace and love, often so absent
throughout the year.
we wish to
do no harm, write or say no words
that will cause pain,
but it's impossible at times to
not bleed a little,
to rant and rail about what's
gone down.
I believe in Christmas, but in an
all year deal. like church, don't
be good inside and then when
you leave, be who you really are,
not jekyl but hyde.

friends

some friends are not
friends,
just people you once knew and
drifted away from.
but there they are,
you know their past
and they know yours, but
the friendship thing is
nebulous at best.
what are friends to begin
with.
reachable, on your side,
but not always agreeable.
people that send you
Christmas cards?
people that will attend
your funeral and you theirs.
i'm not sure anymore.
they come and go.
they die, they move, they
change into people that
you never really knew.
some friends you don't care
if you ever see again,
and they feel likewise
towards you.

apple picking

I read a poem about apples,
by Frost.

it's not a difficult poem at all.
but still,

I want it to go places it doesn't
go.

I feel the cold, the ladders rungs.
the tree with their
high limbs
still clutching what
can't be reached.

but somehow I want more.
there is too much distance between
me
and the words.

obscure in metaphor. i'm reaching
for what
can't be reached.

answered prayers

I drive by the old church.

it's crowded as usual. the cop car
is out there with his party lights spinning
blue,

he's bundled in the cold
directing cars into the lot
where Christmas trees are sold,

it wasn't that long ago that I was
in there too,

kneeling, praying, trying to coerce
God into doing
the impossible.

she was there as well, phone in her
hand, the burden of guilt and shame
bending her over,
praying for what, I have no
idea. even God

must have been confused,

but in a way, maybe both our prayers
were answered. at least mine was.

set free from a life of pain,
once knowing the truth.

everyone's on hold

i'm on the phone all day.

I've got all six lines tied up
with my
friends,

my frequent caller
telemarketers.

jimmy from the IRS,
apparently I owe nine hundred and
seventy nine dollars,

Sue from social security telling me
that my account has been hacked,

then there's my online
pharmacy,
Ervin Smith in Pakistan,

not to mention the guy at the
car dealership
telling me my warranty has run out,

and then there's google,
and yelp,
helping me with my business listing.

and some guy in Russia that
wants to give me a deal on cleaning
my air vents.

it's a busy day, but I love them
all and wish
each and everyone of them

a happy holiday.

Emily's Bran Muffins

I get a knock at the door,

it's my friend from upstairs, Emily
Dickinson.

are you up, she says, trying to
look through
the peep hole that i'm looking through.

she looks like hell, her hair
pulled back,

her face pale.
she has a sheathe of papers in her
hands.

she seems to be trembling.

oh brother, I say, unlocking the door.
I know she wants more help
with her poems.

I straightened her out on poem
number 712 a while back.

because I could not stop for lunch,
I had a cup of tea, she wrote, but

I convinced her to change tea
to death, and I had a cup of tea to,

he kindly stopped for me.
she thanked me with a plate
of bran muffins,

which were absolutely inedible.

whatcha got Emily, I was just about
ready to watch a game
on tv?

i'm in my boxer shorts and a t-shirt,
she averts her eyes and looks
at the dart board I have on the far wall.

well, she says, I have this poem,
number 254 and i'm sort of stuck,

it starts out,
hope is a thing with feathers
that perches in the soul....

I roll my eyes. whew.

okay, okay, have a seat and read
me what you got so far.

I have a real pen if you don't want
to use that quill thing behind
your ear.

oh no, I prefer the quill, but
thank you. so kind.

beer? I've got a lager
and an ale?

tea is fine, if you have any.

by the way,
what's with the numbering,
how about putting a title
on your poems once in a while.

stop pretending

rarely do you hear the word
sin
anymore, unless
you go to church, and even then
it's hardly
whispered.
it's more about joy
and abundance,
not repenting.
the preaching of prosperity
is the new age
religion.
everyone is good.
the world is good.
smile and the world smiles
with you.
the mega churches of deception.
the Pharisees have won.
the money changers are in the temple.
there's no blood anymore on
the crucifix
no resurrection.
the fire has dimmed, burned
down to a few embers.
there is no brimstone.
no one goes to hell anymore,
how can God be so cruel
as to send anyone to eternal
doom.
and yet.
you're either in or you're
out.
Jesus is either a liar,
an imposter or a lunatic.
or He's the real thing,
as he said, the son of God.
you can straddle the cross
and cherry pick
your faith all you want,
but if you do,
stop going to church,
stop celebrating Christmas
and Easter, stop
pretending. throw away
your Bibles, dust ridden
deep on some forgotten
shelf.

Love of Langston

the story goes
that Langston
while working as busboy
set three poems
beside the plate of a famous
poet of the time.
vachel Lindsay.
and his life changed after
that.
he was known as the busboy
poet.
the color of his skin kept
him out of
movie theaters, the boy scouts
and the y.m.c.a.
but not out of books, which
he devoured.
treasuring his copy of
the leaves of grass.
his poems were simple,
not from lack of intellect
but by choice,
to reach the masses.
forty books
written in his life
to express his joy, his
distress
at the world he was born
into. I have a copy
of Harlem, right here on
my desk.
this busboy poet, a laureate
no less.

the iceberg

I used to call her sugar.
baby.
sweet potato.
sweet petunia.

I was smitten and full
of terms of endearment.

