two cups and waiting

i need to sweeten

the cup.

to pour

a dollop of cream

into the black pool

of coffee

to lighten

and make the taste

more to my liking.

two

lumps of sugar.

stir

and taste.

then sip while it's

hot.

i'll have a second cup

while i wait,

i'm really

not surprised that 

you're late.

at midnight

you hear

the rattle of paws.

the creak

of boards.

the scratch and grind

of what

might be

teeth

or claws.

the rustle of something

beneath

or above

the floor. is it in

the attic,

or between the walls.

it could be

nothing.

just wind, just rain,

just fear. or maybe it's

nothing at all.

down the line

to settle 

is something we all do.

not quite

perfect. but good enough

we tell ourselves.

this will do,

for now.

but we know in time

the boxes

will be packed

and we'll be somewhere else,

with someone

else

at some point

down the line.

without regret

there is the effervescence

of affection.

the cork

popped

on new love.

the bubbles

and spray of joy and

warmth.

the cold bottle

in two hands

poured

into the overflowing

glasses.

there are fireworks

outside the window.

there is noise.

streamers.

there is tomorrow, but

let's not go

there quite yet.

let's drink.

make love.

bring in the new year

without regret.

be ready

there is always more to do.

more ground

to break.

more

things to learn.

there is always another

stone

to turn over along the way.

a book

to read,

an ear to lend to a spoken

wise word.

there is much left

to be learned,

or unlearned.

be ready.

love, it's simple. boy meets girl.

love is truly simple.

boy meets girl.

boy falls in love with girl.

girl falls madly in love

with boy.

boy meets another girl.

the girl

meets another girl.

an old

girlfriend shows

up.

an ex husband appears.

there's a line out the door.

it's a crowd.

no one knows exactly

what's going on or

how they feel about each

other any more.

it's a mess.

as the years go by.

then one day they get

old and tired.

a few die off,

then everyone is finally

gone.

and well, that's that.

it's a wrap.

the kitchen window

i was standing at the kitchen

window

the other day,

eating, and thinking,

not unlike how my mother used

to do when

she was waiting

for my father to come home

after being

out drinking and gallivanting

with his buddies

and some

bar floosie.

pulling up in his turquoise

chevrolet with another dent

in the side.

but i was standing there eating

a tuna sandwich

when it occurred to me

that i actually have a dining

room table,

with dishes and plates.

silverware. etc.

and could i sit down and eat

any time i wanted.

my mother could too. but

this was her favorite place to

worry, as it has become mine.

i work for a non-profit organization

in the washington

dc

metro area

so many people

say they work for a non profit organization.

that used to be called the church,

but not anymore.

it's an actual business where people

get paychecks.

but no money is made.

it sounds

like volunteer work.

out of the goodness of their

heart

they show up every day

and do something.

what they do exactly is beyond

me.

i assume there are telephones

involved.

computers. papers to be shuffled

on desks,

i assume there's 

a coffee machine somewhere

down the hall.

i get sleepy when they go into

the details, putting toothpick

into my eyelids to keep them open.

my first yawn occurs

when i hear the words non-profit.

what does that mean?

or worse.

i work for a think tank

on foxhall road, upper northwest

near the French Embassy.

it takes

me a few minutes to wrap my head

around that.

i find a bottle of extra strength

tylenol at this point.

i imagine people in a sealed

steel tank

with pure oxygen pumped in,

they all have their hands

on their chins,

tin hats on their heads as

they think deeply about stuff.

steam coming of their ears

as they ponder

solutions to the world problems.

and then they break for lunch.

the new bedroom chair

i buy a chair that i'll probably never

sit on.

off white. 

i set it in the corner.

right away i can see that it's

going to be a receptacle

for clothes.

it looks nice in the lamplight

though.

low to the floor.

it has a nice sexy curve to it.

it took six weeks to get here,

but well worth the wait.

i pick my jeans and shirt and socks

up off the floor

and fold them neatly,

then i place

them all on the new chair.

the list of new years resolutions

i start working on my new years

resolutions, trying

to get a positive jump start

on the next

12 months.

i lay out a clean sheet of paper.

unwrap a new ball point pen

after wrestling with

the plastic package for ten minutes,

finally opening it

was a hammer.

i like these pens though.

the roller kind. very smooth

but they have a tendency to smudge.

i open the window. quite nice out.

i breathe in the fresh air then

pull up the shades.

i adjust the a little lower

and open the slats.

i yell out the window to tell

the cat

to get off the bird feeder.

it raises it's paw at me and frowns.

okay, where was i. 

new year resolutions.

i'm feeling a tad thirsty.

i go down and make a cup of tea

and bring it back

up to the desk.

i stare at the blank sheet of paper.

right.  resolution number one.

i tap the pen against my forehead

leaving a line of ink

on my face.

new years resolutions.

i got nothing right now.

maybe i'll make a sandwich.

the local butcher

i go the local butcher shop

and stare at the long glass enclosed

counter. it's

full of red meat and fish, 

poultry.

the men are busy sharpening knives

as I take a number.

the walls are painted white.

the floor is black and white.

it's clean

like an operating room might be.

there's a bell on the door

and a picture of a pig on the wall.

a fat man

in a bloody apron,  yells at me

and says,

what's it gonna be.

we've got some rib eyes just cut.

you look like a rib eye kind of guy.

how could he possibly know that?

the childhood wound

we talk about the childhood

wound.

that's the key

the therapist says. the books say.

Jung Freud, etc. etc.

mother, father.

they fucked you up.

not me, not them,

no one in this room.

it's  about closing that wound.

sewing it up

tight

and healing.

you don't have to be this

way.

you don't have live like this.

solve your past

or stay in it, not later, but

soon.

the white feather

you haven't changed a bit,

have you,

she says

in a dream,

brushing a white feather off my

shirt.

you're still the same

boy

inside.

a glass of milk, a slice of cake.

the devilish grin,

the glint

of mischief

in your green eyes.

you haven't changed a bit,

have you? she says.

you're the same boy

i knew 

when i was still alive.

we could get away

we could get away.

i've got a car.

i've got a pocket full of cash.

we could run.

drive to the west coast

or to canada.

maybe Arizona.

let's go. don't leave a note.

no need

to call or tell anyone. just

me and you.

let's go.

pack a bag.

let's hit the open road.

what are we waiting for?

why stay here and live

out our lives in misery.

come on.

be bold, be brave, be mine.

we could get away.

let's go while we're young,

before we're stuck,

let's go while there's still

time.

a cigarette break

we all find a way

to numb

ourselves 

from pain. whether drink

or drug

sex

or gambling, or some other

sort of 

self indulgent

dark habit

that helps us handle

the day.

and the nights are even worse

when the storm

arrives.

at times you even see

the priests

out back, smoking a cigarette

and shaking their

heads.

wired above us

the wires were strung

from

pole to pole on every street.

little below

ground,

telephones

and power exposed.

a web

of sorts.

each house connected

to a source

beyond our imagination.

one storm. a blizzard,

cold

snow

and it would flicker,

then black out,

and back

to the bronze age

we would go.

sentimental drinking

i can't be around a phone

after

a drink or two.

cell phone, pay phone.

hotel phone,

anyone's phone.

i stare at a telephone wire

and want to climb

the pole to hack

in and dial someone up.

