Men

when I see the aged men
in long coats,
the cross hatched stitches
of life and stress
upon their faces,
grey and smoking, legs crossed
on the benches in
central park, glancing at the young
women running by, I can't help
but think that
it's a blessing and a curse,
this drive,
this sensuality
that appears
in early boyhood, and goes on
into the years,
even now, hardly a day
passes without
giving it thought. does
the world
truly revolve around this?
there's a strange almost
insatiable
urge
to be in love, to have
intimacy.
men wear it on their sleeves,
it's in their eyes,
it's coded in the language
of their smile.
it's primitive in a way,
a craving, an appetite
for the opposite.
you wonder when, or if it
will ever wane.

black and white

nothing is black or white,
despite
the notion that it could be.

so much of life is between
the lines.

the small print of us.

all are not
evil, or good, just human.

there are shades of light.
swipes of black, or shadow.

but if love appears,
a glorious rainbow
of color makes so much doubt,

so much of the darkness
disappear,
and turn to white.

but no more, please

we used to fight a lot.
bicker all the time,
then there'd be sulking

and the silent treatment.

i'd come home from work
and she'd be happy
for a while, but
the house would be a mess.

I was hungry, she was hungry.
she wanted to go for a walk,
or sit on the couch
and stare out the window
at the swaying trees.

she wouldn't leave me alone,
always pulling at the chain.
needing constant attention,
always in my lap
when I tried to read or
write a poem.

how she'd sit up and beg.

she wanted to watch tv
together, or curl up next
to me in bed,
pulling at the blankets
and sheets. taking my
favorite pillow for her own.

she drooled a lot too.
and had fleas, and would drag
things into the house

that were disgusting.
her barking was endless.
each trip to the vet would
empty my wallet.
she was a great dog, I miss
her,
but no more, please.

no christmas card this year

I used to get more Christmas
cards
than I did this year.

the box was full of red envelopes
with little
santa claus stamps
stuck on the corner.

I go through the list
to see who has dissed me in such

a despicable way
this holiday season.

ex wives ex girlfriends.
siblings. not a peep out of any
of them. not a card, or a cookie
baked.

the ex in-laws, nada.
the sister, nothing.
the son, the brother in law.
zippo.

and I was almost friends with
these people.

in the past all the cards were
signed, with love and best
wishes for the holiday season,
so and so.

but I guess the love is gone,
or maybe it was temporary,
or not at all. oh well.

it's a shame.

which diet to choose from

I peruse the new diets,
trying to lose a little weight before
spring.
not that i'm going to be prancing
around on the beach
in a speedo, or anything.
but just to drop a few pounds
for health, to be lighter on my
feet for those long nights
out dancing. that's a joke.
but there are so many diets
to choose from.
the all chicken diet.
the poultry only diet, anything
with wings that can't fly.
all meat, which entails all
four legged animals, too slow
to run away from the butcher.
just plants.
the botanical garden diet.
just fish, just water and bread.
the Alcatraz diet, it's called.
the jungle diet. snakes and bugs,
with an occasional rhino sandwich.
the island diet. berries, nuts,
bananas and mangos,
with a coconut milk chaser.
the city diet, which is my favorite
pizza, bagels with cream cheese,
pretzels and steak subs
all washed down with a big gulp.
then there's the grandpa diet,
for those without teeth.
oatmeal, soups and grilled cheese.
jello with cool whip.
then there's the lost in the woods
in west virginia diet.
squirrel stew, raccoon brisket,
and pan fried field mice.
basically road kill.
it's a toss up, not sure which
way i'll go, but it's time
to think about nutrition
and health to get the new
year started.

end of the reel

the beauty of time and distance,
no contact
is that you wake up one
morning completely free.
hardly a thought passes by
about someone.
they're gone, almost as if
it never happened, as if
they never existed except
in some old movie that you saw.
it's the end of the reel.
story over, done, fini.
all gone.

skin and bones

some need the shine,
the glimmer
and glam, the bling
of life.
the four star meal,
the four star room,
those jimmy choo
heels. the prada bag,
the gucchi coat.
some need paris,
or rome.
a luxury liner.
a gold phone. some need
a mansion a Mercedes,
a ranch, a cabin,
a beach front home.
the black card, diamonds,
the driver, the maid,
the butler.
some need the attention,
the admiration to prove
their worth,
to yell out, this is where
I've been, this is what
I own, but in the end.
without love, without
compassion, we're
empty,
we're all just skin
and bones.