I was going down with the ship.
my own personal titanic.
we didn't hit an iceberg
she was the iceberg,

but I only saw the tip of her.
the cold
jagged tip of who she really
was, the rest was

under water, deadly and cold,
taking this fool and
the ship down with her.

impeachment

I come home from work and the trashcan
is knocked over.
the big bag is ripped wide open
spilling garbage all over the house.

I look over at my dog sitting on the couch
looking out the window.
he turns and looks at me and says
with a shrug, what?

problem?

yes, I tell him, there's trash all
over the house and you did it.
you're supposed to be protecting me,
not destroying the place.

he shakes his head and laughs.
me? i have no idea what you're
talking about. prove it, he says.

the neighbor said she heard you
throwing chicken bones all over
the house.

the mail man too, he said when he
put the mail through the slot, he
heard you ripping open boxes
and bags, digging through the garbage.

hearsay, he says, who are these people?
I don't know them.

I talked to other dogs in the neighbor
hood, and they said, you're always
digging into the trash bags
when they're out on the curb.

it's what you do, who you are.
you are irresponsible and have
no common decency. it's all about you.

nonsense, he says. these dogs are
hardly reliable. mutts, all of them except
for that Russian wolfhound.
I wouldn't know them if I saw them and
most of them are flea bitten mongrels
anyway.

But I just saw you with my own eyes
in the yard the other day
playing with them.

whatever, he says, taking a toothpick
out of his mouth.

well, this is the last time.
i'm done with your narcissistic
behavior.
I'm impeaching you.
you're going down buddy.

oh, i'm scared, he says,
what are you going to do, get rid
of me? ha. i'm a dog.
you can't impeach a dog.
i'm your best friend.

i'll see you at the trial.
impeach me, just try and put
me in the pound. ha. who cares.

and by the way, do you mind
filling up my water bowl,
that big gold
one in the kitchen.

you're killing me with all
this salt. my head's about to
blow up.

he circles three times
on the back of the couch
to go to sleep, his fat belly
full of garbage.
there's a gnawed rib bone
beside him and an empty can
of tuna.

i should have said that

sometimes you can't find the right
words to say,

but you think of them while lying in
bed that night,

or the next day.
dammit you say to yourself, I should
have said this or that,

I would have really made my point then.
but it's too late,

there's no going back, the moment
has passed.

but you're ready, in case there's
a next time.

no doubt about that.

spare tire

I put the spare tire
on.

it'll do, get me to where I need
to go.

we make do.
the spare tires. spare love.

a snack
to see you through.

we can't always wait, we have
to get to point
B

from point A.

it's life.

domestic life

i start the day with a boiled
egg
coffee
and the paper
the radio on.
the chair pulled out
from the table.
the dog
wagging her tail
at another dog
outside
the window.
i adjust my tie, put
the dishes in the sink
then grab my
briefcase.
i kiss the wife
goodbye. she's still
asleep.
off i go,
see you tonight i tell
her.
have a good day,
she pulls away her sleeping
mask and sighs.
why'd you wake
me up? it's not even
nine.

her stethoscope

she's a good doctor.

makes house calls. very kind
and compassionate.

smart as the proverbial whip.
her patients
adore her.

she knows them all by name.
she includes
them
in her life.

takes the time to listen.

she's a good doctor.
i admire her bedside manner.

her stethoscope upon
my skin.

her lips upon mine,

as she weighs my intentions,

making my blood pressure

rise.

still unhappy

i go out to scrape the ice
off the windshield.

then come back in. it takes
almost thirty seconds.

hardly worth the effort, it
would have melted
in the soft
winter sun and wind.

she comes down the stairs and
confronts me.
why didn't you do my car too?

my married boyfriend would have
done it,
but not you?

i go back out, and with my
hand swipe at the melt of ice
on her window, then come back
in.

she's still unhappy. even now.
years later.
still unhappy.

the ice never melts for some.

hop on board

I let her climb aboard.
hop on I tell her,
her feet in the mud,
the quagmire of her
life holding her down.
go on, jump, get on
my back I say cheerfully,
I'll take you there.
i'm strong enough.
and so she does, and I
live to regret it
as she pulls me
down and we both fall
into her sick world,
crawling in the muck.

the truth of years

from a distance
it's hard to tell a diamond
in the road
from a shard
of broken glass.
and so it is with us,
from a distance,
we all look better
in the camera,
posed or unposed.
the light and shadows
hiding what's
real, the truth of years.

the laughing girl

it's hard to imagine
why
this baby is laughing. but
she is.
curled in the arms
of her young mother.
her bright pink face
is aglow
with a smile,
a twinkle in her new
blue eyes.
she has found the secret
of life
and hardly knows what
life is.
if only it would go on.
this brightness, this
joy, this sudden bloom
of happiness.

to the island

i swim out
to the island. stripping
down
my clothes,
leaving everything i own
behind
on the dry shore.
leaving what i thought was
real,
what wasn't love
behind.
i kick, i throw one arm
over the other,
effortlessly
through the cold water.
it's not far,
a mile or so.
I've done it in my sleep
on many nights,
deep in dream, i can do
it now,
awake.
it's no longer that hard.

love in early spring

I love you I told her
as I held
her hand
across the table,
in early spring,
the trees were beginning
to go green, the sun
at last
a warm beacon
upon us in the courtyard.
but she didn't
hear me.
she was staring into her
phone, and said
hold that thought,
I need to text
this person back,
he's so funny. just
an old friend, not
to worry.