i suddenly need to talk,

or text,

or send a picture or an

emoji

to someone that i haven't

seen or heard

from in years.

most of whom wouldn't

pour a glass of water

on me, if i was on fire.

i have no control over

my fingers.

i have the will power

of an infant when it comes

to sentimental feelings

set loose under

the delusion of a gin and tonic.

my undying devotion

and love

rises to the surface

like a dead body

under water.

here take my phone.

take the battery out and put

it where i can't see it.

tie my hands behind my

back and gag me until

i come to my senses.

the hot tub

i ponder the hot tub,

perusing the multitude

of choices

online.

everybody and their sister

sells them

now. walmart, home depot.

i think even

the grocery store is offering

a deal

on one.

but it would be nice,

to come home

snowy cold or summery hot

and soak in the bubbly

commotion of water.

the jacuzzi spray hitting those

sore spots.

perhaps one

built for two, or three

or five?

an odd number seems odd.

two just right

in case love is in the air

or too many white russians

have been consumed.

i envision a built in

little bar for ice and beverages.

music.

some party lights strung around.

but what about the neighbors

and their

spying eyes.

i'm already on the hot seat

with the board

and their coven of witches.

i never should have painted the front

door red.

they definitely won't

be invited over

on opening day, not even if

they beg.

drinking hose water

was there anything worse

than

drinking water

out of a garden

hose

on a steamy summer day.

tired and dying

of thirst

having been playing

ball in the field

where there was no fountain.

it was impossible

to wait

for the taste to change,

for the water to become

cold

not lukewarm like

it was 

as it sputtered out.

we ate a lot of bugs

in the summer.

got gnats in our eyes

and ears,

got stung by a lot bees,

and 

chiggers got under

our skin.

but that hose water was

the worst.

one day

if i could do it all again.

i would.

i'd say things differently

not

do things

that i'll regret to the end.

but there

is no

turning back, no time machine.

there is

only change,

only

hope

that one day we will be

friends.

a string of summers

there were a string of summers

when we were young.

the wet grass under our bare feet

in the cool of night.

the fire flies we'd capture

in mason jars.

the lamp posts gleaming

yellow as we

ran between chalked lines

on the black top street.

parents on the porches, it was

too hot to be inside.

fanning themselves,

with drinks in hand.

discussing their complex lives.

the hydrants set free sending

fountains of water upon us.

we'd lie on our backs with strands

of weeds between our

teeth and stare up at the stars,

pointing at the comets

flashing by.  it was before so much

in our life was to take place.

the first love, the first heartbreak.

it was when everyone you knew

and cared about was still alive.

was still a door away, a call

upon the phone. a letter sent

their way.

trying to be a better person

i'm working on being

more patient, more

understanding,

more kind to the unkind.

more compassionate

to the mean

and unthoughtful.

i'm trying to a better person.

to not roll my eyes

so much.

to not grumble and curse

beneath

my breath when something

annoying happens.

i'm letting people in

when the line is long

and traffic is heavy, even if

they don't have a signal on.

i'm getting into the habit of giving

people the thumbs up

when i see them recycle on

wednesday. or is it tuesday?

i'm trying so hard to forgive

and forget.

the forgetting part is really

really hard.

but doable.

i try to be more sincere.

to listen

more and not

talk while others are talking,

trying to finish their slow

moving thoughts.

i'm trying to be nice to this

one neighbor who

keeps putting notes on my door

telling me it's too early

to put the trash out.

i know that. i've been living

here fifteen years. i know what

the rules are.

namaste.

i try very hard

to stop being

so sarcastic

and making fun of everything.

again, very very hard.

but doable.

i'm trying.

the last twenty years

i go through the lost and found

box

in the basement.

it's quite a collection

of odds and ends.

black heels. one shoe.

stockings.

ear rings.

watches.

rings and necklaces.

ticket stubs and hair brushes.

under garments

of pale unearthly

colors.

tubes of lipstick.

cell phones.

road maps with my house

circled

in red.

a small pink gun, unloaded.

one whip.

one mask.

a coiled rope

and a pair of leather gloves.

small size.

a pack of gum,

mints.

an empty bottle of cheap

perfume.

a dog collar and a leash.

a stewardess pin.

a polaroid camera with

the film still in.

one wig, red.

a swiss army knife,

a frisbee and

one unopened package

of twinkies.

i shake my head and laugh.

it's all a blur now.

i take the twinkies and go

upstairs

for a snack.

the little blue pill

i stand in line

at the pharmacy and the guy at the

kaiser window waves

to me. calls out my name.

says, yo. look who's in the house.

hey. he says.

oh my god.

he knows my name now.

i'm one of them.

i'm in here so much, i'm a regular.

the usual, he asks,

as i go to the counter.

yeah.

sure.

wrap them up to go.

how's the leg, the lungs?

sleeping well.

any issues down below?

i've got a special

on the blue pills.

and zinc.

what do you mean?

you know. come on. we ain't

spring chickens anymore.

hey, can you keep your voice

down.

jimminy crickets.

her name was lola

her name was lola,

not really

but she reminds me of the woman

in the barry

manilow

song back in the day,

i know. i know.

just shoot me now

and get it over with.

but she was a show girl.

that part is true.

that was forty years

ago

when there used to be

a show.

three husbands later,

she's still in the mix.

i see her

climbing into a cab

going out

and coming home.

her hair up in a bee hive.

heels

and a short black dress

wrapped

tightly on.

she waves and smiles

as i look out the window.

i get it how that beat does

go on.

house for sale

it's almost done.

there is nothing left to hang on the walls.

new windows

new stove

new dishwasher.

all have been installed.

the new tile

shines.

the walls are painted a soft

grey blue.

the curtains hang just right.

the furnace

rumbles gently with heat.

everything is wonderful

and so

sublime.

i stand there and look at

what has become

of this humble abode,

then go out front

to take the for sale sign

out of the yard.

i've changed my mind.

what's for dinner?

are you watching

the election

she asks me, as i yawn. no.

who's in it this year?

oh right.

him and him.

sleepy and the big mouth

guy.

oh what a world

we live in.

it's like

saying you have two choices

for dinner

tofu, or kale. an

indigestible state of

affairs.

the last party

we don't have parties

like that anymore.

drinks and food

flowing

on the table.

the counters. people

all over the house.

everyone over served.

the bartender not keeping up.

the music so loud

that the cops show up at your door.

cars parked on the lawn.

dancing breaks out.

we don't

have gatherings

like that

these days.

strangers kissing under the 

mistletoe.

the lights,

strung out around the house.

the tree

in the corner

full of tinsel.

the room gets so hot we

open the windows

to let in the cold from

outdoors.

we don't fall in love at parties

anymore.

but we remember them.

don't let it bleed

blood drips

and drops

but it doesn't mean a thing.

how much

do you

really need. you realize

how dull

and bland

how colorless your life

truly is

until you cut a vein

you see how bright what lies

inside

can be,

but don't cut too deep,

don't let

it bleed.

you give me reason to live

you can leave your hat on

i tell her

stealing an entire song from randy

newman.

baby take off your coat.

take off your shoes.

take off your dress.

yes yes yes.

come over here.

turn on the light, no all the lights.

come up here,

stand on this chair.

wave your arms up to the ceiling

and shake em.

you give me reason to live,

you give me reason to live.

you give me reason to live.

you can leave your hat on.

suspicious minds are talking.