A Flock of Geese

I see a flock of geese flying overhead
in a v formation.

thirty or forty of them.
I can hear them talking in their bark
like way.

what are we doing, the second one on
the left says
to the one behind him.

what do you mean what are we doing?

are we really flying south
for the winter?

seems silly. it's not even cold
out. maybe we should just go halfway
this year with global warming
and all.

the other one shrugs. I don't know.
i'm just going because I have
a friend in palm springs.

he's got extra room in a nest
on a golf course. says I can stay there
no problem.

the golf course is covered in
pieces of bagels
and cream cheese. loxs
and civilta fish. these people
take a bite and throw
it away. oy vey.

what do you mean exactly by these
people?

nothing, nothing. i'm just saying
you don't have to worry about looking
for worms down there.

I just don't see the point anymore.
we haven't had snow
or ice in ages.

i'm not as young as I used to be.
I've only go so many
miles left on these wings.
look at my feathers, do these
look like the feathers of a young bird?

you know
my uncle Al got hit by a drone last
year doing this, a younger goose in the third
row says. true story.

maybe we should go
part of the way this year,
the one says,
like stop in Charleston,
and check the long range weather
forecast. find a deli.

ahh, quit your kvetching, and
start flapping those wings
instead of your beak. we're
halfway there.

the light is everywhere

I tell my therapist,
to take the sharpest knife
out of her educated
drawer and start cutting.

slice me to the bone.
eviscerate my soul.

I know it's going to hurt
more than
any pain I've ever known,

but please, for the sake
of sanity, for the life of me,
begin, let's get to the bottom
of why

I've made the same mistake
over and over.

seeking the most chaotic and sick
individuals to fall in love with,

the incurable narcissists.

so she does. okay, she says.
here we go.

I scream, I cry, I bend over
like a child
and let it all out. I weep my
heart out.

but in the end I get it.

i truly see the cause, I see the origin
of all lies.

hello father.

it isn't just a light at the end
of a tunnel.

the light is everywhere.

the empty house

the empty house
with its darkened windows,
the unkept yard,
is for sale.
a yellow sign bends in the wind.
I stop for a moment
to look.
a family lived there once.
two children.
a dog. a husband
and wife.
never friends, but we waved
as time
went by.
rarely saying a word to one
another.
but still, they were familiar
to me,
as I to them.
it's sad in a simple way,
how easily they've slipped
away unnoticed,
the way a light
rain might fall when
expecting sun.

if it snows

survival
used to be on my mind.
the dollar made,
the dollar saved.

each bill waiting on the desk
to be paid.
tomorrow, or the next day.

keeping the home fire burning,

but it's different now.
the hunting has slowed.

the cupboards are full.

there's no more holding my
hands over
the hot stove,

sharpening a stick to go out
to kill something,
or
waiting for the phone ring.

there's no worry,
no wondering about the roads
if it snows.

no doubt

it's not funny at all,
but
it's hard not to laugh at it
with so
much time and water
under
the clock
and bridge, passed.
soul mate.
cell mate.
oh well. better to be alone
without
then to be alone with.
no doubt.

taking out the hammer

i see that metal
will not burn and melt down quite
so easily.

so once the fire dies,

full of cards
and photos, clothes,
ribbons and bows,
books and other
sentimental
things that no longer
have value,

i pluck out the thick ring
and hold it warm in my hand.

hardly scarred, or worn.
not a nick
or graze upon it.

this calls for a hammer.
which is what
i do.

the same story

our stories match
to a certain degree.

so many do when hearts are tied
to

darkness.
lovers who were liars.

she said, I cried my make up off
so many times.

came unglued. she tells me
her story.

then mine. but we both have tired
of it. it's not ancient history
quite yet.

but give it time.
it will become a tale told
in the third person.

in the field with birds

in looking back.

