the razor cut

the blood
is on the sheets, the pillows.
it's on my white
shirt. small crimson
drops like candy.
the razor cut
on the chin
won't stop
bleeding.
shaving in the dark
is not my thing,
but a scar there might
be attractive.
I could make up a story
about
the fight I was in
when
protecting a loved one.
or how I stopped
a robbery down at the bank,
saved a dog
from a burning building.
why waste a good cut
on a shaving
story.

back in time

I set the time machine
for ten minutes
earlier
to take back the things
I just said.
mean things about
how awful that person is.
I tell him that he keeps
doing the same things
over and over again
with no remorse.
this time
I don't say them,
instead,
after I get out
of the machine, I smile
and say, yes, I completely
understand
and if there's anything
I can do
to help you,
please let me know.

the water main

the water main
breaks
and the road collapses
which makes
the traffic back up
for miles, for hours.
there is no other way
to get home.
no way to get to our
warm
rooms, our table
of food,
our things
that wait for us
just five miles down
the road.
so we sit.
we wonder. we wish
we had a book
or someone nice to call
and tell them
about our troubles,
not just this one,
but all of them.

at ninety two

at ninety two
she's still picking out
wallpaper,
still shy,
her hair done in a glorious
silver
loaf
upon her wide forehead.
blue eyed in the light.
i want something similar,
she says.
can you find me something like
this? she waves to the room
as if to change it
now. there is subtle
bling on each wrist.
a diamond on her finger.
her nails done
yesterday by a daughter
who
comes by.
she sits on a blue velvet
chair.
her desk is large.
marie antionette would
have loved it.
her penmanship is
exquisite
as she writes a check
then delicately
with her
long veined hand
shakes mine.

the traveling salesman

my acting career began
after my divorce.
I was looking for something
to do that
i'd been doing anyway
the entire marriage.
I played a part that came
strangely easy
to me. i hit my mark. stayed
up late, learning my lines.
my gestures, my
delivery was spot on.
it was a long running
play,
on a variety of stages.
mostly off broadway,
way off.
like in jersey.
my venue was the dinner
theater.
between acts I waited
on tables, served drinks.
if the food was good
I made money, if it was
bad, which it mostly was
they blamed me.
when the curtain opened
again for acts two or three,
my tables would wave
at me and say, look, there's
our waiter.
i'd wave back, blow them
a kiss before delivering my
lines. I was Willy
and sometimes Biff.

remember

it takes awhile
to
forget.
then it's not really
forgetting
but arranging
things so that when
thought of
it has a nice sepia
glow
to it, ready to
hang on the wall,
and be spoken
of in good terms
despite the truth.

the hot meal

some foods are best
hot,
other's cold,
rarely
does the luke warm
meal
satisfy.
the middle is
not where we want to
be.
either burn
my tongue
and set my hair
on fire, or
bring it chilled
with you
to warm me.

sorry, but your dna results are ready

I send in a vial
of saliva
to the dna researchers.
but do I want to know where
i'm from,
whom I related to?
it's bad enough as it
is knowing
who i'm
blood tied to now.
what if someone worse comes
up.
a nut
from a tree of nuts.
all incarcerated
at some point in their lives
for misdeeds.
loons in straight jackets,
lost souls,
miscreants
of the first degree.
I hold my breath and open
the results,
praying for some brilliant
godly
soul to appear.

forty seams

there are forty seams
of ancient wallpaper
to fixed.
grandma picked it out
in the Eisnenhower
administration.
there are stripes
in one room.
flowers in another.
periwinkle blue
in the bathroom,
but the paper is old.
the split
lines are brittle,
not unlike tree bark,
they will
resist any attempts
to lie back down,
to go straight
and together again.
but you try. you give
it a go in every room.
what are the other choices.
napalm?

under the weather

under the weather,
but
not dead,
not yet.
the bug has struck.
the bug
has laid down its
tent,
amassed its forces,
and planted
a flag,
demanding a surrender.
but I don't.
I fall back,
I lie between the sheets,
I engulf
myself
in books
and movies,
drench my thirst
in cold water.
chicken soup.
chicken soup.
chicken soup.
I find comfort in
the sweet sleep
of fever
and wait.

the light goes out

is the light
burning out an omen.
a sign
from up above
that a new day has
arrived.
a portent of things
to come,
or where we have
arrived.
is the bulbs
demise a hint
of some sort
that darkness
has come upon us?
or maybe,
it's just an old
light
whose time has come,
worn out its use.
we look too deeply
into
small things thinking
that the world
revolves around
us.

