what they will become

i remember

the woman next door, 

moving in

five years ago,

about to

give birth

to her daughter.

the husband attentive

to her needs

holding the door, the hand

of other child,

perhaps one, in his,

but now i see the for sale

sign

in the ground,

the truck arriving.

they are about to leave.

i'll never look out

the window again

and sadly not see 

them growing

into what

they will become.

when Ingrid calls

when ingrid calls

i can 

finally understand what she's

saying.

my ears being practiced in her Irish

way

of talking.

she's learned to slow down

when speaking to me,

enunciating her words

more clearly

as if i'm a small child who's

hit his head

too many times.

we talk

about Philip Larkin

again,

our mutual friend

and wonderful

book

the Whitsun Weddings.

i could listen to her

now recite a book of poems,

or just a grocery list,

the lilt, the tug and pull of her

homeland.

the sound of salted waves.

i can almost smell the sea.

the city of Belfast in her voice.

the holiday stretch pants

i find my holiday stretch pants

at the bottom

of the drawer.

and put them on.

not too snug or tight.

with a little room at the waist

for what's

to come.

i reach into a pocket and find

a note

from a former ex wife.

it's a grocery

list.

perfect, i think, now

i don't have to make another

one.  off i go to the store.

buying things i need

and other things,

that i have no

clue

what they could be for.

i'd like to call her to say

thanks,

but she's blocked and deleted

me

not unlike what so many others

have done before.

the new room mate

i find a cricket in the house.

i've heard that it's good luck.

but i'm not sure

about that.

i have a conversation with the cricket

asking

him what

in the world he's doing here

this time of the year.

are you lost?

how'd you get in here.

i can hardly hear him, though,

because

he's so small.

i ask him if he wants to go

back outside

into the woods, perhaps.

he shakes his head no.

at least i think it's his head.

he asks me in a high pitched

scratchy

voice

if have a box he can live in

until spring.

it's too cold out now.

maybe throw in some grass

and dirt.

a few branches.

that sort of thing.

i shrug.  i tell him i'm not big

on room mates. i've had some

trouble

with people living or visiting

my house for very long.

he puts his two little feet, or

hands, arms,

whatever they are out

and pleads with me.

okay, okay. i tell him. but keep

it down.

lights out at eleven and

no visitors. i don't want some

butterflies, or lady bugs coming

around

keeping me up all night.

and keep

your cricket noises down.

do you really have to rub

your feet like that all the time"

what is that. ADHD?

i'll leave the hall light on

in

case you need to use the bathroom.

and i prefer

if you're

hungry to not bring food

up.

i had trouble with ants last year.

he tips his antennae and says. okay,

got it. thanks.

not really friends

he knows

a lot about a lot of things.

i tend to just

listen

and not add much to the conversation

knowing that whatever

i say

will be refuted,

dismissed or ignored. so

i put him on speaker phone

and make a ham

sandwich.

if i say the name

winston churchill, off he goes

telling me

the history of england

during world war two.

if i say.

soy bean.

he'll tell me what a valuable

crop it

is, and how easily it grows

and sells, and all the products

than can be made

from it.

he never really says hello,

or asks

a single question about me,

my life.

my work. my son.

where did the last love go?

he just goes and on and on.

we've known

each other forever,

but not really.

so off i go

it's raining.

cold.

miserable out.

the wind

rocks the house. trees

are swaying.

i peek out the door

and shiver.

i stamp my feet in the hall.

the sky

is alive with lighting.

it may snow.

it might all turn to ice

by sunrise

if there is a sun left

after

this storm.

but i need a stick a butter.

so off

i go.

in just a blink

you try hard to be more kind

to the unkind,

more understanding of the misunderstood,

compassionate

to the mean.

more loving to the unloved.

you reach out and forgive

the unforgiveable.

you try hard to take

the higher ground, to be

a better person than you

were the day

before,

but it's harder than you think.

it's tough.

we have both

sides within us, depending

on so much.

more, please

she makes

her famous bread pudding,

her cranberry

sauce,

her special stuffing.

all

secrets passed on.

she hides

the recipes.

she never gives a clue

as to what

goes in, what goes on.

we don't

ask

we just smile and say.

more please.

the black horse

the black horse

is in my dreams. 

rider less

as it

moves across

the green

pastures

before dark.

i watch it run

until it disappears

into a grove of

trees.

i wonder

what it all means.

unworried though,

i understand

that so much of life

will always

be a mystery.

a house of noise

growing up in a house

of arguments,

of loud voices

all trying to be heard

above the din.

i cringe now

at confrontation, 

of disagreement.

i'm done with the fight.

done

with the drama,

the tearing out of hairs,

the punch,

the broken bones,

the curses that once

filled

my ears.

turn off the noise.

wipe the blood off my

mother's face.

change the locks, tolerate

no abuse.

no longer be afraid.

return to sender

i unsmile

what made me happy

i unpack

the goodness of what was.

unstaple

remove

and cut. i tear away

the labels

i once stuck upon the box

of

this life.

i unsend myself.

i write return

to sender

upon the package with

a

dark pen.

i wait until midnight,

under a full wolf

moon

then send.

adjusting

the river bends

it moves

it's hardly in the same place

from

rain to rain.

the banks

overflow

are smoothed and ground

down

into a different shape.

time and weather

having its way

on who we are who

we are yet to be,

we can only look up

to the sky

to pray,

and wait.

the first thanksgiving

i remember when we came

over on

the mayflower.

cold as hell on that ship.

it was like

a cork

bobbing on the ocean.

i was sea sick the whole nine

months

we sailed.

i had nothing to read

no internet connection, nothing.

and my wife was still mad

at me for

something i said back

in england

about her never wearing

high heels.

she yelled constantly

at me for stealing our

one blanket as we

rolled along the wet deck

trying to sleep.

finally someone yelled out

land ho.

we all screamed with joy.

pointing at 

the rocky shoals.

but the captain said, no.

not there.

what the hell.

he had the map upside down.

at that point we were 

so sick of eating fish

we started to eat

our shoes

and parts of the ship.

all of us had cut lips from

the splinters.

finally we landed.

we had nothing.

the indians killed off half

of us

in about two minutes

for stealing their corn,

i got an arrow in my arm,

which i immediately broke

off and ate.

the rest got measles,

chicken pox,

and whooping cough,

but there were lots of squirrels

to eat.

i made a coat out of about

a dozen rabbits

and was quickly named

mayor for the week.

i'll never forget that first thanksgiving

though.

turkey, mashed potatoes.

gravy.

someone found a pumpkin

pie in

storage next to the salt,

then we put the game on.

party time

i invite thirty five of my dearest

and closest

friends

over for thanksgiving.

i figure maybe three will make

it.

i have the swanson turkey tv

dinners

stacked in the freezer

and ready for the oven

set at 375.

no need for a pie, or cake,

i tell them.