I see the scarecrow
in the field, hung upright among
the stalks

of endless corn.
the straw hair,

the long face, made up.
in clothes
once worn to dance in,
perhaps.

bright in color, soft to the touch.

an unpleasant woman, 

set out
on a task
to keep the crows at bay.

the exaggerated lips
and eyes, stitched in black.

arms stretched in cross like
submission.

it reminds of so much.

but she's still at last,
except for
a wavering wind,

that blows between the seams.

crickets

I do hear crickets on
nights like this.

in from the cold, together
or alone.

the tiny snap of their
arms,
the slap of their thin hands.

what's with the noise?
wouldn't it be better to hop
in silence.

safer.
I think that on occasion.

keeping my mouth shut, lying
low,
waiting
for safety.

waiting for better times.

i love the dress

she tells me about
her first husband.

then her second.
finally her third.

she has descriptive
harsh names for each of them.

loser
liar
cheater

in no particular order.

never again, she says, as she flips
through a bridal
magazine.

never again, although I do love
this dress.

being misunderstood

Oscar wilde said that he feared
not being
misunderstood.

I like that.
it says so much about being
different.

not being who they want you to be.

being alive and not one of the masses
heading over
the cliff
in droves.

most art of value, most writing,
most
music

occurs that way. not grey
but a rainbow,
an array of color,

full of joy, full of pain.

a splendid opening of the heart
and mind

outside the box.
against the grain.

the sound of a hammer against a nail

I remember the fallen
horse
in Barcelona, lying on the street.
the wagon
turned over,
the man
with a broken arm, bleeding,
now in our car,
our back seat.
my brother and I in the front
as we sped to
a hospital.
my father in his navy whites
now streaked
in red.
his hands on the wheel,
he looked as scared as we were.
as he turned
the car around, I heard the shot.
the sound of a gun going off.
like the strike of a hammer
on a nail,
and looked back
to the policeman in grey,
his black holster open,
standing over the lifeless horse.
the steam of blood
still in the air.

walk away

you can't help angry
souls.
you can't argue, or agree to
disagree.
it's just best to leave
them alone,
let them be,
let them stew in their
misfortune.
don't let them infect
your healing soul.
they are too sad,
too lonely and hurt.
life has not gone their way,
and most likely never
will. walk away.

again you find your stride

the blue lake
is a beauty, a gem, a coin
shining in
the sun on this perfect first
day of
the year.
it's candy to the eye.
a lover that wants
to be embraced and held
and remembered.
it's why you go, it's
why you return
time after time.
each lap around, each tree
a friend of sorts,
a familiar home.
again you find your stride.

the first day

the kid in front of me at the ABC
store
is happy.
the clerk is in the back
he tells me
breaking a hundred
dollar bill
that he got for Christmas.
happy new year, the kid says,
grinning ear to ear,
oblivious still
to death, disease, divorce
and the rest.
happy new year to you, I tell
him, setting
my bottle of vodka
onto the counter.
so far so good.

bon appetit

you watch a show about meat.

the slaughtering of caged pigs,
chickens, cows and sheep.

you no longer want to eat meat.
you put it onto the list,
along with milk
sugar, eggs, bread
and mercury contaminated fish.

what's left?
you're down to beans.
lettuce.

parsley and leeks.
bon appetit.

closure

she slips a note
through the door, late at night.

I don't hear her,
i'm sound asleep in the floor above.

I find it in the hall
when I arise.

it says nothing,

but is signed at the bottom
with her name.

it's the most
concise and revealing
thing she's every written
to me.

the blank page.

it says everything.
closure.

please don't die

the room is cold.

these old windows made
of glass

and wood, do little to keep
out the wind.

the glare of sunlight flies
in,

but I like them.
circa 1968. it's who I am.

mid century modern.

the computer is sluggish.
so am I.
I offer it coffee, but

it stutters, it's sleepy,
it has no
reply.

my fingers rest on the keyboard.
waiting.
waiting patiently.

please don't die.

in the rear view

the madness is over.

lights are pulled. trees
discarded
still draped in tinsel.

boxes are on the curb. bottles.
bags.

the remnants of holidays
rushed through.