they're trying to  tear us apart,

but they don't know what love is.

they don't know what love is.

i know what love is.

standing at the cross road

we all have crossroads.

intersections

where we stand

and turn to each empty

road

and try to decide which

way to go.

which direction will your life

take, now that there

is nothing or no one

to answer to.

you are a child again

but with less time to sow.

turn on the light

there is a big drawer in the kitchen

that holds

every sharp

instrument with which to cut,

serrate, slice

or dice. chop or make

mince meat out of

something on the big wooden

board.

it's heavy, this large drawer,

the wood old and wobbly, 

but it holds

four different shapes

of knives.

scissors.

peelers. shredders.

openers,

unknown devices that

have arrived

into my life that i have

no memory of.

it's a dangerous drawer.

one best turn on the light

before sticking a hand in.

be patient and wait

when i see someone i know

or don't know,

or barely

know

going off the proverbial 

deep end.

i breathe.

i sigh.

i've been there. i've spent

much time

in the dark night of the soul.

i don't wish it upon

anyone.

to travel to this place

where you hold your head

in your hands

and wait desperately

for relief, for the saving

hand

of God's grace.

there is little you can do

or say to help.

you can only hold them.

stand by

and whisper, it's coming,

it's coming

keep your faith. be patient

and wait.

what we take with us

at a certain age

we have most of the things we need

in a material sense.

our basic

needs for survival

have been taken care of,

unless the worst has happened

as it occasionally does.

but anything

we can touch, or has a physical

weight to it

has been bought

or earned.

we fill our houses,

we fill our pockets with things.

things that will remain long

after we're gone.

at a certain age, you see the  comfort

of these things. but none of them

mean anything,

or stand up to

what a friendship brings.

what a true love brings.

what family brings.

those are what we take with us,

when

we at last leave.

four out of five

my list of needs

and desires, 

used to be a mile long.

but lately

i've whittled it down

to a few basics.

food, clothing, shelter. 

cable.

and love.

four out of five ain't

bad.

fur coats in the garage

after irwin died,

she called me that afternoon

and told

me he had a heart attack while

sitting behind

the wheel 

of their Lincoln,

stopped at a red light.

go irwin, she said, hitting

his arm,

why aren't you going?

Irwin, look at me,

are you deaf?

people are honking their horns.

why aren't you going?

a month later, she shut the house

down.

and told me she was moving to Miami.

she put all her fur coats on

racks in the garage

and told me to come and take

a look.

take whatever you'd like,

she said.

maybe there's something here

for your wife,

or your girlfriend, or

i don't know, maybe if you're

like Irwin.

you have both. 

rebuilding bridges

i look behind me

at all the burned bridges

that i set fire to.

the charred remains

of wood

and iron.

smoke fills the air,

all of them in flames.

it's going to take a lot

of work

to build them

up again.

but i will, or least will

try.

i need bridges.

i hate goodbyes.

birthday wishes

i see her

with a cake and candles

lit

upon the table

her friends and family

gathered around

her,

singing.

i see the gifts.

the cards.

the balloons hanging

in the air.

another birthday.

another

well spent year.

age is not a number,

but what

lies within is her

true beauty,

go forward and have

no fear.

whatever you're drinking

you've changed she says.

you're different.

you seem

calm

and at ease.

you seem unworried.

you've got the world

on a string.

content, and oddly

happy,

i must say.

tell me.

tell me please.

i need some of whatever

you're drinking.

it's strange to see you,

at last,

this way.

your own way of walking

we find a style

and stick to it, finally

settling

on a look.

shoes and pants,

shirts.

etc.

the way you comb

your hair, or don't.

a ring, a watch.

the way you walk.

the way

you leave or come

into a room.

the way you say hello,

or wave.

make small talk.

you've found out who

you want to be

at last in life.

you have found your

drummer

and walk to your own

beat.

the made bed

there are people that make

their bed

everyday.

it sets the table

for their life.

neat and organized.

the sheets and blanket

pulled tight,

the pillows positioned

just so.

and then there are those

that don't.

i can go either way.

depending on the time,

the weather.

the mood.

what took place,

last night.

blistered

two blisters

appear at the tips of your fingers

pulling

a hot pan

from the oven

when the heat was on.

the skin

singes with a burn.

turns red, then white.

you know better,

you know better

about so many things,

and yet.

you reach

without thought,

again.

a new town

the land shrinks

as more 

bulldozers appear,

cranes

and machines bent on

extending the city.

new trees appear

as forests go down.

new stores.

new families

sprout like fresh grown

produce

from the turned soil.

streets are paved.

pools are dug, schools

are built.

we can hardly remember

when we walked

through these

woods

in love, each season

different

in its quiet.

the day ends as it began

i feel a draft in here.

a door

feels open, or a window

half closed.

there's

cold air

coming in from somewhere

as i sit

building a fire,

sitting here alone.

i turn a light on.

find a blanket. a book

that

never seems to end.

the night is young.

the night is long.

the day

has ended as it began,

with darkness.

the child within

you make amends.

you pray for forgiveness.

you confess

your sins.

you do penance.

you close your eyes and

let the tears

fall.

you bare your soul.

there is nothing more to

do.

you've come home again.

to the child

within. 

walking home from 

from St. Thomas More,

in the cold,

the snow.

the wind.

the art appraiser

nearly five years ago

i met

this man

who

appraised art, and furniture.

vases

and silverware.

all things old and of value.

estate sales

filled his house.

the rug,

the lamp, the drapes, all

from somewhere else.

someone gone,

departed,

but leaving behind,

for his hands

to find a place

to stand,

to dust until once more

they shine.

and now he calls 

once more,

his walls need help again.

so many nails removed,

the holes ready

for repair, for paint.

to make fresh

for something else to hang.

magnetism

the push

and pull of magnets

is hard to understand.

but

it's true

with this metal holding

on

to other metal.

it's strange

how 

the energy unseen keeps

us apart

or keeps us

together.

the vibrations of all things.

is it love, or some unseen

force

that draws us 

near

yet still so far.

when you get there

when you get there,

it's okay.

the seat maybe cold or warm,

or uncomfortable

but

it's fine, and will do.

you stop complaining

stop

trying to change

your surroundings to make

yourself

feel better.

leave the window open

or closed.

really, it's up to you.

when you get there, you

accept

within reason other's behavior.

it's not

your job

to change them, to correct

them.

or preach to them

your views.

you let them be

who they are. you set down

the stone.

that's all you can do.

you stop

trying to fix the world

to your liking, instead

when you get there you do

what you do best.

you forgive, you go home.

it's why i like you

we like what we know.

what to order.

what we like to wear.

where we like to go

when

we travel.

we like a certain kind 

of

food,

or path along the lake.

we like

our own music,

our own way of decorating,

our art

is our taste.

we know what we like,

the familiar,

the known. what brings us

joy

and comfort.

it's why i like you.

why

go different, 

why make a mistake.

three closets full

i have to get rid of some of these

clothes.

why in the ham sandwich

do i have so many shoes and shirts,

socks and pants?

three dressers full.

three closets stuffed. on hangars

suits

i never wear.

there's enough clothes in here

to open a store.

not to mention the linen closet.

the towels,

the wash cloths.

the sheets.

i have one bed and six sets of sheets.

most of them a shade

of blue.