Swanson has that covered with some

sort of apple

glop in a little tiny

side compartment of the aluminum

tray.

just bring whatever you're drinking

and your hazmat suits, extra masks.

i have straws,

plastic utensils.

i have all sorts of cleaners,

bleach.

wipes.

etc.

take the side entrance and

come up

the fire escape.

the law is on the look out for

gatherings.  tip toe quietly.

text me when you get here.

just her tree

she tells me that the tree

in her yard

can be seen from outer space.

it's a strange thing

to say

and yet

i wonder what else can be seen

from so high.

how small our world

is.

how important the unimportant

seems

to be.

when alone.

when lost, when grasping for

straws

treading water

in a placid sea.

Poem 3

i turn back the clock.

i empty

my pockets of all things

that are important

to me.

i throw my wallet into

the street.

i burn

the photo albums.

i erase

the messages on my

machine.

i take a broom and sweep

clear the rooms.

i am not

who i was before this.

i am exactly the same

boy my mother kissed

and sent to school.

i'm going back to that.

to the innocence

of childhood, 

the brightness of youth.

taking with me 

the wisdom i've learned,

all pain removed.

there is crying, of course

there is crying of course.

sadness,

sorrow,

confusion.

death is like that.

and as i lie here looking

out

upon the crowd. i see

many people

i haven't seen in quite

some time.

well dressed as they bend

towards me

and say

things

i've never heard them say

before.

how they've aged.

how strange

to be now on the other side

of life

peering out.

it's almost the first time

i've ever really

not been worried

about someone or something

trying desperately

to make things right.

he'll have to do

there are no more sugar plums

dancing in my

head

she tells me.

no disney princess story.

no cinderella

losing a slipper.

at our age,

he's good enough.

he can chop wood, and 

lay tile.

he's handy.

the dog seems to like

him too.

i'll settle for this. for him.

we get along, as best we

can

he's someone i can live with.

i can trust

and

almost understand.

a simple man with no

ambition

no plan other than being

with me

morning noon and night,

seeing out our final

years together is what he wants.

at least it's not misery.

it's good enough for

now.

in fact at times, it almost

feels like love. though

it's not.

the white page

i stare at the white page

imagining things i might say,

what i might write

if i wanted life

to go a certain way.

to manipulate

the cards

that have been dealt.

trick fate.

i could

rant and rave, to get things

of my chest,

out of my mind,

to try and save

what's been lost.

but i don't write a single

sentence,

not a word.

not a phrase.

silence and the purity

of white

will remain upon this

cotton cloth.

she's yours now

there is a man outside the window.

he looks familiar.

his hands are in his pocket

his collar up

in the cold wind.

he looks like

he has questions to ask.

he may be lost.

he may have found what he's

been looking for

in the empty space out front.

i wave to him.

he waves back.

he smooths out the grey

in his hair,

his mustache.

age has caught up with him.

i want to tell him she's no

longer here.

she's yours now.

go home. it's okay.

may peace be with you.

relax.

you sit in a chair

you sit in a chair

and wait

for tomorrow to begin.

the room is cold.

the walls are as white as

a wedding dress

without the promise.

you remember childhood.

and then

when it wasn't childhood.

what comes next

reminds you of the blank

page

in the back of a book.

you sit in the chair and listen

to nothing.

not even your heart

is loud enough

to fill your ears.

you are waiting.

it seems you have been waiting

for a long

time.

for what you aren't sure of,

but it feels

close.

it feels near.

you wait some more.

you sit in a chair.

the missed calls

i see

that there are seventeen

missed calls

on my voice mail.

not a single 

message left,

and yet

the one i pick up

on and take

is the one i wished

i missed

the most,

the one i'll always

remember.

the one i'll always

regret.

xmas prep

i'm ready for christmas.

my three cards

have been signed and stamped.

sitting on the table.

i've got

the candles out.

the snow globe brought

up from the basement.

the small aluminum tree

that i put on

the console.

a string of lights plugged

in behind

the side table.

i've got a wreathe on the door.

and some

of those pine

cones in a bowl

that make me sneeze.

eggnog in the fridge.

and some sugar cookies.

what's left?

a stocking hung on the fake

fireplace.

that's it. done.

the black stapler

i stare at the black stapler on my

desk

that i stole in spite

from the last office job i had.

i try to remember

the last time i used it.

maybe nine years ago

when i had to staple

up some divorce papers to send

to my lawyer.

it's full of staples

and ready to go when needed

again.

so i just can't part with it.

at least not yet.

there's a will to make.

don't ghost me

if we do this, you're not

going to ghost me

are you?

what, did you say something?

this

snap won't come undone.

why are there so many snaps?

we might have to turn the light

on unless

your phone has a flashlight.

i'll get it she says.

reaching behind

her back.

i said, you aren't going to

disappear

and never call me again, or

text

or anything like that are you?

you know, ghost me?

i just need to know

that before

we go any further.

hey,

i tell her.

do you really think i would do

that?

what's up with this crazy button,

for the life of me i can't

get it undone.

and then it starts to rain

i almost buy

a piece of property

down

south.

next to the river bank.

the agent says, we haven't

had 

a flood in weeks.

i believe him as i hold

up the pen

about to sign my name.

it's going to be my dream house.

my last

stop.

where lulla belle and I will

grow old together

in sweet marital

bliss,

my final resting place.

and then it

starts to rain.

don't let the door slam

i miss the sound

of a screen

door slamming and my mother

yelling out

don't let the door

slam while

she was on the phone blabbing

to her friends

about

a chicken recipe.

i don't even know why

we had a screen door.

the screen was busted

out at the bottom

where the dog would run

out and come back in

and at the top were holes

where balls struck.

flies and bees and the occasionally

bird would be all

over the house.

why we kept that rattling

slamming

door on its hinges is

beyond me.

i'm sure it's still there,

though,

and someone else's mother

is yelling

the same thing.

red white and very blue

i used to work on my american

made

cars.

chevy's and pontiacs,

back in the 70's and 80's.

oil pumps,

water pumps,

gaskets, filters.

leaks.

carelessly made junk

that broke down a mile

away from

the show room floor.

on saturdays

i was always on

my back asking

someone to hand me a wrench.

and then i bought a little

honda from japan

and never again

opened the hood of a car.

much to my father's dismay,

calling

me a traitor

to this day, he just can't

let go of that silly little war.

five hail marys

i feel a sin coming on

i tell

her as she closes in for a kiss.

her hand

on my knee.

her eyelashes

batting like

the wings of a bird in heat.

not to worry

she says.

tomorrow is sunday.

we can go to church

and confess,

do our penance 

and be good to go 

once clean.

apple martinis in bed

she melted

my butter, curled my

toes.

gave me reason to live.

she never

burned a single

piece of toast.

made the bed, baked

a slew

of cookies.

she even

was intimate if i was

a good boy

and let her

run wild when i wasn't

around.

it's hard to get these

people

out of your head,

without therapy

and books

and you tube videos

and 

apple martinis that

you sip in bed.

rinse and repeat

ingrid asks me why o why

do you keep

writing about the past.

about past relationships,

about women that have done you wrong,

things that have

gone bad.

i don't know i tell her.