dear john

i ball up an old letter
in my hand
and toss it
towards
the can, across the room
in the corner.
it rims out,
onto the floor.
i print off another letter
and make
the same motion.
this one goes in.
swish.
i have plenty of letters
more.
there seems to be no end
to the tear
stained
break ups, i'm sure in
time
i'll open more.

five elephants

there used to about five
elephants in
the room
when the ex lived here.
they took up a lot of space.
funny how
they're gone now,
once she was booted out.
all of them have vanished
without a trace.

left behind

an earring left
behind, a book,
a shoe, a scarf, a pen.
small
things
forgotten, never to
be returned.
some of life gets
lost
in the shuffle
of being here, then
being gone.
we take with us so much,
but leave
small things,
behind.

another stocking

holidays can be hell.

let's make the clear from the jump.
the memories of past
loves.

the estranged family.
what used to be, what was.

each ringing of the bell, another
reminder
of yesterdays.

of trouble, or good.

it's hard to jump start your
life
and start over.

to get a new set of memories.
but you do.

you always do. you pin a new
stocking
to the mantle

with a new name, a new love.

in her own world

asleep, i let her sleep.
stretched
cat like against the snow
bank
of sheets.
the white drifts of pillows
beneath her hair.
i pulled the blankets
over her and eased out,
tip toeing down the stairs.
she was in her own world.
lost in some dream.
which is how she was all
the time, even when awake.

almost

you almost call,
almost text, or e mail.
your fingers
itch,
almost pulling the trigger
to just say hello,
how are you,
let's get together and put
the past behind us.
I miss you. but you don't.
you put the emotional
gun back into the holster
and ride out of town.
another sun rises, another
sun goes down.

the coffee shop gathering

the group, retired. grey.
a chatty
group
of regulars at the coffee shop
sit
around the big
table.
coats off, on their second
cup
of coffee. deep in conversation,
talking loudly
about the news,
the kids, dogs,
the weather.
they have no where to be
but here today.
they're done, for the most part.
the struggle over.
it's this now.
this gathering. this warm
embrace
of friends.

half in half out

half in half out.

we straddle the day,
the puddles,

work, and ice.
the curb.

we avoid, we engage. we
stir it up

or ignore. we swim
though a thick

pond of emotions,
old thoughts,
new ideas.

we're half in, half
out,

our minds are elsewhere
as we go
through

the motions of living,
unliving.

we leave so much unsaid,
undone.

there's not enough, or
too much time
in the day.

a trip to the mall

i take a stroll through the mall,
not to buy anything, but to just see
the panic in everyone's
eyes

as they walk, zombie like,
with a long list of gifts to buy.

their hands tremble as they zig zag
from store to store,
up and down the escalators.

ahhhh, those were the days.
staring into jewelry cases.
looking at gloves and trinkets.
going into Victoria secrets,
with no clue
as to what size.

people are sweating holding
their hearts,
resting on benches in their thick
coats,
red faced

eating pretzels and drinking
cokes while Christmas muzak
chimes overhead.

it's a madhouse. it's Saint E's.
it's Bellview
on steroids. it's an asylum
of holiday dread

and the clock is ticking
mercilessly.

i take a victory lap
around then button
up my coat
and head home.

i feel good about things

screws are loose.
the floors creak.

the tiles are flapping in the wind.
shingles are
falling
off their hinges.

the gate's open,
the dog
is running free.

I see rust and mud,
nothing green. I got
a leaky faucet.

the toilet won't stop
running.

a bulb just blew.

the ice box won't freeze.

i see the dead tree,
leafless
in the yard,

a bent swing, rocking
softly
in the breeze.

the door won't close.
the pipes
are choking.

she left a note on the counter
saying
i'm done, i'm gone,
don't come looking
for me.

but despite all that, I
feel pretty good about things.

Must love Dogs

they ask so much, these women
on the dating sites.

have a job,
have a car. a boat,
a house, don't live too far.

be kind, be gentle.
be generous.
must love dogs.

no small children, please.

you must love the beach, and books.
love to cuddle,

love to take walks
and feed bread to the ducks.

you must be acquitted of all charges
and have teeth.

be clean, be sober, be rich.
be wonderful.
be happy.

be real and be who you are,
but without medications.

it's hard to live up to their
standards these days.

sleepless nights

there are some nights
when you can't sleep. there's not
a drowsy bone
in your body.
you are stone cold sober
and awake.
thoughts rumble through
your mind.
a freight train of yesterdays,
bang against the rails.
the wind blows outside.
trees bend and speak
loud sighs.
there is nothing you can do,
but let it pass,
to lay there and let
the night move on. these
waves of rumination,
this dark energy from someone
that you know,
holding on to your heart
and mind.
at last when morning arrives,
the night will go.

southern comfort

he found
early morning comfort
in the pint
of amber
southern comfort, first
in line
at the drive-thru
package store, his
money, grasped
in his shaking hand.
the sun peeking
up over
the rooftops of town.
we watched him,
his car idling,
with our books and bags
at the bus
stop, and waved
our hand,
wondering what time
he'd be home.

all those widows

she's a widow.
among widows although not all
have
husbands that have passed on.

many are still here, in the other
room,
across town
with other women,

living lives separately,
no longer the loyal groom.

the widows shop. they buy, they
walk.
they go about their days
alone,
the children grown.

in time they will stray, as the unloved
often do.

becoming widows, much too soon.