if i never bought another thing,

i think, while driving

to Nordstrom's,

i'd be well dressed until i reach

a hundred.

you don't look good

you don't look good,

my friend

emily says, standing at the door

with her hands

on her hips.

what's up?

you've lost weight.

you look a little beat, and tired.

come in, i tell her.

get out of the rain.

i made you a tuna

casserole she says, but i forgot

it,

left it on the kitchen counter.

it's okay.

thanks for not bringing it.

i can't keep anything down

anyway.

she puts her hand on my head.

hmmm. she says.

no fever.

open your mouth. say ahhhh.

i do as she says.

huh. looks good. all pink

and rosy in there.

no  sore throat, no aches and pains?

nah, just feeling blah.

you know.

did your team lose, cable out?

run out of cake?

what up?

nothing. nothing really. just you know.

don't forget to vote

i get another text, the ninth,

saying

tomorrow is election day. don't forget

to vote.

who will you vote for, it asks.

red or blue.

i respond back.

thanks for the reminder.

i wouldn't have know this if you

hadn't of written

again and again, and yet

again.

thank you for the reminders.

is that you mom?

by the way,

who's running this time around,

i ponder,

anyone i know?

what if i don't like both?

developing trust

when the maid

comes

i hide nothing.

i put money out all over the place.

loose change, folding money.

i put rings

and jewelry on the counter.

i put a cake on the table

with a knife

and fork

beside it.

i unlock the liquor cabinet.

i leave my journal open

to be read

by anyone walking by.

full of my dreams and desires.

i leave a note and tell her,

your check

is on the counter, but please

whatever else

you need, take it.

it's yours.

a stack of books

immersed

in so much. so many books.

fiction

and non fiction.

self help

and theology.

spiritual tomes.

breathing techniques.

how to live with others,

or live alone.

get a dog, one book says.

join

a church.

donate, volunteer.

take a trip,

get a massage.

pray and meditate.

forgive others, forgive yourself.

the list goes on and on.

you get it.

self love comes first.

you really get it, but maybe

there's something

you don't know yet.

the next page will tie it

altogether

and suddenly all is known.

location

we speak of location

of where we are

how convenient it is from

here to there

the stores and work,

family,

the park.

a sleeve of water running

by.

it's a selling point

by the agent pointing

at the boat

sailing softly across the water.

you can't beat the location,

he says, and smiles.

we talk

of it as if it means we've

arrived.

we are close to all we need.

to everything

we need to comfortably

survive.

climbing trees

we would climb

trees

when we were young.

any tree.

up we'd go.

boosted by the hands

of friends.

no reason.

just dumb kids

with nothing to do

but to show

off how brave we were.

how strong

and nimble

to scurry up the trunk.

and look

out across the land.

and then

there was always that

moment

when you're heart sank,

and you thought,

how am i going to get down.

don't go in there

i'm afraid to go into my shed.

it's dark.

it's wet.

the door creaks.

there's not much in there

but the fuse box,

a few rusted shovels

and rakes.

a bag of christmas lights.

a trowel,

some dirt in a bag.

there's no light overhead.

it's a chamber of horrors,

the mildew,

the cobwebs.

and that ever present

snake.

love in a locket

some love

doesn't fit into a locket.

as the song

goes.

some love

needs more room.

it needs to spread its wings

and fly.

to corner it

or box it will

end it all too soon..

it's not a card, or a ring.

or some poorly

written poem.

some love doesn't fit

into a locket,

some love

needs to breathe

and be free,

or watch it die.

falling in friendship

a sweet

harvest moon appears

over our heads.

it's face

upon the lake.

cider in hand.

the chair rocks as we say

nothing.

why ruin the moment.

we

we were young once.

it was a different love then.

unsettled love.

lustful love.

it's better

now though.

we've grown as friends.

the vandals stole the handle

i go to the faucet

to turn

off the drip.

impossible. words

keep

coming out.

i squeeze harder, press

down

on the knob.

i take a wrench and

turn

at the pipe until

it groans,

but no.

the imagination

won't turn off.

it's a runaway train,

the opposite

of writer's block.

i'm knee

deep in paper.

the number two pencil

there is something 

about a pencil.

new and slipped out 

of the box.

a number

two yellow

pencil

that holds

about a thousand memories

of school.

of a girl you once

knew.

cute as the eraser on top.

it's an easy straight line

from sharpening

the point to remembering

how funny she

was, and how perfect

she'd be for you,

attachments

do i need

another bed, or house, or

car,

do i need a pool

to swim in,

a tv the size of an entire

wall,

do i need more food,

more drink,

more shoes,

more books (maybe).

what is that i lack

that i can't go out and

purchase.

that i can't swipe a card

or write a check for?

what is this void we

try to fill,

a cup without a bottom.

what is it that we chase

from the moment

we first cry

lying on our backs

in the crib.

dependent on others,

for love, for touch, for

safety,

will

that infant attachment

every go away, will

that feeling ever die?

for what's there?

the cold pushes

you inside, your

hands stiff,

your face brushed red

with wind.

the leaves dance

in crazy circles.

the branches bend

and bend and bend.

clouds

stream by.

the low sun

does nothing to warm

you up

so you cut the day

short.

you put the tools away.

you set the ladders

aside.

maybe you'll head for

home or

maybe not, for what's there?

maybe you'll

fill up the tank and go,

just drive.

we're not lost

we leave markers to find

our way home,

deep into the woods.

the sun

striking low in a soft

melt between

the stiff branches, bared

by rain and wind.

but we press on as if we

had a place to go.

dropping bread crumbs

behind us.

perhaps a lake awaits us.

a road,

a cliff or waterfall.

let's not worry ourselves

too much.

but walk on, once there,

we'll turn around and

head back home.

life on other planets

there is no life on

other planets

little air or water

to speak of.

no place

to put your feet up

and enjoy a show.

no dog about

barking.

no wife, or children to

worry you

and make you groan.

but it's far away

and costly to get there.

and then once

there what is there

to do?

unless of course i

bring along, someone

as sweet as you.

pushing snow away

the parents

took this change in stride.

they embraced

wind

and chill

and

politics. they were able

to set

aside

and move on, live

a life,

and not be swept under

by changes

they could do little about.

and now

you too

see the wisdom

in this 

learned detachment.

you take

out the shovel

and push the snow 

away.

scratch mine, i'll scratch yours

i used to tell her

please

in the middle, no up, no

a little down

to the left,

now right, okay, right

there, right there.

pull my shirt up.

scratch.

scratch harder.

in a circle.

dig. use your nails.

i think there's a bug

bite there

or something.

i could almost feel her

rolling her eyes.

adding it all up

i take account of money.

i make a list.

incoming versus outgoing.

if i live

to be 95

i'm fine, even

if i never make another

thin dime.

i live within my means,

whatever that

means.

this is when you wish you

had more

children, not

to take, but to spread the wealth

around.

perhaps there's still time.

the bird feeder

the bird feeder exhausted me

after a while.

the squirrels

the raccoons.

the black birds, large,

in groups

of five.

how they rocked the house.

flipping it

with seed,

side to side.

emptying what wasn't meant

for them,

but for me.

as i sat by the window

to watch

what would fly in,

fly by. where is the 

hummingbird.

the blue bird

and cardinals.

where is the wood  pecker.

with his bright

red mane.

where is the dove, white

as an angel

on brilliant wings.