it's fun, i guess. and i don't

have a crystal ball to look

into the future,

so i got nothing to say about

that, at least

not yet.

firing my doctor

i need a new doctor.

the one

i have stinks.

not literally, but if i told her

i had

something wrong.

an ache a bruise,

a bone

pointing in the wrong

direction,

or i'm seeing double lately,

she'd say, oh, oh my.

that's too

bad.

have you had your flu

shot yet.

you can't

you can't unsour

the milk

unstale the bread.

you

can't undo the meat

that's gone

bad,

or uncrack the egg

that's spilled,

and yet we keep them

around

just same,

hoping beyond reason

that things will change.

to the bitter end

i feed

the cat her food.

premium cat

food, black caviar

and fish,

but do i get a thank you. no.

she's selfish

and aloof.

distant

and quiet. always in

a strange

mood.

i try to pick her up

but she claws

my hand, drawing

blood out

in four lines of skin.

i put her out the door.

she disappears for a while,

finding an alley

full of strange

cat men,

but returns

in the morning, her hair

a tangled mess,

her lipstick on her chin.

she cries and cries

to come back

in.

so i let her in.

i always let her in.

codependent to the bitter

end.

the senior book club

the book club,

everyone over the age of

seventy,

is reading the joy of sex.

the illustrated

version

with real photographs

of real people

not those stick figures

charcoal sketched

who neither bend or flex.

the discussion

is short and brief.

one woman says. oh,

i remember trying that once

with Edgar,

it was fun, but he hurt his

back

and was never the same

after that.

another man has to excuse

himself

and go into the bathroom

taking

the book with him.

the discussion goes dead

after

a while.

and someone says, let's have

a drink.

so the drinking begins,

martinis go around,

the lights go down.

someone puts on the some music

from their phone.

dancing ensues.

what's the next book we're

discussing

yells betty and joe,

from the coat room.

the cosmic dots

do we need to think

that stubbed toe

is the beginning of the end of things.

the flat tire,

the broken nail.

the lace

that's frayed and will not

tie again.

do we connect some cosmic

dots

and call it a bad

day,

the beginning of a bad week.

do we lump

it all in with the news and say

it's just the year 

we're in.

it will be over soon?

off my trolley

i find myself

drifting off into a british accent

from time to time.

it's not that good, but it gets the job

done

when i need

to speak to someone

who might be amused by

such

fun.

and yes.

i do think that i'm off my

trolley

today,

so early in the week.

just monday?

dear lord, i do so miss

my 

tea times across the pond.

i'll drink to that my dear

we have a delightful conversation

about fruits

and vegetables.

i can tell she's on 

her third martini.

i hear the clink of the glass.

the splash of an olive

going in.

she starts off with asparagus

and i segue into

squash corn,

then gin.

we talk soups, and desserts.

how ripe

the pomegranates

are

this time of year.

but how small the oranges

are.

she claims

she's never tasted a potato quite

like the one

she had

last night for dinner.

those

granny apples are special

too.

maybe i'll make an apple for

you.

make the crust

thick and crispy, i tell her.

and she says

cheers. i'll drink to that

my dear.

the long ride to the city

on the bus to new york

a kid

is crying. he won't stop

crying.

his mother

has her ear phones on

tapping her foot

and mouthing the words

to a song that only

she can

hear.

the kid has his gooey

fingers on the window.

drawing patterns on 

the glass with his face

in abstract smears.

he looks back with a demonic

smile,

then throws

a pickle at me from

the hamburger

he has in his hand.

he's

red faced, tear stained.

his blue

eyes dark as the devil's.

it's going to be a long

long ride

into the city.

the pre date questionnaire

did you vote.

recycle.

do you go to the doctor.

do you weed,

do you see your children

often.

your parents.

do you save

your money.

do you drink and drive,

speed.

do you go to church,

do you give,

do you volunteer,

do you get eight hours

of sleep

do you floss

do you eat raw,

avoid dairy

and meat.

do you meditate

did you validate your

parking,

cut out some coupons.

do you wear

a mask.

do you help the poor

are you kind

to the unkind

compassionate and loving

to those

less fortunate.

have you ever been arrested,

do you have

a psychological

disorder.

how many times have you

been married?

are you ready for a commitment.

loyal and true,

how much do you weigh,

how tall are you,

how's your blood pressure,

your blood sugar,

your cholesterol count,

your IQ

where did you go to school?

i've never done

this before.

should i be afraid of you?

maybe zoom first, okay?

the widow stepping out

the widow

no longer in black, but

 pink

and frilly white,

is done mourning. she's mourned

for most

of

her life 

the choices she made.

stuck

in the sadness

of love

soured. decades of biting

her tongue,

being silent.

but game over.

now it's her turn to take

a swing

at the night. stepping

out

with lipstick on, heels.

dressed

to but nines. may he rest in peace,

but

it's way over due

to live,

to have fun.

the old rockers

i see the old rockers.

still 

in leather.

still rolling their joints

but no longer with the boone's

farm

now it's red from france,

or nappa

valley.

the long grey hair.

a pony tail.

hanging on to bruce,

to journey

to the rolling stones

and others.

keeping the flame going.

the old hippie

chicks and dudes.

beads

and tie dyed clothes,

and hair.

the boots.  they are stuck

somewhere.

dreaming of woodstock,

not here. but

the party ends at ten

now.

we need to get home,

call the grandkids

and tell

them

we were there.

lost in the crowd

there are geniuses among

us.

but we don't know.

they are lost in the crowd.

they might be pumping gas.

stocking shelves.

cutting grass.

lying flat, drunk and broke

on skid row.

the brilliant minds

and talents

of the world aren't always

out front.

aren't in the news.

on shows.

not at all, 

in fact i saw a grocery

clerk the other

who had that gleam

in her eye.

i could see the brilliance

she possessed

in the way her hands moved,

the way

her lips parted

when she took a breath.

the way she held herself

above the grey

of her life,

above the struggle,

above the rest.

let's go for a ride

my friend, who turned seventy

five

the other

day

said out loud.

this might be the last car

i buy.

he laughed.

but i understood exactly

what he meant.

he tells me about the engine,

the horsepower.

the leather seats,

the manual shift.

he tells me what it does

in the quarter

mile.

even at this age, just a simple

like a car

that goes fast

will make him smile.

come on, he says, get in.

let's go for a ride.

your life now

i haven't

melted in a while.

i haven't sat with head in hands

and

let out 

a storm.

i haven't been there

for sometime.

strange

what healing does.

at last,

to heart and mind.

come sit beside me.

it's about

your life now,

not mine.

the ingredients needed

i don't like to measure,

no cup

or spoon, no sifter,

no reading from the book.

no recipe

needed.

i know what i need to put

into

this relationship,

to make it work.

to bake

love

without a glitch.

trust

loyalty

affection

respect,

all musts.

i turn the oven on

and begin

there.

no surprises

i don't want to be surprised

anymore.

i don't

want to find a note

in your over coat,

find

a message in a bottle

washed upon

the shore.