I see a broken heart or two.
on the grass.

love
notes torn. so much unrequited.
so much
in the rear view.

midnight scrabble

we play scrabble long into
the night.

new years comes, it goes.
we say nothing.

I have nowhere to put my q
without a u

but the bag is still full.
I see words

in my sleep. I hear words.
I think about
words

and now with this board
half full
before me,
I have nowhere left to move.

resolutions in reverse

where as some, with the start
of a new day,
a new year, a new decade,
propose a list of things to do,

positive changes to be made,
finding a better way
to live, with more books to read,
losing weight, eating properly.

but after a moment of thought
I prefer to say no to that
and retreat to where
I was before.

going backwards, living my old
life, for that was when
I was happiest. no need for
resolutions, no need to add

a new plan. in fact it's time
to eliminate the dark souls and
things that took me off track,
and go back to the person
I really am.

crossing the bridge

I drive to California
Maryland
crossing over the bridge
from Solomon's island.
it's a narrow crossing,
two lanes going in two
directions.
it arcs high into the blue
grey sky
of December.
I look down into the steel
ribbons of water,
the cork like boats
floating, plowing their
way somewhere.
sails are tight in the wind,
the flags stiff.
I pass over.
eyes straight ahead,
hands on the wheel,
and get to where I've
never been.

imprint of chaos

with ease
you can recall the argument.

the words, as if written
on a sheet a paper

they are in view
line by line.

each flinch of the brow,
narrowing
of the eyes,

each denial and shrug,

is remembered. such are the effects
of betrayal
and lies.

the stamp of chaos is etched
upon your
mind.

the car won't start

i see the man with the hood up
on his car.

his hands are tugging at wires
while his wife
stands nearby
holding jumper cables.
her hair covers her face.

it's cold out.
it's beginning to snow.

the kids in shiny pink
and blue coats
are tugging
at their legs.

they look tired.
he tries the engine.
it whirrs grinds, goes silent.

no luck. they all pile
into the other car,
saying little,

then drive away.

scratching the itch

I have an itch
I used to tell her.

it's in the middle
of my
back, where I can't reach.

(I'd leave out the itch in my heart)

she'd roll her eyes and reach
over with her long nails

and say, where.

here? here? here?
moving her hand from side to side.

there. i'd finally say as she
landed on the exact spot.

there. right there.
dig hard.

and i'd feel
the satisfying
scratch until the itch was gone.

(still no mention of my heart)

everything changes

so much is unclear.

and the new year will do little
to clear
things up.

it's another day
on the calendar, another page
turned.

into another month.
another year.

everything is in flux.
changes
are everywhere.

nothing ever stays the same,
but us.

and us, we're still here.

the airport visit

we go to the airport
to watch people.

the real life drama
of arrivals
and departures.

the tears and hugs, the sweet
farewells
waving until
each is out of sight.

the rush of it all.
the whirlwind
of people moving towards
where they need to go.

the luggage pulled
and carried.

the sound of jets on
the tarmac,in the air,
landing.

there is so much love
and loneness
in the faces, it's hard
to take it all in.

party shrimp

give me a pound of shrimp
I tell the
fish person behind the counter,
who
happens to be a very
short woman
from south east asia.
I can see the top of her head.
what kind?
she yells over the counter.
I look at the rows of shrimp
on ice.
they're from everywhere.
some cooked, some raw
some still in their
little grey shelled
jackets.
it's the ellis island of
shrimp.
I don't know, I tell her.
cooked, no shells
and big.
okay, she says. pulling
out handfuls of shrimp
with her blue gloved hands.
party tonight?
we'll see, I tell her.
the day is young.

dating

it's a season of noshing.

snacking
nibbling.

opening and closing the
fridge
to see what's in there
to hold
you over until dinner.

to hold you over
until the real deal is put
on the table.