on second thought

don't remember me that way.

in that light, in that

dark

night of the soul.

forget those words i said

and wrote.

dismiss those glances,

that constant frown

and grey sadness upon

my brow.

cancel those memories.

it wasn't me. we're different

when lost than we are

once found.

repairing life

i try to put things back together.

so much broken

to deal with.

shards of glass. bent

metal.

splintered wood.

i get the glue

out.

the tin snips.

a pair of pliers

and a box saw.

i set all the pieces onto 

the table

and spread them out with

wires and screws.

i don't know how this happened,

actually i do,

but here we go.

i fire up the welding

torch, the soldering iron.

i  flip down my mask,

then begin to put the pieces

back together.

one by one.

i hope that's enough

i couldn't paint

a sky like that

 if i had a thousand

years to learn how.

i couldn't write a song,

or play

the piano,

or sing,

or draw a portrait of you

if i tried.

but i can love you.

i can hold you.

i can do that

from now until the day i

die.

i hope that's enough.

the corner store

the corner store

is good. small and clean.

a well lighted place.

the fruit, the vegetables.

way over

priced

of course.

but they're friendly

and nice.

always with a question

about the kids,

the wife.

always telling you

what's in season,

what you should or shouldn't

buy.

they miss when you

haven't been in for awhile.

and they wave and smile

when you say

goodbye.

but you can't help feel at

times,

that they're up to

something.

it's already come

we keep a spare

key

under the plant box.

there's

a spare

tire

in the trunk.

an extra set batteries

are on the shelf.

there's things

frozen

in the ice box

in case

all else fails. we have

back up

generators. gallons

of water

in the cellar.

we have dried food.

we have

toilet paper by the rolls.

we have things

we'll probably never

have to use.

we have 

the landline, the chargers,

we are fully

prepared

in more ways than one.

we have a bunker

and booze.

we live a life

of waiting

for the worst to happen,

not realizing

that

it's already come.

if

if you

are truly good.

saturated with the word

and 

love

if you are to the bone

a decent

human

being,

seeking wisdom

and humility.

full of surrender

and forgiveness.

if this is so.

you let go of anger.

you let

go of sadness.

you reach out a hand

to help

another rise.

the red barn

how slight

the traffic is 

at this hour of the morning.

the sheen of rain across

the pillowed hills

of turned leaves.

i see the red barn

deep in the woods.

the house no longer there.

just a stone chimney,

and fallen lumber,

a border fence,

the gate still swinging on

its post.

a metal sign, with rusted words

saying welcome.

all of it feels like failure.

you can almost hear the breathing,

of the dying,

of the long departed hosts,

on the their knees in dirt,

praying for rain.

the unlicensed life coach

what have we learned

i ask

my mentor

as she flips through a magazine

in her office.

are you talking to me,

ummm.

yes. i believe so.

i am paying for this session,

aren't i.

oh right right.

i'm your life coach slash mentor

slash therapist/friend.

she puts friend into air quotes.

sorry, go ahead, you said something

about your mother.

a dream you had, yadda yadda.

isn't she dead now, why

are you still thinking about her?

i shake my head.

it's not important.

i think i need new hobby,

i tell her.

she puts her finger to her chin,

looks at her nails,

then takes some polish

out of her enormous purse.

i like that idea.

maybe arts and crafts?

do you like to sew, or do

origami?

what are you talking about?

no.

oh, well. i don't know what else

you could do.

you know. i'm not getting

a lot out of these talks

anymore, i tell her.

ditto, she says, dabbing

little blobs

of purple nail polish onto

her nails.

do you like the color? kind

of has that Halloween flavor.

don't cha think?

the bear crossing

i stop at the bear crossing

in upperville

west

of middleburg.

through the mist of rain

and fog

i see the mounds

of life appear.

three black bears mosey

across the gravel road

and into the wet pitch

of the pasture.

on all fours and two,

a family

outing, perhaps.

they don't look my way.

but i wish they would.

i'd like to tell them a few

things

about my life.

where i've been, where i've

come from.

tell them all the good

that i have left to do.

a satisfying end

i turn the clock back.

savoring the extra hour,

but think

why stop there.

why not a year, or two,

or three.

why just an hour.

let's roll back the odometer

on

steps taken as well.

flip the pages of that book

and begin again.

page one.

chapter one.

they were the worst of times,

the best

of times.

let's rewrite until we find

a

satisfying end.

the safe place

is sleep the womb

we return

to when

lights go out. the safe

warm

place

where born,

where only dreams

or memories

swim about.

is this what life is

after death.

part real,

part false, part like

what it was

when taking breaths?

one more chance

how many chances do we get

at the carnival.

the ball into the slot,

or ring

onto the hoop.

how many chances do we

get to swing the hammer

to make the bell

ring.

how many chances do we

get at spinning the wheel,

guessing black or red,

the table, with cards

and dice.

how many times can we ask,

for one more chance.

one more roll

one more time at throwing

our money down

on the winning horse,

just one more would

be suffice.

dear frank lloyd wright

it's the long

lean

lines, the effortless

efficiency 

of style

and grace.

anchored gently

into the land,

just right.

everything

for a reason, all things

in their place.

it's how we want

our lives

to be.

dear frank lloyd wright.

everything under the sun

we try nearly everything under the sun

to get well,

to find the meaning of life,

to get centered and free

from the human stain of grief

and sorrow.

we meditate.

we do yoga. we exercise.

we become vegans.

we eat only cabbage.

we pray.

we dance.

we get our chakras balanced.

we read our horoscope.

get a spiritual reading.

we try crystals.

we go to a chiropractor,

a therapist,

a psychic.

we chant.

we have a mantra.

we become Buddhists,

or Quakers,

we talk in tongues.

we fast,

we go on a retreat.

we recycle.

we take cold showers.

we buy more things.

we get hypnotized.

we take drugs, we join

hands in a circle

and sing kumbaya.

we put on yellow robes,

renounce everything

and join a cult.

we try the atkins diet.

we try psychotherapy.

we journal.

we keep a diary.

we run.

we walk.

we go to Tibet, we try

tantric sex.

we get married.

we get divorced.

we find new lovers.

we hike the mountain trail.

we lose ourselves

in music.

we eat only grapefruits.

are we there yet? no.

there's still something missing.

we haven't let go.

there is always hope

the low houses

near the factory,

along the road, a bruised set

of clouds

upon them.

cheaply made

of wood and stone,

small yellow lights

puddle out

from short windows.

a working

family

no doubt.

an old car in driveway,

the squared yard

to hang

the clothes, a dog

of course.

a chimney full of smoke.

and a wreathe

upon the door.

where there's love,

there is always hope.

the internet

sadly, the world knows

everything.

your age, your height,

your weight.

where you live.

how much you money

you make.

the schools you've attended.

the crimes you've committed.

where you've worked.

your marriages,

your kids.

the world knows everything

these days.

what car you drive,

what books, what food, what

clothes you buy.

each keystroke a footprint

in the universal

sand of time.

despite how hard we try,

no one can hide. even after life

has ended,

they can find

out when and why you died.

for better or worse,

in sickness and in health,

there is no escaping anyone's

prodding eyes.

the writing lesson

i have to write a letter

to your grandmother, she'd say,

go outside

and play.

leave me alone for awhile.

we'd look at her sitting at the dining

room table,

the wooden chair pulled

out

coffee, her blue lined paper,

her fountain pen.