i don't

want to pick up your phone

and find

out what i already 

know.

i don't want to know anything

anymore

about anyone

i love.

just show up and be true.

trust me

and i'll trust you.

good luck, bad luck

i blew out the candle

without

making a wish.

i'm very done with making

wishes.

tossing coins into fountains,

searching for that falling

star

in the sky.

i no longer avoid

the ladder

and walk around it.

i'll

step on ever crack,

and pet

every single black cat

i come upon

and wish it well.

bad luck

good luck.

in this age we live in,

it's so

hard to tell.

outside of your own

you see pictures

of houses being washed out

into the sea

or set on fire,

burning

like squared candles

among the trees.

you see

people with all their belongings

in a bag,

searching

for a new path.

grasping late in life

for some semblance of

dignity.

there's the dying, the sick,

the needy.

deformity.

you watch it all as if from

afar.

feel bad.

then change the channel,

you can only take so much

misery

outside of your own.

things happen

unfortunate things happen.

they do.

is God's hand

on this.

his dark humor,

his

spiteful vengeance 

for things

he does not approve,

or is there is someone else,

to blame

it on.

perhaps a fallen man,

or dark

angel,

red skin and hooved.

the night we met

the night we met

was

different. how quickly it

went

from zero

to ninety

under the ocean moon.

the black

car waiting,

a hand suddenly in

hand

the touching

of a knee.

the salt and brine,

the still warm sand.

the night we met

will be ours

for many years,

my head is still in

the clouds,

i've yet to land.

the therapist and i

don't worry about me.

i tell my therapist

stretching out

on her couch,

my hands behind my head.

you worry too much.

really

everything is fine now.

let's talk about you for a change,

enough about

me.

she laughs.

you're funny, she says.

tapping her pen

against her yellow legal

pad.

now tell me about the set back.

the red transistor radio

i'd hold the red

transistor radio up against

my ear

as i lay in

bed.

the volume low so as not

to wake

my brother, two feet

to my left

in another bed.

i listened

to the songs

of my youth, learning

every beat,

every word

every new tune.

the beatles.

the stones.

dylan.

the dave clark five.

i'd fall asleep to them,

with the battery

dying, running low,

then wake to nothing

but the alarm

and my mother yelling

up the stairs.

you're going to be late

again.

let's go.

finding home

i count

the times of moving.

eighteen in all.

most 

against my will.

or trying to get closer

to someone

i wasn't close to

at all.

seven states

two countries.

the boxes, the trucks.

the plugging

in and out

of sockets. the nails

pulled

and struck again into

new walls.

up goes everything one

more time,

one last time, i ponder

and then

goodnight, that's all.

am i talking too much

she's worried about

the spinach

that might be in her teeth.

or if

her hair looks

right,

or if her dress is too short,

her blouse

too tight.

am i  talking too much,

she says.

no, i reply.

not at all. not one bit

she doesn't

have to worry,

i like the whole package.

she's

a perfect fit.

show me yours

what?

this scar. oh you don't want to know

about that

one.

it's an old

wound.

very old.

took a long time to heal.

years, in fact,

but

it did.

now show me yours,

and be

honest, nothing surprises

me anymore.

light baggage, please

we want to claim

small baggage

at the turnstile. we want

to say

we have no

burdens

no skeletons in the closet.

we want

no drama,

no old loves hanging

tightly

to the rails of your

life.

we want to be done

with

yesterdays troubles.

we want this new day

to be empty

of sorrow, we want

the weight of what

we carry to be easy,

to be light.

the museum of modern art

i have a picture of her

in

the museum of modern art

in

new york,

of course.

it hasn't faded.

that memory of her

and i

in the city.

walking in the cold

from the roosevelt

all the way

through

the park,

to guggenhiem. 

her face

wrapped upon a smile

as she

stares

at the nude sculpture of a

man.

oddly life size.

i know that look.

i know it well.

we taxi back when we've

had our

fill of art,

this time, no train, or

walking

slowly

back to the hotel.

at the stove

my mother meditated,

although

she wouldn't call it that.

she'd call

it stirring red sauce in a

two gallon

pot on the stove.

but there she stood,

calm and collected, her

thoughts elsewhere

as the sauce bubbled

and boiled,

adding salt, or pepper

another garlic clove.

she was there, or somewhere,

but in a far away

place we

were never told.

namaste yo

i'm not wild

about this new age malarky.

(is that still a word)

live in the moment.

really.

what other moment can you be in?

forget the past.

right.

and repeat your mistakes.

meditate

and empty your mind.

find

peace

in thinking of nothing.

sigh.

breathe. please. should i

not

breathe? thanks for reminding me.

i was wondering why i was

turning blue.

i want to think. i want

to remember.

i want to know everything

i've ever said

or done.

i want to own what's mine

and be better for it.

it's not good to be silent,

to be deaf.

to be blind. 

namaste, yo.

i don't think so.

sorting through yesterdays

in the early morning

rain

i clean out

some drawers, some boxes

in the attic

some stacked

high in the laundry room,

on the cellar floor.

old

things from the seventies

then eighties,

then nineties.

it's an archeology dig

of sorts.

memory lane

with a twisted road

full

of abrupt detours.

picture frames with

photos of loves lost

still

behind the glass.

rings

and watches.

a card, a note, a napkin

with a lipstick stain.

i find a nylon stocking.

and a heel,

red valentine

things, tucked away

and safely

stored, but for what?

a tool belt

holding lipstick and perfume.

slowly

i take each item out.

it's a long long day,

a journey

backwards and before

long it's no

longer afternoon, and i

don't have the courage to

throw a single thing away.

circling

i see a hawk

in the sky circling.

circling, slowly dropping

then

a swift rise.

the shadow of it's stretched

wings upon

the ground.

i understand it completely.

it's what i

do when shopping for clothes,

or things i don't really need,

or for someone

that's caught my wandering

eye.

rolling my eyes

i roll my eyes a lot at things

and mumble

under my breath.

really, no turn signal, and your

going left?

or right. make

up your mind and be

done with it,

or

soup again for dinner.

how much

chicken noodle soup

and one man eat

before passing out

of starvation.

i mean no never mind by

doing so, it's just a habit

learned in school

when homework was

handed out or the cute girl

in pigtails in front of me

said,

stop kicking my chair

or i'm going to tell on you.

so what else is new?

people often point

at

my clothes or hands,

my shoes,

or face

or the top of my head and say

with a pointed finger,

you have paint

on you.

right there, and there,

and there.

i know, i tell them.

i know.

so what else is new?

putting the brakes on

i put the brakes on,

and come to a screeching halt

with food.

out with the sugar and salt.

out with

the fatty foods.

the starches.

good bye bread,

good by potatoes my dear

old friends.

idaho and redskins.

down the drain goes

soda and

cow juice 

into the trash go the oreos.

the ice cream

too, but only after having

one final

enormous big scoop.

way too happy

she's too happy.

too much fun, too perky

too full of herself.

nothing

ever seems to be

undone.

rarely does she swear

or get angry

or feel blue

or get down

in the proverbial

dump.