the flour moon

the moon a bowl
of flour

spilled upon a sky
without stars.

the silken clouds are reluctant
to part
and show us more.

but we look just the same,
upwards

to what we cannot touch,
cannot have.

it's just out of reach,
just as things here are.

don't write that

there's always a censor.
a mother or father
banging at the door,
asking
what are you doing what are
you reading
what are you writing
where are you going
and with who.
it starts young and never
truly ends.
the censorship stays with
you
until the day you die.
the world.
schools, the government.
society. the pope.
how could you possibly
say that and make others
angry.
quit telling the truth
and be like us. lie.
don't
think that, or imagine
such things.
get yourself in order.
young man, get in line.
walk the line, keep on
the straight and narrow
path. we don't need
any misfits around here.
conform, boy, or else.
hold your tongue.
don't think, don't paint,
don't write,
don't create.
don't you dare think
outside the box. stay in
it. think small, be who
we want you to be,
not who you are. keep those
ideas to yourself,
stifle your imagination,
like we do.
represses or pay the fine.

she's somewhere, but not here

I spin the globe
with my eyes closed and
place my finger
on it, getting it to stop.

this is where i'll go.
maybe.

Australia. nah, I don't think
so.

I try again. Nairobi. umm,
no.
once more.
Moscow. nyet.

I spin it hard this time.
Fiji.

okay, close. again.
then san diego.

I write that down. good weather,
the ocean.
it's a possibility.

again, Seattle. hmmm.
it could happen,

but for the first time I begin
to think
of where next.

to get out of this place.
away from these memories.
to start anew.

start fresh. there's nothing,
no one holding me
down, keeping me here.

why not, pack the bags and
hit the road.

she's waiting for me,
somewhere, but it's not here.

false beliefs

the new age
junk
is everywhere. think positive,
believe
the universe has your back.
the law of attraction,
ask and you'll receive,
the secret.
the mumbo jumbo of eckharte tolle
and other scribes.
you want a car, think it,
you want love,
think it.
money, a horse, a fur coat,
or diamond,
unclog your sink?
what's your vibration?
good lord.
just think it, write it down
and voila, poof,
it appears
out of nowhere.
they've watered down
the bible and Christ into
a thin
tasteless soup.
the crazy course in miracles
transcribed by
automatic writing.
straightening out all of
Jesus's mistakes.
the cult
of false belief
that you are God.
ah, how hard the devil
works
with his tarot cards
and Ouija boards, crystals,
and astrology. mixing
in half truths, magical
thinking, make believe.
the new age
junk is everywhere, a
deviish wolf disguised
as a sheep.

downsizing

she downsizes
after her husband dies,

and moves into a high rise
with a door man.

a front desk
elevators that will take her
up to the 12th
floor.

she has a spot in the garage. B 2

she has a view of other buildings.
the highway.
the squared set
of trees

in the courtyard, now
her home.

there is less room, so she
picks and chooses
what to bring,
or leave behind.

there's no need anymore
for so much,
she's eating for one,
sleeping
for one, life has been

pared down to one,
from two.

we need things

the oven does its job
without asking,
the micro wave, the fridge,
the sink,
the disposal.
the washer and dryer,
each
with a push of a button
goes on
about their business of
doing what they
were made to do.
no stress involved,
no bickering,
no wondering what tomorrow
may bring
or not bring, just
a gentle nudge is all
they need
to get on with their day,
the push of a button.
the twist of a handle.
the twist of a dial,
but we're different.
we need things, like
love.

this time last year

this time last year,

my life was going down the drain,
having caught
my lovely bride once more

with her married boyfriend
at the park.

caught her in a slew of daily
lies.

caught her emails, her texts,
her calls.

her everything. her mask slipped,
the devil in disguise.

sherlock holmes had nothing on me.

heartbreaking. distressing.
but
necessary

to get me out of it. it's been
a long road

of ruminating, of healing,
of tossing and turning,

conjuring acts of revenge,
or wishing bad karma

to strike them both down.
it was crazy town for quite a
while.

but now that apathy has set
in, i wish them well. i hope
he finally leaves

his long suffering wife
and her, her long suffering
ex husband
and that they end up together.

that they sail away on his big
blue boat
and live and love

happily ever after.
they truly deserve one another.

he's a gambling man

my dad
loves the lottery. buying
the cards
in the big machines in front of
the grocery store.
he pops in twenty dollar
bills
like nothing.
he's won some, lost
most.
his eyes are so bad though,
that he has to trust
someone else to read the numbers.
he did hit it big once,
for a hundred and fifty thousand,
which he tried
to hide.
i saw his picture though
online,
holding up the big check,
unsmiling, a worried look
on his face, wondering
if all nine of his children
would find out
over time.
i asked him what he would
do with all the dough,
a trip, a cruise
maybe a new Cadillac, he said
no.
he was going to get the squeak
fixed in his twenty
year old washing machine,
the rest of the money
went back
to from where it came.
into the machines in front
of the store.
pffff, there goes the inheritance.

i'll bring a duck

they're having another Christmas
party.

I groan.
oh no.

what to wear, what to bring,
who to bring.

what if it snows
and i'm stuck there.

will there be chit chat.
small talk.

a lot of blabbing, if so,
I might need
to start drinking, now.

a week early.

i'm sure the usual suspects
will arrive

with scalloped potatoes,
rum cakes
and mince meat pies.

I got nothing. maybe i'll
bring a duck.