a pack of cigarettes nearby.

my father's silver lighter

with an anchor on the side.

go, she'd say. scoot, scram.

don't tease your sister,

and shut the door,

the screen door

too, this house is full of flies.

find out why that dog is barking.

so we'd go.

but i  wanted to watch her write.

i wanted to see

the words come out of her

mind, from her heart,

run down her arm and

onto the page.

show me how to do this, i wanted

to say.

but she knew 

i already knew how.

a much better view

i visit the church up the street.

walk

with hands in pockets

up to brick

building.

the wind is at my back.

the sky

a startling blue.

the lot is full. the mass has

already begun.

but i have no intention

of going in.

i'll take my confession out

here,

say my prayers directly.

from here i see more

clearly.

it's a much better view.

regret

we do things we wish

we hadn't done.

we say we're sorry, but it's hardly

enough

to wipe the slate

clean again.

you beat yourself up, you

feel badly

about things. but there

is little you can do

or say, or write, to

change what went down.

there is nothing to be

done about it now,

but put it in the hands of

a higher power

and let it go.

making amends

here, have some of mine.

no

please.

take it,

take more if you want.

i'm done.

i'm full, i can't eat

another bite.

it's all for you.

please.

let me make amends

in the only

way i know how, let

me give what 

i have to you.

it's all gravy

if you make it through,

if you survive,

if you

continue on,

it's all gravy at this point.

if you've worked hard

enough

and saved. if you

didn't take the knife and take

your own life.

or was done in by

others,

if you've endured

betrayal

and love lost, hunger

and poverty,

if you made

it to the other side.

it's all gravy at this point.

sop it up with a crusty piece

of bread

and enjoy what's left

of this long strange ride.

the blue jay

an angry

blue jay alights on the fence

to fend

of

starlings and sparrows,

from

the seed

that swings in the bright

green box.

it's hardly a fight,

just

wide flapping wings

and bumps.

no harm

is done.

but the bully seems

to win.

sugar cone

i admit my addiction.

to coffee,

to cinnamon rolls

and cookies warm from the oven.

i admit

my sin

of sugar.

of sweets, ice cream

set upon a sugar cone.

life is too

short to not indulge on

occasion.

too short to go without

a kiss.

without love.

without sweetness,

lips upon lips.

the inner light

there is no straight line,

no linear

path

or set map

to get us from where we

need to go.

to find and stay on

that higher road.

so easy

to follow

the old way, the beaten

trail,

the familiar stones,

the trees

and bramble we've come

to fight through

and have known.

there is no straight line,

but there is a better

way.

it's time to get there

this time.

to follow the stars,

the moon,

the inner light,

to get there and stay.

the simple plan

i broil

a piece of salmon.

swipe mustard

against it's pink soft side,

then lay four sprigs of asparagus

beside it.

small potatoes too,

baked

and seasoned softly

with olive oil.

i feel the warm breath

of the oven

as i turn it off, and go with

two plates

in hand. one for me and one

for you.

a glass of wine before us.

simple was the plan.

midday walk

the trail

is carpeted with orange

and yellow,

red leaves

the pigment of their lives

seeping out

onto the black pavement.

puddles

catch the sky

which is undecided

which way to go.

from grey to blue, to

white.

it's a long walk and no one

is out,

but me.

the wind, the coming

cold,

and other things

have kept them inside,

which is fine, i'll walk, i'll

walk.

and breathe.

two pear trees

we set our ladders

against the old house

surrounded

by a brick wall, an iron

gate.

we were between two

pear trees

in full bloom, 

the pears were as green

and fat

as they could possibly

ever be.

ripe with white luscious meat.

help yourself, the owner said.

take as many as you

want.

they're free.

so we ate and ate, stuffed

them in our pockets,

for a whole week.

i haven't touched a pear

since then.

one super power

if i had one super power

what would it be?

to fly,

to be invisible,

to read minds, or

would it be

strength or x ray vision,

or merely

the ability to fold

a fitted sheet?

perhaps to go back into

time

would be nice,

and right the things done

wrong,

give everything a do over,

and change

what was unkind.

when the plague ends

when the plague ends

i'd like to  go to france or florence,

or bonn

or switzerland to see an old

friend.

if she'll have me.

i'd like to eat something sweet.

drink

something hard.

revel in dance and making love

again.

i'd like to see the world.

taste

all the things, we've gone

without,

all the things we've taken

for granted,

relish in all the things that are.

a herd of turtles

a herd of turtles

are

the crossing the road.

i cop shows up with flares

and

his car

with the party lights on.

a crowd gathers.

children

come to watch and sit on

the curb.

i like that one, a mother says.

she's the queen

i think

look at her plaid shiny shell.

someone brings out

coffee

and buns.

lawn chairs arrive.

everyone is quiet though,

respectful

as they move slowly

one after the other, in a steady

march,

their heads

pointed forward to the woods

and water

beyond.

my mother ironing

i remember sitting

on the last step

and peeking around

the corner

to watch

my mother ironing.

the bare

bulb

of the laundry room

shining white

upon her. 

the basket at her feet

full of rumpled clothes.

how quiet she was holding

that hot weight 

in her hand,

the steam,

the starch.

one shirt after another.

pants

and dresses.

onto hangars they would go,

others folded neatly

upon the washer.

it was a meditation of sorts.

no sound

no kids,

no radio.

just the quiet hiss of the iron

as her hand

pulled it along.

where he needed to be

the day before

he died

i went to his sterile room

where

the machine

breathed air

into his lungs.

his hair pulled back

by a white

bandage.

he was there,

but not there.

the wink, the smile,

the grin.

the cursing

was out of him.

i said a few words.

said a prayer,

then let him go

to where

he needed be.

betcha by golly wow

is it true

that some dance to remember

while

others dance to forget?

or is it just dancing,

finding the beat,

feeling

the music

throughout your body.

into your

tapping feet.

can't it just be that when

you hear

the right song

and smile

at what was.

it's not perfect but it's home

when we go away

we rarely wonder if we're

gone

to stay.

we assume we will return

and that everything

will still be in its place

at our humble abode.

the creak in the floor,

a dripping  faucet,

the cupboard drawer that won't

quite close,

the pipes

that groan,

the cold draft that blows

beneath the door.

it's not perfect, but it's

home.

the greeting at the door

when you

come home from work,

from the long day,

the dog

barks happily

and finds you at the door.

howling with delight

at your arrival.

his paws into your lap.

he's missed you.

there's not enough kisses

he wants to give.

who wouldn't love

a love

like that.

the girl in the photo

there was a girl

once, a squared snapshot

in black and white,

her hair cut short.

blonde

as if 

shaped by a bowl,

she stared into the camera

with all the wisdom

of a grown woman.

it's not a smile, or a frown,

but

awareness perhaps,

of what was to come,

even then there was little

that she didn't

already know.

the unmade bed

i toss aside

the old sheets, the worn

sheets,

blue cotton

as soft as her inner thigh.

i take them

off

the bed, slipping the corners

off the edge.

the pillow cases

too

are pulled away,

and then i lie there,

on the unmade

mattress

my head on the striped

bare

pillow and i sigh.

the aura

we slip into colors.

auras

dark or light.

a rainbow

of green, red, or blue.

a blanket of white.

we are in motion.