and if she does, she

only stays for the very

briefest of moments.

she's too happy,

as if she knows the score,

has it all figured out

from top

to bottom.

i'll have whatever

she's having.

i want some of that,

pass me

the bottle of her faith

and fun.

running away from home

the first time i ran away from home.

my mother

found me in the basement

in the box

the new dryer came in.

i had my flashlight and twelve

comic books

and a grape nehi soda.

where have you been, she

said.

we've been calling your name

and looking all over the

neighborhood

for you.

i've run away i told her,

continuing to read.

wiping the purple stripe of soda

off my lips.

well. when you come home

again,

dinner is almost ready.

so wash up and come upstairs.

we'll see, i said, to which she

sighed and rolled her eyes.

you're a strange little fellow,

aren't you.

maybe. i said and shone 

the flashlight into her

worried face.

not on bread alone

how does one

not eat pasta, or bread.

how do you not need sweets.

or meat.

or bacon

and eggs.

how can we survive on

kale

and sprouts.

a bare stalk of celery

tasteless in your mouth.

give me a pizza please.

with extra cheese

but leave

the anchovies and

pineapples out.

lessons learned

we look back and sigh.

if we could do things all over again.

if we could

go back into time.

if we could put words

back into our mouths.

be quiet and silent.

be mature enough to let things

go.

to live a different kind

of life.

almost resembling an adult

becoming old.

we look back

at yesterdays, at what might

have been.

what wasn't done, what was.

we cringe.

but there is little we can do

about it now.

but be wiser with the lessons

learned

and

let them sink in.

not overnight

i resisted the color orange

for so long.

not a drop of it anywhere

within sight.

not on the wall, or fabric,

or in

a picture

hung. a

no orange zone

was my life.

now look at me.

the glass bottle,

the candles when they light.

the stripe

within the rug.

we can change.

but it's hard, very hard.

forgiveness

doesn't come overnight.

she wanted more

i remember the nape

of her neck.

it stands out in my mind

as a

once  nice

place to visit

when the sun went down

or rose

from the plum sky.

how she laughed when kissed

there.

a girl giggle of sorts

coming

out of a grown woman.

she twisted

and turned, but wanted more.

as did i.

blues and greens

layered and splattered.

dripped

upon.

sprayed

and misted

by 

a rainbow of

blues and greens.

in my eyes.

my nose, all over

my hands, my arms,

my shoes.

it spills

into my dreams.

i'm addicted to paint,

to love,

and a variety

of other things left

undiscussed.

what's left behind

there was a time

i'd

pick up the white shell,

the glean

of it

catching my eye

in the ocean

sun.

i'd keep

it for a loved one.

telling her here,

i found this

and i want you to have

it.

i'd hold it up

to my ear to hear the ocean

after

leaving.

but no more. i leave

them

where they are.

it's best that way.

what could have been

some cups

are full

or half full, or should

we say

half empty.

while others

have no bottom.

no matter how much

love you

pour into them,

it drains out,

never swallowed

or heart warmed,

never tasting the joy

of a life

that could have been.

baby it's cold outside

come over here, my dear.

come close.

come sit beside me,

by the fire.

stretch your tired limbs.

take my hand.

say nothing.

just feel the warmth.

feel the flames

of my desire.

no need to go home now.

no need

to take leave.

it's snowing.

it's cold out. stay here

by the fire, we have all

night.

take your coat off.

your shoes.

let your hair down.

let's stir the flames,

we have all night, don't

worry about tomorrow.

just what i've been looking for

i measure

the wall, find the middle

from

side to side,  from top

to bottom.

i mark it with the pencil.

a small

round spot.

then i take the nail

and hammer.

three strikes is quite

enough.

i lift the picture

in its frame

and position it just

so, the wire

catching hold.

then stand back, arms

folded.

perfect. it's just what 

i've

been looking for.

the husband

the husband

has nothing to say, as he comes

and goes.

his face

twisted

in a frown, bewildered

by the life

he's made.

can this be it.

is this what i signed up for.

the spending of money,

the cranky

teens, the yard that needs

to be cut

again,

today. the barking dog.

the clutter of life

around him.

and the workers

stay out

of his way.

while the wife, brings

coffee

and cookies,

with kind words, and

sad eyes, she

remembers

those better days.

her new home

i bring her

a bouquet of flowers

to welcome her to her new home.

i bring a bottle of wine.

a card.

a cake. three layers.

coated

in icing, blue.

i wrap a small gift. a book

of poems,

i cherish.

and write upon it,

with love,

from me to you. congratulations

on finding

your home.

it's way overdue.

a visiting plate

i find a dish

in the cupboard. it's not mine.

it came

at some point

with a slice of cake upon it.

or cookies wrapped

tight.

it's a pale blue plate,

of china.

delicate, with flowers around

the edge.

a small chip too.

which gives me pleasure.

finding 

joy in things imperfect.

i'd return it if i knew

who it belong to,

but there are so many to

choose.

with celery in hand

she's not a holiday

girl.

no turkey in the oven.

no wreathe

on the door.

no pie

on the sill cooling.

she's been there,

done all of it before, but

she's finished now.

she can't be bothered

with

family or friends,

the barking

dogs, the children.

the gathering of people.

she's not a holiday girl.

no red dress

today.

or green, no masquerade

of happy.

no left overs, or dishes

to wash.

no pots and pans left

in the sink.

no foil to wrap and send

things away.

she'd

rather be

alone, with celery in hand.

the remote

in the other,

binging on

what she can find on

tv land.

moth to the flame

when young,

or at least younger than i am

now.

(how do we stop this)

i found

that the pretty girl

caught my eye.

shy or loud didn't matter much.

how

she dressed,

or who her daddy was,

meant nothing to me.

it was her face,

her figure,

her eyes most of all

and lips.

i was a shallow boy

then,

and why pretend, i can still

be that

way

at times,

yes. even now.

bread, flour, sugar

i couldn't tell you

what a carton of eggs costs,

or a gallon of milk.

or a gallon

of gasoline

for the matter.

bread, sugar, flour.

who knows

these things?

i haven't cut a coupon out

in like

never.

it's not that i have money

to burn,

it's just how things are now.

my mind is elsewhere.

ask me about larkin,

or bukowski,

plath or sexton.

mark strand. 

carl jung, there is so

much

more

left to learn.

broken

i ponder

the broken lace in my hand.

the brown

lace

of the boot i was going

to wear.

frayed

and old from being wet,

being pulled

so many times.

tightened into a bow.

and i think of you.

just one of many deadly sins

lust.

an intense desire for an object.

a person.

power

or food, perhaps.

money.

it's not

just sex.

we lust for many things.

for 

people we want

in our life.

for what tomorrow might

bring.

we lust

for affection,

for understanding.

it's an unquenchable

thirst,

a desire.

a void that insists

on being filled.

we are full of lust

at times.

casting aside envy,

greed

and anger, jealousy

and sloth. oh, what

a world.

what a world.

my arm around her

i put my arm

around her 

as we cross the street.