the banquet.
the three course meal.
wine,
dessert and coffee

an after dinner
drink to top it off
while you sit by the fire,

before bed.

the long talk into the night

we talk long into the night
finishing a bottle of wine.

we say bitter things to one another,
words
we'll regret

in the morning. but it's truth.

the love is over.
what was
never was, we were passengers
on a train

going nowhere.

each afraid to get off. each staring
out the window
at others

at the station, also

hoping for the courage
to move
on with their lives.

we make no plans though to
do anything about it.

we sleep on it, and another
day
turns into another year.

the wind of time pushes grey
into our hair,
deepens our eyes.

each and every eye

the moons spreads across
the lawn
like milk.

a silk pond upon the darkened
green.

I see you are about to cry,
which

is not unusual
it's how you live your life.

nothing
but you can be observed or
admired,

you must have each and
very eye.

into the shadows

I see you at the back of a room.

standing there alone,
your arms folded across
your chest.

you are unreachable. nothing
has changed.

the sadness of you is on your
face.

where there was light, there is
none.

the shadow has become your home.
your voice
is lost in the wilderness
of trees.

at last I have realized that you
have no heart.
no soul.

there was never any future
between us.
no present.

your existence was imaginary.

I can only look at you so long,
before turning away.

I am free.

the carousel

life is not a carousel.

although it feels it at times.
riding the fake
pretty horse

with a stiff mane. a glimmer
of false joy
in her eye.

but it's not real.
the whisper of song.
the kiss of spring,

the sweetness of summer wine.

it's a dizzying time
and the sooner you hop off

and leave that carnival world
behind,

the sooner your life
will find peace.
real love.

waiting for what's next

they put his body on ice
until
the family figures out what to do
with him.

it was always like that.
what to do with him.

how much, they say. gathering
around the table

smoking, uneasy in their chairs.
where to bury him.

the coffin, the headstone.
an obituary?
what would it say.

so he stays on ice. his own money
counted and
already spent.

his stash taken, the pockets
emptied.

his days were long and hard.
he felt the cold
as he waited
on the fountain steps.

crumpled in used clothes.
and now this.
waiting again, for what's next.

ringing in the new

we put our hats on.

we're holding glasses of champagne
in plastic cups.

the ball drops.
we cheer in the new year.

confetti is everywhere.

we kiss.
but there is doubt.
you can feel it in the stale
air.

we are happy in the moment.
strangers at this late hour.

so much of life is like that.
a ball dropping,
the thrill

of the new.

then real life sets in and
there
is trash to be taken out.

natalie

i see the tremble in his hand.

the voice, hoarse.
he's not well.

he's younger than i am, so it
worries me.

are you okay, i ask him.

not really he says, his cup
rattling in his hand as he moves
it slowly to his lips.

remember the time we were in
Georgetown,

it was cold and we waited
in line for an hour to get into
Winstons on M street,

and we met those girls from
Marymount? how we both wanted
to dance

with the same girl? what was
her name?

natalie? i say. brown hair,
blue eyes.

ah, he says. she was something,
wasn't she.

halfway there

it's clear.
through the window.
wet with rain.

the last leaf
has fallen,
the trees are bare,
the branches
are crooked limbs,
arthritic
and grey as far as
the eye can see.

not a drop of green.
but we're halfway there.

peter at the golden gate

peter at the gate

says, so, you made it.
did you find everything you were
looking for?

I laugh. the last time I heard
that I was checking out
in line
at the grocery store.

not really, I tell him.
I need another few years.

I need another trip down
the aisles.

the fun aisle. the love aisle.
the accomplishment aisle.

ah, he says, too late for that,
and hands me my fluffy robe
trimmed in gold.

orientation is two clouds
on the left.

relation ships

some ships are meant to go down.

a small hole
will do that, slowly perhaps,

but down she'll go. straight to the bottom
no matter how hard

you bucket out the water.

a larger hole, of course will
sink things even quicker.