each

cell

as it divides.

each

thought new, or

old,

with anger or joy,

we paint ourselves

inside.

falling under a blue sky

i know you don't believe

in miracles

but i do.

having witnessed several

in my lifetime.

though

to the unbeliever they might

be construed as

coincidental

or accidental, or strange

and odd

occurrences, flukes. i have

seen things,

known things,

found things, without so much

as a single clue.

i have fallen off of

roofs and got up

and went back to work.

i've seen the blue sky looking

down on me

as i fell

and fell and fell. the list

is neither long

or short, but there is so

much more to tell.

addition by subtraction

we believe

that the more we

add

the happier we'll be.

more this

more that.

more love.

more things.

we want what we don't

or can't have.

and fail to realize

that subtraction

is often the key.

as the road gets shorter

i wish i knew more

about everything.

it's funny, but they often say,

that the older

you get the more you

realize how

little you know.

i can fit into a thimble

my knowledge

of life

and death.

science and love.

stars and the rest,

and yet it seems to be enough

sometimes.

though the road gets shorter

up ahead.

at our own pace

do not feel sorry for

the snail

the lowly

thing crawling

dragging itself from here

to there

tucked partly

into it's shell.

it's contentment

is unseen.

nor should you feel

sorry

for yourself.

we all move at our own

speed,

heal

on our own time table

and accomplish

things

when the time is right.

sometimes

we need to be low,

and moving

at our own pace, 

lost in the shadows,

but going ever forward,

whether

fast,

whether slow.

we are collectors

we are collectors,

no different

than those over a book of

stamps

from some country

in a different age.

or coins,

or books,

or things that others

deem worthless

and throw away.

we are collectors.

keepers of the flame.

of lovers past.

friends that have passed

away.

we turn to them in time

of trouble

in time of pain,

or when all is well and

we wish, upon stars

that one

day we could see them,

hold them,

love them

again.

a new path to the waterfall

you awaken.

it's taken time to get up

from this

deep sleep.

this dream like state.

you shake

your head,

and gather yourself.

nothing was what you

perceived it to be.

you dress

and leave your house.

you find a new way 

to the waterfall.

the endless surge 

of faith

like water has shown

you

the way out.

fire and ice

what isn't 

in abundance is

humility

and compassion.

what is,

is hate and animosity.

whether it's time for the next

great flood,

or the world going cold

and turning

to ice,

or fire, i'm unsure, but

each may do the trick

and would suffice.

the future

the future is not what

it used to be.

it never is, never was.

but so it goes.

hopefully we land softly

after the storm.

we find a beach,

sunny and warm,

and a hand

to hold.

a strange lot

how different we

are after

a year or two of life

under our

proverbial

belt..enduring

the windy passage 

of time.

what seemed so bad

back then,

suddenly

is not, while

what was wonderful

and new

has lost its luster.

we are such a strange

and wonderous lot.

bring mercy

bring mercy.

bring it in heaps, in droves,

armfuls

of mercy.

drop it down from the sky.

turn the hoses

on and spray

the world

with it.

mercy.

bring people to their

knees.

forgive them.

give comfort.

feed them.

bring mercy to 

the multitudes,

bring mercy

into this life.

bring mercy, for the world

is lacking.

a shadow in the light

i see her

shadow in the light.

i hear

the patter of her feet.

smell

the essence

of her perfume.

i see the hand

turning off the light,

before i sleep.

those are arms

around me.

those are whispers

in my ear.

those

are two hearts beside

each other,

love will last more

than one

year. no need though,

to think further,

or to shed a tear.

a light in the darkness

we are gifted.

all.

not some, not few.

but many,

including you.

whether art, or words,

or song.

music

or a poem. everyone

has at least one,

or more.

a skill that saves the world.

brings a light

to the darkness.

a dry martini

smart

is relevant.

college seems useless

at times.

books

and learning.

all of

that study,

all of that remembering.

equations

and diagramming

a sentence.

but can

you

change a tire,

scramble an egg,

balance

a checkbook.

be nice and kind.

can you

make me a dry martini,

two olives,

please.

yadda yadda yadda

i've been writing too much.

babbling on and on,

yadda, yadda, yadda.

my fingers are on fire,

they bleed at the tips.

my seat is warm from sitting

so long.

there is so much to do,

and yet here i am, at it.

pounding away at the backlit

keyboard at three a.m.

i'll go back to bed in a few

minutes. i just need to get

this one more thing down,

and then i'm done, done until

morning. but done for now.

maybe something constructive,

structured, and poetic

will arrive soon. we'll see.

a bump in the road

you hit a bump in the road

emotionally.

you ruminate and rehash the recent

past.

you realize that all

the anger is gone, at last.

no resentment, no lingering

words

to say.

no reason to be mad.

instead you finally see the light.

you let go.

you forgive.

you move forward

with a wiser look back.

the long war read

the churchill

book goes on and on and on.

it's taking

me longer to read it

than

the actual war lasted.

two pages

and i'm down for the count.

i dream of bombers

flying over my

house,

rations, sirens.

people burrowed

into the tube

below the ground.

two more pages tonight.

one hundred

and fifty nine more to go.

coffee and a flu shot

i get in line for a cup

of coffee

but it's not

the coffee shop,

it's the drive thru

for a flu shot.

i can see the arms going

out the window

one by one.

the needle going in.

the swipe

of alcohol.

i feel dizzy and almost

faint.

i just wanted a grande

americano

with half and half

and two splendas.

i roll up my sleeve and

wait.

the good china

i put out the good china.

who would think, that i had

good china.

but i do.

a gift from mary who died

last

year in Miami

at the age of 98.

each year she added another

piece

from Macy's.

i think of her as i set it out.

the plates,

the bowls,

the serving dishes.

teacups too.

i know that she'd be proud.

marie orsini

i hear her sigh.

her

moan, her breathing..

the death

of sleep

upon her.

still hanging on by

threads.

a year

in this strange house,

the box room,

handled

by strangers who

are never

known.

she can't see or talk,

just barely breathe

as she's fed as if a bird,

a crumb of food,

then water,

drop by drop.

i whisper in her ear,

it's okay.

we're fine, it's time

to leave.

leave it alone

they say there's water

on the moon.

good.

coffee can't be far behind

and a

cinnamon scone.

why are they so bothered

with that bright orb so far

away and yet so close.

there's no air.

there's nothing but sand

and stones.

can't they leave it alone,

leave it for the poets,

the philosophers

and the lovers

who walk

hand and hand below.

the autumn hunt

i see the hunters

in the woods, geared up

for

the kill

the autumn slaying of deer

in accotink

park.

the path is littered with

red signs

telling you

beware, naming

the months of hunting

that lie ahead.

at dusk they arrive

in camouflage

and march towards the woods,

up into the trees

they go,

with night vision eyes,

with arrows poised,

and the deer

fall

and fall until the herd

is thinned

and the roads are safe

again.

the rip tide

unlike

other months this one

seems

to have its way

with me.

so much

change,

so much push and pull

below

the waves.

the undertow is fierce

this time

of year.

the rip tide

of the past.

i struggle to swim

forward,

to get out of the cold

water,

to be on

dry land, at last.

perhaps tomorrow

i take the long walk

up to the mailbox,

i wave at the grey clad

man

with his leather satchel.

he tips his hat

and moves onward to

the next box.