I just hit one the other
day
on the road,
he's recuperating in my
bathtub.

sugar in the morning

it can't be sugar all the time.

there has to be
some break, some down
time
in between all that sugar.

a little salt, a little
cinnamon,
a dash
of pepper,

or sage, or thyme.
there has to be some spice.

what would life be with
sugar all the time,

in the morning, noon,
and night,

well, actually, now
that I think of it,
that
would be quite
nice.

sloe gin and love

once you get sick
on something like sloe gin,
you never drink
it again.
no matter how old you get,
you can't even smell
the stuff
without cringing
and gagging.
even though it happened
under the grand stands
at the old
high school and you were
only eighteen.
that sickness will haunt
you for the rest of your
life.
just the words. sloe gin
will send you
running to the bathroom
for a hug
around the porcelain
chamber.
never, never will sloe
gin, touch your lips
again.
shame it doesn't work
for love gone sour too.

the big fat turkey

I see the neighbor rolling
home
a giant frozen
butterball turkey.
it's too big and heavy
to carry,
so he rolls it down the street
from the store.
guests? I ask him,
as I carry in my chicken
tenders
from the local fast food
restaurant.
yes, he says.
half of new jersey is coming
for the holidays.
had to get a big one.
and you?
table for one, I tell him.
might have
a drumstick.

the dating profile

they all say,
love to laugh, low
maintenance,
easy going,
love the beach.
the girl next door.
fit and fun.
smart cookies each
and every one.
ambitious, bright,
successful.
love to sail,
love to read, love
to sing.
to write, to eat
and drink.
love to make love.
love to snuggle.
movies, theater.
i'm your favorite
dream.
the pictures show
a smiling face.
a happy face.
a healthy face.
against the backdrop
of the sea,
of a mountain range.
the blue sky.
they are bursting
with joy.
but you never see
the small print
at the bottom,
below the distracting
bikini picture.
you don't see what
reads between the lines.
dangerous, crazy
as a loon.
on lithium, just
released from a mental
institution where I
went to mend.
I will eat your
soul alive.

we kept driving

it was a small
town
we drove through.
people waved.
the Christmas lights were
up.
kids were in the park,
on swings.
the church bells rang
and rang.
in the distance you could
see the blue ridge
mountains.
rising into the sky.
dogs were running free.
it was a town off
a post card,
or a set in a hall mark movie.
it looked like
a place you could fall
in love
get married, live
a life in peace. grow
old in each other's arms.
four lights, lit
green and
we kept driving.

leopards and zebras

a zebra doesn't change it's
stripes.

a leopard doesn't lose it's spots.

etc. etc.
she says,

these people, wagging her finger,
are sick.

but it's not like they have the measles
or the mumps
and can
get over it.

no. lying is who they are.
cheating.
betrayal. confusion.
utter lack of morals.
there's never a sincere apology
for all the wrongs
they do.

wolves in sheep's clothing.

they are rotten to the core.
this is who they are.
they can't be helped or changed.

so my advice to you, young man
is to shove
her out the door.

what you're looking for

it takes a while, some years,
decades perhaps
for you to realize that the rich
are no happier
than the poor.
that it's all a game.
a wash.
they just hide it better
behind
the house, the car,
the girl.
while the poor find
a way to soothe the pain,
with drink
or pills,
or whores.
it takes time to understand
the game.
that you what you really need,
what will make you happy,
has nothing to do
what you've been looking
for.

the grandfather clock

there used to be a grandfather
clock
in my great grandmother's house
in philly.

it never moved, never chimed,
but she had a stick
to make the door open
make the bird come out and sing.

I remember her brown crepe skin,
her olive
eyes, and silver hair. she was
no bigger than a bird herself.

an exile from somewhere
in north Italy,
coming through the harbor
into ellis island.

she had chickens in her dirt yard
and scrubbed the stone porch
with a brush
each morning. all cliché, but true.

the place had a smell all its own.
musty, like old scrolls,
ancient linens, and books
that were no longer opened.

it was
always warm, there was
always something on the stove.

she lived until 102.
I can still see her, her hands,
her shoes,
her long black dresses.
I can hear her voice.

never in English, just Italian
from start to finish.

the law of gravity

i don't want to obey
but i do.
i'd like to float
above the ground or fly,
but
the law of gravity
insists on total obedience.
there is no
other choice.
when you fall,
you fall. such is life.
of course you get up again,
but over time,
you get the picture
you see who
is the boss of you.

the shopping spree

i see my therapist
at the liquor store pushing a shopping
cart.

she's moving slowly through
the aisles
putting bottles into her basket.

vodka, rum. wine. gin.

i finally catch up to her and say
hey.

she looks at her cart and then
at me.
oh, she says, fancy
meeting you here.

how are you?
much better i tell her, showing
her my green bottle
of Tanqueray. then my ringless
finger.

and you?

she laughs, good for you,
and points at
her cart.

it's been a tough year, I've had
a lot of crazy patients
this year,

no offense,
none taken, i tell her.

but
lately with the holidays
and all, everyone is completely
off their rocker.

family issues and all that bs.

yup, i say. well, nice to see you.
i might need a tune up
after the holidays.

you got it, she says. just give
me a call. I got a line out
the door these days.

do you know where the scotch is?

the avocado

I buy an avocado
and stand at the kitchen counter
and laugh.