I've been on enough of these doomed
ships to know,

strap tightly on
that life preserver.

the in laws are coming

I tell my friend how envious
I am of him, how wonderful
it is
that he's found love. that's
he's found
his soul mate for life.

married
and secure in his new house.
the yard, the fence. the wreathe
on the door.

the sign that reads home sweet home.

the in-laws arriving for the weekend.

he looks at me and pulls out
a sheet of paper
and says here,

here's the weekend list
of chores I need
to do.

at 7 a.m.

walk the dog.
rake the leaves.
shovel the snow.

the driveway needs salt,
the gutters need
to be cleaned.

the tires need air.

lunch at noon. shopping.

then there's painting to be done.
furniture to be moved.
sheets to be changed.

a light to be hung.
then we'll check the dog
for fleas.

then dinner. tv.

then sleep.

but you love her, don't you,
I ask,
as he puts the list away.

of course I do. he says.
of course. it's the life I've
been waiting for.

i'm sentimental

i'm sentimental
and yet can rip a card or letter
in two,
sent in love,
or like,
or something that pretends
to be either.
a photo as well
of happier times without
so much as shedding
a tear.
not a single boo hoo.
i can light a match and send
up
the sweetest of sentiments.
toss a box
of chocolates
out the window without
a thought.
but believe me, i'm
very sentimental,
or at least i used to be
when it came to me
and you.

setting limits

when the mice
get into the cupboard and eat
through a box
of penne pasta, you smile.

you put another box up there.
it's cold
you reason, they have no where
to else to go

there's snow on the ground,
it's nearly five below.

but come spring, they'll be
gone.
and you'll plug up the hole.

compassion has its limits.

we were in paraguay

I know this dream, she says,
touching my shoulder,
waking me up from the dream.

I had it too, the same one.
we were in love.
we were in Paraguay together.

the shine was shining
on the wet streets.
someone was in the church tower,

ringing the bell, the streets
were covered in white flowers.

it was before this, before
everything.
we were young, innocent.

almost without sin. there
was nothing that could keep
us apart.

go back to sleep, I tell her,
putting my head back down
on the pillow.

take me with you, she says.
don't leave me behind.

okay, I say to her, taking
her hand into mine. okay.

the surprise

your hair on end.

the tingle of spine, the opening
of retinas

in each raised eye.
the sweat upon your brow,

the pressure rising. the heart
racing.

the tumble of gut
full of strangely arriving
butterflies.

a sudden jolt of fear
pricks your mind.

one never gets used to being
surprised.

the new year

where has everyone gone to,
you ask

in the silence
of a rainy street. has exhaustion
set in

from the frenzy of holiday.
has the air left

the balloon of a year almost
done.

the money spent, the drinks
gone dry.

no one dances anymore. no one
takes a hand

and leads a loved one, slowly
across the floor.

the world is tired.
the music has stopped.

a new year will erase the old
year.

what will enfold?

everything french

i go into the little French store,
where everything
is French.

a bell rings when you open the door.

the place is overflowing with
cups, dishes, towels,
stuff

my mother would love. i go slow
so as to not
break anything.

one sneeze could bring the place
crashing down.
i spot an apron with a chicken
on it,

but it's not my size. a metal
statue of
the Eiffel tower. ninety dollars.

what would that be in francs, or is
it euros now?

there's a basket of fake bread,
paper mache or something.

rolls and baquettes, they look
real, shiny as if lathered with butter.
i pick up the baquette
and think about how it would make
a nice sandwich.

lots of wine books, wine openers,
wine corks. wine wine wine.

there's a calendar of paris in the spring.
i open it up hoping
fifi or michelle
might be in it lounging
around in some café wearing
fishnet stockings. nope.

i wander around
until the woman in back

whispers loudly, can i help you
with anything? then i leave.

bombshell review

it's a horrible movie,
bombshell,
with horrible real life people
doing horrible
real things.
it's all neatly wrapped
up in a glossy
box.
it's a movie where you don't
have to think too much.
you just sit there and watch
eating popcorn
wondering when it will end.
it's the world we
live in. frighteningly
sleazy and corrupt.
it's what you see on tv
everyday, at every hour.
from politicians, to lawyers,
and the media.
it's non stop.
it might be time for another
great flood.

a slow boat to somewhere

I think about going to china
as I sit
in a Chinese restaurant,

but I don't know anyone there, yet.
take a slow boat, perhaps.