i open the metal door

and put my hand inside

the cold chamber.

nothing.

i close it and go back

down the path.

perhaps tomorrow.

the weathervane is still

unsure of the weather

i dip

a toe

out the door

and test

the air, how hard is the

rain

falling today.

is there wind.

the weather vane is still,

up high.

how low

is the temperature.

what's in that overcast

sky.

once more

i'll venture out

and try to survive.

one critic

your poems are nonsensical

at times

she writes.

some are positive

some not.

some are dark and full of

worry

and fear

a world gone  wrong.

love gone

astray.

childhood and old age.

you wanted me to say

what i thought, but i'm

sorry i can't find the words

to say anything nice.

but you asked.

i was hoping for something

more along

the hallmark card

type of poetry.

but nice try. keep at it.

you never know.

the world around me

i hear footsteps in the hall

coming

up the stairs

i see a shadow

i see

the flash of light.

i hear

the shutters bang,

animals in the woods,

their muted shrieks.

i hear voices

outside

the window discussing me.

cars backing in with

brights.

the world is moving

around me and there

is little i can

do about it, but close

my eyes

and pray and say

good night.

the old canvas

the day is white canvas

untouched

awaiting paint. awaiting a

new image

a new

set of colors, but we push

it aside

and try to redo what we

did yesterday, or years

before.

we place

the old canvasses upon

the easel and dab

and touch up, smooth out

the sky,  the faces.

we paint them over and

over until our past resembles

a different life.

unsalted butter

i wonder sometimes

how

things

appear,

how they arrived in my cupboard

or ice

box.

where did that

come from. the unsalted butter,

the almond

flour.

yogurt?

and packets of foiled

salmon.

who came

and left me these things.

the cookie

cutters,

the blender, and large fork,

a twisted

spoon.

a folded bag of brown

sugar beside

the  baking powder?

and in the corner,

whose broom?

the ship in port

i tilt

towards 

God

at times when things

get hard.

when

trouble arises.

not drink or drug,

or sex,

i go to my knees

to right the ship

on those roiling waves,

but

when the storm departs

how easily

i fall

back into my old ways

with the ship in

port, anchored

and safe, 

perhaps

it's time to change 

my circled course.

i've sailed enough

for one

lifetime.

the lights are all green

some days

the lights are all green.

the road

is clear.

the traffic light.

the weather is fine.

all is well

with the world,

both yours

and mine.

you want to bottle

these days.

keep them on a shelf

where you can reach

them

any old time.

trains at the station

i like the train.

the old trains.

the sound of a train.

the mythology

of trains.

the rails.

the stations.

the people waiting to

board,

to get on

with their lives.

i like how they look

arriving in the fog,

the lights,

white,

red flashes,

how they appear

as they depart,

the smoke, the chug

of wheels,

the conductor

yelling all aboard,

the whistle and 

the face in the window

of the last car, 

crying as she waves

to those left standing

in the cold.

what goes inside

it is true

that the body keeps score.

what we

eat or drink or think

takes

its toll upon us

whether good or bad.

the numbers

don't lie.

the way you feel is 

directly related to what

goes inside.

more water

more green

more sleep

more peace

more calm,

more love

will keep you healthy,

keep

you alive.

the end of a day

the day can be exhausting.

i sit

on the edge of the  bed

and untie my

shoes, letting them fall 

to the floor.

the clothes come off.

i'm stiff and tired

from the work day,

my hands filled with the debris

of labor.

there is dust in my eyes.

i lean back onto the pillow

and think of dinner.

i think of lovers past.

i think of younger days

when i wanted 

everything in life, each

day, each night to last.

but there is still sweetness

in it all.

i've never lost that.

the last word in

you grow up thinking

that you have

to get the last word in,

the last punch,

the last of everything

to make your point.

you swell with false

pride at having won

the argument.

having won the fight.

but things have changed.

you're older now

and you see each

person in their own 

unique light. you

let them be who they

want to be.

who are you to always

be right.

two lumps of sugar

she puts two lumps

of sugar

into my tea, she brings

a warm

biscuit

on a plate.

she is the perfect picture

of civility.

the doily on the table,

that white

lamp

against the blue

wall where a picture

of the sea

shines bright.

her books are aligned

by color.

no dust is found upon

a finger.

she is not the wild girl

i once knew

so many years ago.

she has at last found peace

without a lover.

until there is no more

if you live long enough

God

will bless you with

suffering beyond

anything you thought you

could endure.

it's hard to understand,

until

you too have been

under fire, the melting

of impurities

goes and on until

there is no more.

she said all is well

she was old.

older than me by years.

a decade two, or

more.

and when she spoke to me,

she found

my eyes.

my true self, beyond

ego

beyond fear,

she said in her even

voice, earned wise,

that all is well.

it always has been.

you'll see, you'll understand

once you take

your hands

off the wheel.

no power of my own

forgive

forgive

forgive.

who is without

sin

throw the first

the stone.

i pick up my rocks

and go home

i drop them into the cold

stream

of time.

it took awhile.

but with anger,

finally, through

no power of my own,

i'm done.

the other world

you get the feeling,

in fact

it's a knowing

that what

we see of this world is

the tip

of the iceberg of what really

lies

above and below.

treat kindly

others.

be compassionate,

and leave

your sorrow behind.

this is just a temporary

state of being,

and then

there's more.

baking cookies

i go through the cupboard.

find flour

and vanilla, brown sugar

and white,

salt and pepper.

there's butter and eggs

in the ice box.

there's a bag of dark

chocolate chips.

a bag of walnuts.

there's the mixer from

under the counter.

there's the spoon and spatula.

there's the recipe

spread out.

there's all the time in the world.

to

make a dozen or more.

the oven goes on.

the clock set.

each bite a warm memory

of what was

and still is.

bread crumbs

there are rumors,

words said,

the grapevine, the little

bird

who comes and chirps

news into your ear.

there's gossip

and there's truth.

tid bits of information

of others

that comes to you.

bread crumbs.

does it matter, does

it make

the needle move?

overnight

the coat is light

this morning.  winter is not quite

here.

but i hear

him knocking, his voice

in the wind.

i see clearly

in the distance

his wintry beard.

his thick boot of ice,

his steel

blue eyes arriving

seemingly overnight.

but not yet.

there is still time to deal

with remorse

with regret.

the cautious man

careful

we are in so much of life.

side stepping

the puddles,

the broken glass.

how gentle

we are with the knife

as we cut

against the board.

cautious around

flames,

the splintered floor.

how careful

we are with

our bodies, keeping

them from harms way.

and yet our

heart 

runs wild when love

arrives,

our mind and body,

both, are led astray.

the dark night of the soul

sometimes you have to walk

the thoughts

out of you.

in the cold rain,

the wind.

it makes no difference,

you feel nothing

of the weather.

you've done this before.

one step

after another into the long

dark night

of your soul.

the heat of you blooms

out of your mouth,

your eyes are wet.

your legs are forever strong

as is your heart,

as you move forward.

putting the sword away

i used to say

i was done with forgiveness.

done with bending,

done

with reaching out the olive

branch.

finished

with being nice, being good,

being understanding.

i tried so hard to go the other way,

thinking darkness,

but it didn't work.

filling my day with anger

and resentment.

self righteousness

poisoned me to the bone.

it's a losing game.

one I won't go to back to,

God willing,

ever again.