I cut the seed out
and scoop
up the rest onto the plate.

this simple green black
avocado

tells me everything.

the walls were thin

when I lived in an apartment.
the walls were thin.

thin enough that you heard nearly
everything.

the flushing of a toilet.
the slamming of a door.

people making love, the symphony
of bed springs.

you heard the arguing.
the threats, the curses.

babies crying.
you heard dishes breaking.

hearts breaking.
you heard the silence when
all was well.

you heard the television,
the radios,

Christmas carols, or led
zeppelin turned up

vibrating the pictures on the wall.

you listened to the lives
around you,
above and below you.

an ongoing play off broadway.

it seemed you knew everything
about them,
but would pass them in the hall
as if you knew nothing.

go on, get up

you get over it.

you always do. it's what you do best.
surviving.

thriving after the worst.
it's an amazing
thing,

to get up once more from the canvas.
wipe the sweat and tears
from your face.

shake off the madness of others
and go on.

go on with your life, go on with
the new day,

the bright lights
of night.

towards the end

the light closes in
like
fog,
the eyes blurred,
a whisper on soft paws.
inching
forward.
the brightness of youth
is frayed,
the colors
fade,
our senses diminished
with each
new
day.
the light closes in
slowly,
gently.
it takes our hand
and walks us
towards the end.

christmas movies

i binge on some xmas
movies, all snuggled up
in my chilly basement
with the lights on the tree
blinking softly.

miracle on 34th street.
it's a wonderful life.
elf.
bad santa.

i love them all, know the words.

i want to reach through
the screen and grab
donna reed by the hand

and ask her to marry me.
plant a big fat kiss on her
tender lips,
but i don't because

i'd sprain my nose when
my face would hit the glass.

i want to lasso the moon for her.
have nine children
with her.

i want to carry her across
that mythical threshold.

i adore her.

it's not good to drink while
watching these things.

christmas shopping anxiety

I finally finish
all of my Christmas shopping.

it was killing me. the stress,
the worry.

eleven minutes online. it was brutal
typing in all
those little numbers.
I wipe the sweat off my
brow,

put my credit card back into my
wallet

and sit back with a cup of eggnog.
it's a relief to get that out of the way.

time to think about valentine's day
now.

no cookie

this won't hurt a bit,
she says,
sticking a needle in my arm.
a flu shot.
and she's right, I don't feel
even a pinch.
it surprises me,
I didn't even have time
to grit my teeth
and flinch.
same goes for the woman who
takes my
blood in the lab,
three floors below.
three vials and she's done.
lickity split.
I hardly feel the sliding
of the needle
into my fat vein.
but no cookie. so i'm very
disappointed.

the client network

I wake up one morning and
I realize how my network of clients have
diminished.

disappeared, vanished, gone south.
but then I think about when I met
them.

did work for them on a regular basis
in their beautiful homes.

twenty years ago, or more. when
they were fifty or forty, or even
sixty.

and now, well, everyone has grown old.
and off they've gone

to greener pastures, to beaches,
mountains,
senior homes.

and some, are resting peacefully
underground.

off the wagon

whenever you drink too much,
and you wake
up with a headache, a body ache,
and cotton mouth
you promise yourself that you'll
never drink again, at least not
to that level of inebriation.
but a few weeks go by, a month
or two, and you've healed
from your overindulgence and you
say, what the hell, why not have
that third martini, why not,
betty just had her third. so
you do, and off you go.
the same holds true for love, I
guess. after it ends and you've
lost weight, and you're sick
to your stomach, grieving the loss
of someone important in
your life, you tell yourself,
that's it. this love hangover
stinks, never again will I fall
in love. but after a few weeks,
well, off the wagon you go.
and you're writing love poems
to someone you hardly know.

new years resolutions

I start my new years resolutions list
early this year.

1 don't date crazy women.

2 eat more fiber

3 drink more water

4 take a vacation

5 don't buy any more shoes.

6 stop watching the news.

7 pet a dog (someone else's)

8 eat an apple.

9 clean out the refrigerator

10 move to france or Italy.

11 fall in love.

12 don't date crazy women (whoops, already said that)

13 pray more

14 speak less, listen more

15 forgive as best you can, but never forget.

16 read more

17 write more.

18 laugh and don't look back!

neva

she's ninety four,
my poetry
instructor. she's gold.
she's a river
of creativity.
new poems fall from her pen
so easily.
she introduced me to larkin
and plath.
to strand.
to sexton. the list is long
and I still read
each and every one.
seeking a flicker
of inspiration to work
on my own.
I hear her voice on the phone,
neva
that familiar pitch.
the teaching tone.
still at it.
still strong.

it's all about me

I love the holidays
she used to say. Christmas
is my time
of year.

but of course it was, she got
all that supply
and attention

she desperately needs.
the gifts, the cards,
the love notes and photos

pinned to that heart
carved into a tree.