i take

her hand.

she looks

at me.

i look away.

too soon, i think.

and let go,

release.

maybe tomorrow,

maybe

the next time,

maybe

some other day.

we shall see.

the morning paper

i no longer

get the morning paper.

i've given

up on the news.

i don't want more of it

in

my head.

it's everywhere now.

the end

of the world

as we know it.

dripping from the mouths

of 

reporters.

splashed in blurbs

across the screen.

it's not that i don't care,

it's just the fact

there is little one can do

but worry.

so why bother.

twilight

she sends me a picture

of the sun

rising beyond the trees

behind her house.

the violet

air.

the brush of new sunlight

stroked

across the curve

of earth.

i can't remember the last

time i saw

the sun rise

in person.

how strange the world

is.

as it keeps moving,

spinning.

in a black sea.

to stand there and watch

trying to grasp

what it all might mean.

mailing a letter

it's an odd night

to be out

mailing a letter

in this brisk weather.

the snow

falling quietly leaving

no

doubt

that winter has arrived.

but i need to mail

this letter.

to slip it into the box.

to feel

the metal door open,

the metal door close.

it's what writers do.

we

write things

out.

it surprises you

it surprises

you,

the tears, when they erupt

out of nowhere

while standing

in line with a cart of groceries.

there is nothing

here

to bring this on.

the lights are too bright

for sadness.

the decorations on display.

the music,

cheery in that vague

holiday way.

there is so much to be

thankful for,

and yet there it is,

down one cheek then

the other.

wanting more

i stir the log

in the fireplace.

a flame

emerges, then another

then a family

of

fire

arrives and burns

hard

at the wood.

i turn my hands to

the glow.

the smell is wonderful.

the heat,

the wafting warmth.

the crackle fills your ears

with

childhood memories.

you stare

childlike

into the roar as it

rises

and rises, wanting 

another

log,

wanting more.

the w is silent

some people have a name

that is often

mispronounced

or misspelled.

whether first or last.

they spend so much of their

life

correcting those that get it

wrong.

no, they say.

the w is silent. the accent

is on

the e, not i.

and when you say it, say

it as if you're singing

a song. it's exhausting at

times.

you miss the easy ones

like susan

or joe, betty or john.

when the news arrives

there are hard time

poems

good times.

times that aren't remembered.

grey days

where nothing of consequence

takes place.

or so it seems.

we only know what we

know in the moment

when the news arrives.

which is fine,

if it doesn't. a poem may

surface, or not,

when it does.

how's your love life?

i see my lawyer friend

jimmy

in the super market.

he's wearing a new designer suit

and buying

caviar and lobsters.

i see bottles of champagne

in his cart

along with

expensive butter from ireland.

hey,

he says.

hey, i say back. how are you?

doing spectacular, he says.

it looks like he's

had some work

done on his eyes and his

hair is jet black.

good, good. i say.

yup,  business is booming

with covid.

just bought a new mercedes

the other day.

i did six divorces this week,

all on zoom.

the virus and lockdown is

a gold mine

for people breaking up.

who can stand to be with

anyone for 24 7

for nine months?

i'm saving up for a little

villa in florence. you'll have

to come visit when this whole

thing ends.

so how are you? how's your love

life?

wedding bells perhaps?

dating profiles

back in the day when i used

to peruse

the online dating profiles

i often wondered

why so many women were holding

up fish

in their photos.

standing on a boat, or on a river

bank with a small

floppy fish at the end of the line.

or why did they have

small children on their lap,

sometimes babies

gooey and crossed eyed,

right out of the oven.

occasionally they'd have 

a face scratched out of their

pictures, perhaps an

ex husband, or boyfriend, or

someone they must hate now

blotted in ink.

some women were in bikinis,

while others were in their

wedding dress, or

were pregnant.

old photos i guess.

motorcycles were big too.

or zip lining in costa rica,

on a cruise,

or climbing a mountain.

they were often playing tennis

or golf.

reading books i never heard of.

doctors and lawyers.

women working the night shift

at i hop.

everyone of them seemed

to be doing a lot more with

their lives then i ever had the

time to do.

they were in europe and japan.

there they are on the great

wall of china.

standing next to the Eiffel tower.

jumping out of planes, or

singing with a band on stage.

i on the other hand had a picture

of my empty refrigerator.

which people actually laughed at

and liked,

the quirky, edgy girls 

seemed to approve.

the work evaluation

my boss calls me in for an evaluation.

it's rare

that i do this,

because i'm so busy,

but i need to have a talk with

my boss,

who is me.

which is odd, i realize,

but

every now and then we need to

find out

how we're doing. are we bored,

are we tired,

do we still have the get up and

go to go

do this everyday.

how's my attitude, am i slouching,

am i 

rude

to my clients, or just short

and annoyed with them when

they ask for a third

coat on a wall that only needed

two?

i really don't have time for this,

i tell myself, but okay.

five minutes. what about wallpaper,

have you had it up

to here with all these crazy

papers and customers

who don't understand how

it's like brain surgery to hang

wall paper in a three by four

powder room with nine foot

ceilings.

it's a good meeting though.

i get a lot off my chest.

and ask for a raise.

which is refused. what about

a christmas bonus, i ask myself,

or a few days off around the holdiays?

maybe.

i say. maybe.

but don't forget we have the 

henderson house to do

the day after new years.

oh right.

almost forgot about that.

they still haven't sent me the

paint colors.

finally, i get up and say okay.

is that it?

to which i reply, yes. thank you.

we'll do this again next year

and see where we are.

friends for life

when i lived

in a garden apartment in

god forsaken

temple hills

not far from the race

track

the walls were so thin

i could hear

a pin drop next door.

i could hear and listen

in on every

conversation

as they could mine.

i could hear the ding

of their toaster,

the flush

of a toilet.

the killing of a fly.

if they were arguing 

i'd shake my

head and try to decide

who was right,

who was wrong.

if they were happy and

laughing,

i'd laugh too

and write the joke down.

when they made love

at night

i'd blush at how wild

they were

with what they would say

in the heat of the moment

and do.

but i felt like

we were really close.

after  few months we had

become

friends for life,

although i never

met them in person

and never would.

night owls

we night owls

like the quiet, the serenity

of twelve

am

the silence

when everyone else has

gone to sleep.

we like

to hear

the wind in the trees.

we open

a window

to let the cold in.

we like our books.

our

time alone.

we night owls.

come alive when the lights

go out,

hours before dawn.

taking a trip

i get a room

over looking the city.

it took me twenty minutes to get

here

from my front door.

i take an uber.

pack a single bag.

i'm taking a trip.

not far.

but far enough.

a change of scenery.

i tell the clerk i'm from 

Italy,

and i'm here

writing a book

about coffee.

he points out the window

to 

one of seven starbucks

that line

the street.

i go to my room and pull

the drapes back.

i stare out at the autumn

trees.

the monuments

white and sterile in the morning

sun.

i lie back in my enormous

bed, feeling

the comfort

of the thick mattress

and pillows. the designer

sheets.