I don't speak the language,
or know anything about it other than
what I've
learned at

Peking Gourmet, but it might be fun.
I stare at the paper placemat,

trying to figure out which animal
I am.

the rat, the snake, the rabbit.
then I order another mai tai, that
first one

went down too easy.
the guy comes over to refill
my water glass again,

after I took another sip.
I want to ask him about china,

but I think he's from Cuba.

Cuba might be fun too, closer
and it's like going back into time.

it's like riding a bike

i'll be on the look out for you,
he says,

putting his hand on my shoulder
in a friendly way,

but condescending way.

that's some wild story you have there.
what a cup of crazy that woman was.

i'll see if my girlfriend has any
friends
that are single. but normal women.

not nuts, promise.

how old are you?

I laugh. don't worry about it.
being alone
is fine

after the living hell I went through.

it's nice. the quiet. the calmness.
the peace. yesterday I read a book
for over an hour.

a book? he says. really?

i'll know when it's time to jump
back into
the pool, tell him.

okay, okay, he says. I get you.
but let me know.

it's like riding a bike, you fall
over and then you get back on.

love yourself

it's a matter of rewiring,

she tells you.
getting the neurons to run
on different pathways.

light up new lights.
take a new way home, change.

get out of town,
run, take a break, do things
differently.

get busy. get happy
doing all the things you like
and love.

don't sit too long
with ruminations, but
move on. don't dwell,

don't stay too long with
what was.
the new is the pathway
out.

above all, love yourself.

the evangelist

his birthday arrives.

my brother.
the evangelist.

fourteen months ahead of me.
brilliant
and kind.

another year down.

generous to a fault.
i could do well to follow
him.

we're heading in the same
direction,

but on different paths.

senior discount

i go through the prompts to buy
movie tickets.

oh look, there's a discount
for seniors.

it's high time i started taking
advantage of
being so old.

damn right. where's my walker,
my cane,

my seeing eye dog, damn it.

kids get out of my yard.
where's my oatmeal, my teeth,
my prune juice?

where's
my Saturday evening post.
my reader's
digest

my melba toast?
did i ever tell you about

the time at Woodstock, when
Janis Joplin invited me into
her tent?

oh yeah, she was a wild one.

hop on my lap little one
and let grandpop tell you
that story.

a change is gonna come

I listen to Otis
on the radio, a change is gonna
come.

it's a sweet melancholy song,
that sways

and flows. you don't ever want
it to end.

but you do want the change,
you want it to come.

you can feel it in your bones.
we all need a change.

a new day.
a fresh start.

a change is gonna come, let
it play.

i'm a wholesales gem dealer

i'm in turkey right now she writes
to me
via text.

it's jane, a stunning blonde
on elite singles.

i'm a wholesales gem dealer,
she writes,
but I do real estate in Greece.

I have a son named dusty.

I look at my phone and shake my
head.

I get the funny feeling
that she might be a scammer. oh my.

(on the internet, no less)

her age is sixty, but her glamor
shot says thirty.

what a nice name, dusty, I write
back.

a strange coincidence, my house
is dusty. the maid is coming
tomorrow.

what do you do, she writes.

i'm an international
deli meat salesman, I tell her.
I specialize in salami and uncured hams.

she writes back. i'm a wholesales
gem dealer, but I do real estate
in Greece.

what's your son's name, I type in.

peccadillos

they were mild peccadillos
at first.

small sins.

like using all the hot water,
or trimming
her hair in the sink.

hiding her phone, walking
deep into the woods
alone.

leaving the door unlocked.
whistling
while I tried to write,

or think.

and sleeping in the other room
at night.

small things, small things,
but in time,

something obviously
wasn't right.

the first date

I knew we wouldn't get along
when she pulled
out her banjo

and began to play.
her sister took out a pair
of spoons
and started banging them

on her boney knees.
her aunt Sadie came out
of the kitchen

with a washboard
and pops came in from milking
a goat

and started playing his fiddle.