Christmas, she said,
is wonderful, because it's
all about me.

everybody forgives and
forgets who I am for a little
while.

my secret life is safe
and I can pretend to be who
they want
me to be.

filing things away

I spend the day filing.

paperwork.

so much accumulates. bills,
cards and letters.

notices.
it's not unlike the leaves outside
the window
forever falling,

draping the lawn in color,
unraked.

but inside, we put things away.

the electric bill,
the water, the gas.
credit cards, reminders of
what needs to be paid.

then there's
the marriage certificate,
the divorce degree.

a Christmas card. a valentine's
greeting.

a photo of her and me.
the circular file is nearby.

just weather

a wild
brush of wind scurries leaves
into a circle
rising.
an infinitely small
tornado
of sorts, that goes nowhere.
such as it is
with cross words
spoken and received.
we twirl
in that cool wind,
we think and overthink
what it all could mean,
and then, hopefully,
we let go.
it's truly nothing to
worry about,
weather, just weather,
which will end.

as she lay dying

as my mother lay dying.

unable to uncurl her legs,
her spine, her
brown
eyes flickered.

it was hard to tell what remained
inside, but

we spoke to her as if she
heard
and understood every word
we said.

we talked of love, of being grateful.
we cried.

she held on, she held on.
tearless
and defiant.

always thinking that tomorrow
she'll work
her way out of this.

the mood fits mine

the tin roof of sky
has no
shine.
there is no sun,
no translucent moon
peering between the stiff
sheets
of clouds.
it's an unmovable canvas.
a twist
of white and grey,
an ungodly
cold vine.
but it's okay, for now.
the mood
fits mine.

wall paper

i get a letter in the mail.

tear stained, as usual. there's blood
on it too.

a ring of coffee in one corner.

the words are scrambled, smudged,
written in haste with a heavy
hand.

it's a long letter, ten pages.
heartfelt and mostly true.

i read it a few times then paste it to
the wall, next to all the other letters.

at some point i'm going to need another
room, or stop
getting mail.

the mixing bowl

it's a long drive.

life is a long drive down a lot of
highways.
back roads.

rough roads.
unpaved roads.

from an aerial view the world
looks like
a plate of spaghetti.

noodles
tossed down
in a random mix of dead ends,
of stops and go's.

all roads do not lead to rome
anymore.

they lead
to the mall, the shopping center,
the beauty parlor,
the bars,
then circle back
to home.

indigestion

I used to be able to eat
bar food.

loaded potato skins, full
of sour
cream and bacon, chives,
then wash it down
with beer.

what exactly are chives?

calamari, onion rings, fries.
sliders. fish tacos, god help me.

what kind of fish is that?

all the greasy things
tossed around
on a black skillet out of sight.

but now, I cringe.
where's the crab in the crab dip.

why is this so salty?

you call these chicken wings?
why is the plate so hot,

is there anything here not heated
up in a microwave?
what's with another bowl
of tater tots.

it makes you long for the home cooked
meal.
the stove.

leaning over
the hot oven, taking a peek
inside

for what takes longer than
ten minutes to make, or bake.

bring me a head of lettuce, please,
and let's start there.

happy holidays

plans for the holidays,
my neighbor asks in a neighborly
way.
oh, yeah, i tell him.
nodding enthusiastically.
i've got a lot of friends to see,
relatives,
kids, cousins, you name it.
so much shopping left to do.
which i love, by the way.
i'll be travelling, on the road.
hope the weather holds out.
i'm suddenly john candy
in trains planes and automobiles.
great, great, he says.
he looks at me for a second, i
can tell he knows i'm lying
like a Persian rug, and on
Christmas eve his wife will
leave a plate of food for me
at the door and nice card saying
how much they like me.
come on over, if you'd like.

the re gift

i get the giant tin of inedible
cookies
from my dad.
a big bright red tin from
swiss colony.
each year, it comes. not quiet
fruit cake,
but still.
every cookie seems stale,
like they were baked
ten years ago
by bored elves.
i don't even break open
the seal.
i put my finger to my chin
and wonder
who in the world can i regift
this to.

horrible song, but it fits

i had a party about fifteen years ago.
the joint was jumping.
the stereo, yes, the stereo was up as
loud as it would go.
food galore, the place was packed with
friends, new and old.
drinks, wine, beer, a stacked bar.
the martinis overflowed. there was
dancing, mingling, kissing. crazy talk.
even a few shenanigans going on
behind closed doors.
it went on into the wee hours of the
morning. the cops only came twice.
it was a hell of a bash.
a nice way to end the year.
ah, those were the days, my friend.
i wished they'd never end. etc.
horrible song, but fits.

i see a red door

a slew of books arrive
as I paint my door red again,
not the brown red
that the board said it must be,
but a Christmas red,
one that complements my
newly purchased wreathe.
I know i'll be reprimanded
at some point
by the ghouls who patrol
the hood.
but let's see how long it
takes.
for now I have new books
to read,
and miles to go before
I sleep.

lost in the woods

I get lost in the woods,
but find my way out. I've taken a trail
that becomes
no trail
the leaves and branches,
the mud
and ice have dissolved the path into
nothing.
but I keep going.
I see the sun over there,
the lake,
I see a plane in the sky.
I have until sunset to get out.
i'll push through and get to the other
side.
I always do.

joey

I see my friend Joey
on the street, he's a mysterious
kind of guy.
always in black, glum
is the word that best describes him.
hello darkness,
my old friend, I say to him.
hey, he says,
pulling his long black coat
up to his chin.
what's up, I say.
nothing, he says. same old.
i'm going through some stuff right
now.
I nod.
woman? work? what is it.
my mother, he says, and yes.
a woman and work too.
he shows me his left hand, there's
a band of gold on his finger.
you didn't, I say.
yup, he says. vegas one night.
I can see the bags under his eyes.
he's slouching more than usual.
he's lenny bruce in the rain.
he's dragging like
he's got a cinder block tied
to his ankle.
it'll be okay, I tell him, putting
my hand on his shoulder.
you'll see.
I don't know he says.
i'm tempted to jump off the Brooklyn
bridge.
I ignore that and think about how
cold the east river would be this
time of the year.
grab lunch, I ask him. nah,
he says.
I've got an appointment with
my lawyer,
then I need to see a guy about
having a tattoo removed.
okay, okay, I tell him. maybe
another day.