i order room service.

the breakfast special.

eggs with bacon and cheese.

then i text Betty,

and say. hey, what's up?

i'm on a trip.

the best is yet to come

you shed another skin.

turn

over another new leaf.

you let go

of anger.

let go of that nagging

thought

that never leaves.

you

start fresh.

start new.

you begin again to be

who you were meant to

be.

it's not easy. but

nothing good is ever easy.

another door

opens.

another day begins.

just relax

just breathe.

the best is yet to come.

again.

faith

there is no God, she says.

how could there

be a God,

look at all the madness

all the evil

in the world.

the tragedies.

what kind of a God

would allow such

a world to go on

like this. what kind of

a God would allow

a Hitler to exist?

to allow cancer and

disease. 

divorce and death,

anger and wrath.

what kind of a loving

all knowing being,

would do these things?

beats me, i tell her

staring at a beautiful

fallen leaf. yellowed

with orange veins,

but i still believe.

the addiction

the addiction

is real.

our love of phones.

that

bright smile of a screen

telling

us

we're loved, we're needed.

we're never

alone.

the dopamine, 

the serotonin

streams through our

veins

warms our

shallow soul.

we sleep with it cradled

in our

arm.

we don't want to 

miss a single

ding.

a single

photo or set of words

that's sent from 

the other room,

or from around the corner,

or very far.

but we go on

your best friend

departs.

then others go. then more.

it's how

it works.

this world.

no one replaces them

exactly.

some fill the void

some become important

parts of your life.

lovers come

and lovers go.

we go on, not as if nothing

is wrong,

but we go on.

the rubber band contest

we had a contest once

shooting rubber bands across

the room

to see who could

knock a paper

cup over that was

propped up on a chair.

i tried and tried,

shot after shot.

missing.

missing, wide left, wide

right.

too high.

too short.

not coming close.

she took one rubber band,

squinted one eye,

aimed and fired.

and down the cup went.

game over,

she said,

then stood up

and dropped the mike.

giddy up cowboy

i remember the time

i was forced

to get on a pony

at the age of five or six.

someone put a small hat on

me 

and shirt with a bolo tie.

my feet barely

reached the stirrups.

a man dressed

as a clown

who smelled like

whiskey and cigarettes

led the horse around

the fenced in barn yard.

i wanted to die

as my mother smiled

and waved.

taking pictures.

i mumbled something

under my breath

like giddyup,

with a curse word attached,

which made

the clown look up

at me and laugh.

still chasing that

i see my father

at ninety two

sitting glumly in the sun.

he's in distress. his love, his new

love

has lost

a son.

at sixty one, no less.

dead

just like that watching a game.

a stroke,

a heart attack.

but now

she can't come over.

and bring him cake.

there's arrangements to

be made.

a funeral to be

planned.

she can't visit today and

bring him what he needs most

some sort

of affection.

still chasing that, after

all these years.

still all about him.

his

losses

his fear.

the queen bee

he was married three

times.

had a lazy eye,

two fingers were missing

from a power saw

gone astray.

he was a marine.

muscled and bald.

he was gay.

a decorator with a lisp.

a syrupy richmond

drawl.

but he

knew

his feng shui.

he was the queen of

the ball.

who ruled his clients

with a whip.

the small wedding

it was a small wedding.

the bride

wore white.

the groom black.

the sky was blue, as it

should

be.

a small affair in a small

church.

the sermon was brief,

the vows

short.

there were

little children

in attendance

holding tiny bouquets

of flowers.

there was music.

a small band.

small food and occasional

dancing.

it was all held in a small

room

after

leaving the small chapel.

tears fell in soft tiny

drops

along the cheeks

of so few.

just the bride and groom.

a wedding in

a small church, 

it was a short

affair,

but the love was enormous

and would last forever

and ever.

we're so alike it's uncanny

she says, hey buddy,

what are you doing,

i'm not that kind

of girl

when i accidentally bump

my knee into hers

beneath her doily covered

coffee table.

i tell her

whoa, i'm not that kind of guy

either, you have me 

all wrong. i was just stretching

my leg.

these new jeans

are chaffing me.

are you sure?

of course i'm sure.

i hardly know you.

we've only had nineteen dates.

i don't even care

about sex.

or romance, or anything like

that.

 a light kiss on the cheek

like grandma

used to give is fine with me.

send me home with a baggie of

oatmeal cookies

with raisins in them and i'm

a happy camper. in fact,

i'm practically a virgin.

me too,

she says. me too.

i'm glad you're not like all the other

guys.

all they think about is sex sex sex.

i shake my head.

yup. i'm ashamed to call myself

a man sometimes.

men are just wild animals.

i blame it on the internet, or

global warming.

sunspots.

really, she says. hmmm. could be.

i  just like to cuddle on the couch,

or rock

on the porch

with my cat fluffy in my lap,

maybe knit a new afghan,

and watch the sun go down.

or maybe play a

board game or look through my

photo albums again.

wow, board games,

i say out loud, exactly.

i can't get enough of  board

games on a saturday night.

candy land, 

or checkers,

or hang man. maybe we can

do a crossword puzzle too.

we're so alike, she says. 

it's uncanny.

yes. we are i tell her.

staring out

the window

wondering when this

rain will

ever stop so that i can

go home

and kill myself. 

(kidding)

give me the onion rings

i go through the list

of foods

i no longer want to be around.

i'll start with

chick peas.

i just don't like the look

of them.

they seem unfinished

and have a soft mushy

way about them.

tasteless and not pretty.

then soy beans.

i don't care about soy.

soy milk.

there is no soy cow, so

stop calling it milk.

it's juice squeezed

out and dyed white.

tofu.

come on. i don't care if

you shape it into a turkey.

get it out of here.

scrapple. good lord.

are we in a Georgia state prison?

floor scraps of a pig

molded

together with lard.

i've seen the exact same

thing when

my garbage disposal

was replaced

by my plumber Mike.

kale.

no.

please. insanity. God's

agricultural joke

on us all. i don't have

three hours to chew one

piece of kale.

lima beans. if elected

i will eliminate lima beans

from the face of the earth.

next on the list

is liver and onions.

i don't want to eat any organs

from anywhere.

from any animal.

hearts brains,

kidney, whatever.

i don't want to read grey's

anatomy as if it's a menu.

and finally

calamari.

those unchewable rubber

bands from the bottom of the sea.

chopped into little

gaskets, deep fried

and greasy

basically tasteless chewing gum

that you finally give

up on and just swallow them

in bits and pieces.

why not just get onion rings?

if i can't pronounce it,

or never heard of it

it's probably a good idea

to steer clear of it,

no matter how nutritious 

and wonderful martha stewart

claims it to be.

connect the dots

well, if he had it, then

gave

it to his sister

and then his sister

went to the coffee

shop

and coughed,

and touched the door

and then

your cousin

sat down

in the same chair

she sat in

at the dentist

before

someone else sneezed

and blew

their nose.

and then there was 

the kid

next door

blowing bubbles

into the sky.