her mother put her teeth in and
began to yodel.

they passed around a jug
of white lighting

and the children started
dancing. they let the pigs
in too,

as I raised my shoes, sitting
there with a bouquet of flowers
in my calvin klein suit.

coup de grace

life makes more sense
when the truce is known.

no longer adrift
in the currents, or blown
off course
by the dark winds.

you know now what it truly
is.

rarely do we get such a sweet
gift from above, a final straw

upon the back. thank your
lucky
stars

for a coup de grace.

auditions on thursday

you reach the denouement period
of things.

when the climax has been
reached.

justice has been served
and
the masks are off revealing who
is really who.

the complexities of the plot
are made clearer.

Shakespeare does well with it.
tying all the loose
strings together

into a fine satisfying knot.

the play is over, the curtain
closes.

auditions will be held on
Thursday for what comes next.

will there be jello?

I get ten pounds of medical
insurance
information in the mail.

the mailman was bent over
with the package
and through it on the porch.

i begin to sort through it.
I sigh. I read.

the print is so small.

I thought I was done with this.
it was all signed and confirmed
last year.

plan b, plan d. plan A.

with prescriptions,
without.

eye care and dental? maybe.
what about co pay.

what about primary visits.
specialist visits?

MRI's and x-rays. flu shots
and tetanus.

what about the colonoscopy,
god help me.

how much are my premiums?
will I keep my doctor, whoever
she is this year.

what's my yearly limit.
cost per room for an overnight
stay?

will there be jello?

she was a child

we were different.

blue was my color, red hers.
she liked
to fight,

she saw no humor in anything,
I saw
it in all.

she slept on the left,
me the right.

I preferred peace.
I tried to tell the truth.

she lied.
I had patience and loyalty.

she stared into her phone
hidden in her hand
and punched at the keys.

I walked at midnight,
she lay alone
and stared more into her
phone.

she cried. she played with
her rosary beads.

I listened.
she covered up her ears,
she wiped at her reddened eyes.

I saw the end.

she saw nothing but
the sadness of her life,

which had no end no matter
where
she was going next.

she was a child in need of
a father, only that,

might make it right.

it starts slowly

it starts slowly.

the missing word, the lost key.
the appointment
not kept.

memories slip, the paper curls
with age,
yellows.

our minds retreat, saying enough
with this.

give me back my childhood,
i'm not ready
for the grave.

the infinite

the black sky
is pin pricked with an infinite
number
of stars.
brighter than diamonds,
brighter
than anything we could make
here
on earth.
but we doubt.
we can't imagine how
this is so, so
we
try to figure it out
and yet
only in death will we
truly to know.

doing hard time

everyone needs a home.

a place of rest.
an island to go to,

a place without bars,
or wire,
or the dread of no hope.

to have a bed. a chair, books.
a quiet room

all your own, a refuge

to regroup, repair.

I was without joy for
over a year, seems so
much longer,

that time behind the wall
of dead love.

but now it's back,
there's peace, there's
joy, there's no longer

abuse or fear.

no more of that.

going vegan

I decide to give up
bacon
for a few days,

okay. twelve hours.
and I have to admit,
I do feel a lot better.

i'm perkier and my skin has
a nice healthy glow to it.

i'm drinking my green juice
and slicing up
some carrots
for dinner.

I stand at the kitchen
sink,
cutting up my carrots,
celery too, I like the color.

but then I see a deer
crossing in the woods.

a healthy looking beast.
he looks my
way
and we make eye contact.

I cant help but think
of meat. of spare ribs
and pot roast. I sigh.
those were
days.

well actually, the hours.
it's only been twelve hours
and eleven minutes now.

the unknown heart

is there a fate worse
than
death, I believe there is.

for death has no sting,
with faith.

a thousand times worse
is being with someone
when there is no
love,

trapped in a life of
no trust, no kindness. no joy.

you are truly alone
when someone sleeps beside you,

and their heart is dark
and
unknown.

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.