drift away

you get a call, but you're
sleeping, so
you call
back the next day.
nothing.
no text. no message.
nothing.
you sigh
and go on about your life.
it's hard for people
to talk
to one another. it never
goes well.
so much to say that is never
said.
so silence suits
them better.
why bother talking,
why try to work things
out, make peace,
when it's easier to just
be silent,
and drift away.

tombstone bacon

low on nitrates,

I pick up a slab of bacon. thick cut.
maple.

so many bacons to choose from.
biodegradable bacon?

fat free bacon? organic bacon
from
well cared for pigs. pigs with names.
educated pigs.
ivy league bovine.

the bacon is
thin cut. butcher style.
home style. the family package
with fifty slices

for those long holiday visits.

none of it good for you.
they should put a picture of a heart
on the package.

every artery clogged to the max.

a photo of a man on a stretcher
clutching his heart.

there should be a tombstone
on the front with scrambled eggs

and hazel serving it, saying
there you go
Mr. B.

lost in her fun house

her sister told me
once, tried to warn me
with a worried face,

she's a rollercoaster
of a woman.

thrills and chills which each
rattling, screeching
turn

of the car, down, up,
the fear
and shrieks
will be endless.

this is how she rolls.

she'll exhaust you, and it
won't be fun.

I sort of saw that, but
what I didn't see

was the fun house,
with the false floors, the warped
mirrors,
the hidden
trap doors
clowns in every
dark corner with maniacal
laughs.

a mental institution
where you pay dearly at
the door.

patient with the world

sound asleep at ten.

your new routine has set in.
the phone doused.
the lights
dimmed.

these long days off have you
walking
the boards.

uneasy. pacing.
reading too many books,
writing too many
sad poems.

thoroughly bored
with television, the news.
the paper.

you've been patient with
the world.
as it has with you.

time to escape, become whole
again,
become new.

down route 50

we used to drive
to the eastern shore
through Maryland,
out past Annapolis,
onward to Cambridge
and Berlin,
we'd take a long
day, starting with
the rising sun
and linger
at the stands
along the way.
cukes and melons,
tomatoes,
corn
by the bushels. but
the road is different now.
few billboards.
less dives, less mom
and mom
places
to grab a crab sandwich,
a beer. or to gas up. nobody
asking,
where you from, hon?
the landscape
has changed.
the small towns have become
retirement
stops
for people our age.
gentrified.
the poor villages
once full of fisherman
and shacks,
are monied now.
the houses painted, the yards
squared with iron
fences and flowers.
and when we arrive
at the ocean. straight on
route fifty,
it's a canyon of high
rises.
a six lane highway has
replaced
the narrow road
that ran along the shore.
it's not what it used to be.
nothing really is.
not even us.

always unhappy

you can't please everyone
all the time, i think Abraham Lincoln
said that.
and sometimes
nobody's happy.
there's not a word you can say
to put a smile
on their face.
no money, no gifts, no apologies,
they are stuck
in a bad mood forever,
and you just best
be on your way. once that
well is poisoned.
no need to keep pulling
up the bucket.

i'll be back to work in no time

i go down to the shelter to ladle
soup
and see my friend
jake
the snake.
he's in the corner, about half the size
of the last time
i saw him.
stitches in his head
where they removed a brain
tumor. there's a cigarette
in his hand,
and a hidden can of beer
in his lap.
he's in a wheel chair
being pushed by a young nurse.
meet my new girlfriend
he laughs,
and points behind him.
she smiles, but says nothing.
clam chowder today, he says.
grab a bowl.
and some crackers. it's all
paid for. it's free.
no charge.
get a big bowl.
i'll be out of here before
you know it.
back to work. don't worry
about me.

two out of two doctors

the first therapist had it right.
she nailed
it
within twenty minutes of an hour
session.

she wrung out her hand, her wrist
over worked
from writing on her long yellow
pad.

then she stopped and looked me in
the eyes and said,

it'll never work, she's completely
out of her mind.
this is who she is. stop now, or
this is going to be your life.

I took the message home. which
made it worse. I told her i'd
try a new therapist, someone with
a different point of view.
someone with a more forgiving
and lenient point of view.

it took the second one
a little longer,
a few months, but then she
stopped me in mid

and said
the exact same thing. get out,
get out while the getting's good.
this is who she is. she'll never
change. this misery you have
endured with her,

this crazy
world you live in, this
will be your life.

a loose thread

we think it's just a single
thread,
a loose
strand of fabric,
caught in the dim llght.
so we pull at it. we yank,
we quietly unravel our
lives,
a single thread,
unwinding, revealing
what lies out of sight.

some days are like that

I rearrange some furniture.
a chair,
a lamp, a vase.

I go the shelves
to the books, pulling some out,
putting new ones
in.

I discuss the weather with a neighbor.
we both
look up to the sky
saying little that will
change
anything.

I put a pot of coffee on.
make the bed.
carry laundry into the basement.

I take a bath.
I stare into my phone for a minute
or two,

then click it off.

there's still a lot of day light
left.

some days are like that.