the bubbles coming

in a box

and bottle

shipped from singapore.

and

the shipping clerk

was from

germany

but his girlfriend

was visiting

from france.

who knows how he

got it.

when the job ends

when the job

ends

and they tell you they no longer

need you,

your skills

your intelligence

your dedication,

when the job

ends and they show

you to the door

the guard

taking your key badge,

you carrying your

box of

what nots

from the office, your

desk

each drawer,

when the job ends

rejoice

and don't look back.

find you own way

in this world.

no need to feel sad,

regret or remorse.

it's not for you.

move on.

i got this

i got this, she'd say.

carrying her weight, going the extra

mile

for work, or play.

i got this.

she'd say, when making love

when my mind would

drift, and wander,

when my thoughts would stray.

relax, she'd say,

breathe. i'm here. i'm not

going anywhere,

stop worrying, 

i'm here to stay.

i got this.

betcha by golly wow

i like the old

r and b songs, marvin gaye.

teddy,

al green

barry white.

archie bell and the drells.

the drifters.

brooke benton.

motown.

i know all the words,

but fail

now on the high notes.

i can't croon like i used

to when i was a mere

child of fifty.

but i play them all still.

they bring back

such memories.

of the love going on,

or ending,

or just inbetween.

sweet, and bitter sweet,

each tune giving me

a rise, a chill, each and every

one still fresh,

still new.

a song we both once knew

when i drive

up Connecticut avenue

i almost always turn 

my head to the left,

towards

where she lived,

across from the zoo.

three stories up,

her apartment over

the club,

the restaurant, a yogurt

shop,

a place

to repair your shoes.

i look up and see the yellow

square of light

and think of her

on nights like these, in

the rain, driving north

towards Bethesda.

i see her with her hands

on the baby grand

playing softly

and singing

a song that we both

once knew.

where things are

i wonder

where things have gone.

but

once out of site

for too long it doesn't really

matter,

does it?

that ring or watch,

a book,

just things

you bought or were

given to you

with a kind thought

in mind.

i wonder where things

are at times,

and then

i don't.

calm

what happens if we're not

busy.

not on the phone,

not taking the next call,

or answering the next

text. what happens

if we're not in front

of the tv, the computer,

not with others,

not sitting still for a brief

moment.

what happens

if we stop.

if we rest.

if we stop making plans,

stop with the projects,

the renovations,

the business that distracts.

what happens

if we stay home

and do nothing.

what happens

if we take a deep breath

and take

back control

of our lives,

what happens next?

shadow work

you read about shadow work.

finding your true

self through introspection,

your authentic self, finding

light

in the shadows, releasing

creativity,

inspiration, taking intuition

to a higher level.

it's not new.

in fact when haven't you been

doing this?

even at five,

examining your life,

wondering

what more is there

that needs

to arrive

to make you at last whole

and more alive.

start there

we need trust.

we need faith and balance.

we need

water.

sunlight.

we need a lot of things

to keep

it going.

to get through the dark

nights,

the storms.

we need trust.

start there,

and work towards love.

the good aunt

my aunt

was a positive thinker.

always with a smile,

a pinch

for your cheek. always in

the latest

styles

of dress or hair. smelling

like

a bed

of flowers,

a walking bouquet.

a cheerful

word

for anyone who needed it.

a helpful hand.

a volunteer,

so wise and bright.

always time for her

devotions,

her nightly prayers.

there was only goodness

in her heart,

so it was a quite a

surprise when

she decided one night,

to end it all, to disappear,

to take her life.

the tampa retreat

my snow bird friend

departs

in november for tampa.

to his house along

the bay.

to his small boat, his fishing

rods,

his cold beer,

his lazy

winter day

under a warming sun.

a youth filled breeze

blows 

through his hemmingway

beard.

he'll ride his bike into town.

he'll play

a round

of golf, he'll watch the young

girls go by

in their

summer dresses,

as he watches the sun

go down.

french birds

i study the hunk of blue cheese

from france

unwrapped

and on the dish.

9 dollars an ounce.

probably more expensive

than caviar.

who would eat this without

being forced to.

i spread a thick

swab onto a crumbly light

weight cracker

and give it a shot.

a strange musty smell

and taste

explodes in my mouth.

interesting.

this is what mildew must

taste like.

maybe if i set it on the back

patio

the squirrels or birds will

have a go at it.

maybe a french pigeon

in a black beret

will take notice and have

his fill.

i make them a plate

throwing in some olives

and fig goo.

the clearing

the wind

and rain takes care of every leaf

on every tree

out the window.

the party is over.

i can see clearly

the white and grey bones

of a thousand

stiff trees

outside the window.

i can see a mile or two

straight through

to the other

side.

it's a good view.

lessons to be seen

and learned

about many things, about

me.

about you.

wisdom of the aged

i remember my

father saying strange

things after

i'd tell

him about the most recent

heart break.

well. he'd say.

there's more fish in the sea.

that was the extent of his

wisdom

and gentle

comforting of my broken

heart.

more fish in the sea.

or you have to get  back on

the horse.

the bike. time heals all

wounds.

or 

forget about it.  pfffft.

women. they're like cats.

where you gonna find another

one? then he'd laugh.

pockets

pockets were everything.

full

of coins and a few dollars.

marbles.

a black comb.

a pen knife.

keys.

a photo of mary jean.

rocks we'd find and wanted

to keep.

bottle caps.

the days

of summer were

scavenger hunts,

useless things, that

were

somehow important

in the moment.

anything found with a shine

was

tucked

into our thick blue

dunagrees.

dinner

i start again in the kitchen,

pots

and pans.

meat and pasta.

a cold

ice berg salad.

fresh tomatoes.

onions and olives.

the boil of water 

the fettucine  rising.

the sausage

crisp in the broiler..

the wine poured.

a prayer. a kiss.

a meal

for a cold winters day.

water and flying

i sleep well

when

the work has been hard.

i find

the comfort of home

and bed

a sanctuary

from all

that lies beyond the door.

the lucid dreams.

the vivid

colors.

the water and flying.

all sweet

journeys

with eyes closed.

giving hope to when

they're open,

and it's time to start

all over

when it's time to go.

low hanging fruit

we pick

the low hanging fruit

too often.

what's easy,

and reachable.

we don't want to work

too hard

anymore.

especially when it

comes to love.

we set the bar

so low. at times it

feels like

anyone is good

enough

for now.

the white beard

a year

stretches out

towards the next year.

thin

lines

of days.

swift hours as we find

ourselves

in daydream.

in 

the mist of aging.

in the dim light

of

a low sun, gone dark

early.

another winter

appears with its white

beard.

its cold breath, 

as we sit by the fire

to stay warm.

wish list

we all have a wish

list

of some sort.

to go here or there.

to paris, perhaps.

or iceland.

maybe

the fiji islands,

to a point almost

off the map.

to climb a mountain

or hike the appalachian

trail, 

with a bottle of water

and granola

bars

tucked neatly in a back pack.

all good, all fine.

i'll meet you there,

but first

i need a nap.