frozen worms

some days you
got nothing.
nada. not a clue, not
an imaginative thought,
or word to
write.
you're numb and cold.
brooding.
the bird on the sill
shakes his
head. he's
wrapped in an overcoat,
and a lumber jack plaid
hat.
a frozen worm
dangles from
his shivering beak.
we look at one another,
then shrug and move
on with our day.

negotiation

you throw a few things onto
craig's list
to get them out of the house
and to make a few bucks
in the process.
the calls come in. the texts.
the emails.
can you go lower?
when can I pick them up.
how old are those shoes.
those pants?
that mattress?
those black socks, do they
have any holes
in them?
is that toothbrush purple
or blue,
it's hard to tell from
the photo?
what's your best price
on that chipped
coffee mug?

cold aging

the milk
is sour. the cheese hard.
the lettuce
brown.
each apple has dent,
each
orange
a spot of green
where it leaned
against
the rack.
the cold air has done
little
to keep things right.
even the eggs
seem old.
your hand is
curled
and worn
as it reaches
in. your feet iced
against the tiled
floor. you can't
make
things
new again.

cup of joe

the line moves
slow.
but it's okay.
some drinks are complicated.
soy
and whipped cream,
latte
and skim,
double shots of this
or that.
dark or blonde.
half decaf.
extra caramel please.
coffee is a science
now.
we've romanced the bean.
learned
the history
of its travel from
a far away land to here.
gourmet blends
in sacks
on the backs of burros.
it's ground and percolated,
then dripped into a cup
of three different sizes,
all with a special name.

from the same parents

how we
came apart, unglued.
this family of seven is beyond
me.
blame on a divorce,
perhaps, but that was fifty years
ago.
get over it.
blame it on living in
different states,
or being in a different
state of mind.
lack of spirituality,
of education,
or therapy,
lack of something.
maybe something in the water
across the bridge.
what makes
some angry and bitter,
forever victims,
while others live out their
lives
in peace?

cigs

who didn't smoke
back then.
who didn't have a pack of
luckys,
a cartoon of kools
or tarreytons
in the cupboard.
an ashtray full of butts.
who didn't light up
in the morning, one last
cig
before bed.
one after dinner,
after breakfast,
while walking the dog,
after making love.
sneaking one in the boys
room.
who didn't smoke
back then.
a stogie
by the fire
with a tumbler of scotch.
a lung dart with a beer.
a bar full of blue haze.
doctors smoked.
pregnant women smoked.
the movie screen was full
of smoke.
the president smoked.
priests in their cloaks
lit up
behind the rectory.
light em if you got em
the GIs said.
one last puff before
the firing squad let loose
with a flurry
of bullets.

the tunnel

some days
are a tunnel.
a long mysterious
and silent tunnel.
we go slow, touching
the walls
in the darkness,
lifting our feet slowly.
listening
to what's up ahead.
but the flicker
of light, that small
glimmer
far down the road
is everything.
as in every tunnel
you've gone through
in life.
in the end,
you will be where
you should be.
it will be alright.

the stray dog

the stray dog
without a leash, without
a collar
looks happy,
dodging cars
that fly down the street.
his tail wags,
his tongue out.
he sees the woods,
the open field
beyond
the city,
the tall grass,
the lake in the distance.
he sees the sun
rising.
he's over the fence
and free.
let's run with him.

nothing new

the therapist is kind
to my
plight. my tears
and confusion.
she's heard it all before,
but pretends
that it's all new to her
ears.
she smiles, she nods.
she accepts
my tale of woe
with a kind
and open heart.
despite the degrees
on the wall,
the books on her shelves,
she has no answers,
just questions that lead
me to my
own answers.
the clock ticks
on and when it's time to
stop,
we stop.
we stop and move on.
a step closer,
perhaps to peace
and understanding.

what to keep

there are things
left
over from every love gone wrong.
every infatuation
or affection
has some mark, some touch
stone
left behind.
to keep
and wallow in the grief,
or smile
at the joy
is a fine balance.
to toss, or save
so much that will disappear
in time, then
turn to dust
anyway makes for a long
hard night.

dividing everything in two

in the divorce,

by law,
we divided everything 

equally

regardless

of whose fault it was.

who lied,

who cheated,

meant nothing.
the house, the money.
the dishes,
the couch. the bed.
we split
it all down the middle.

we were trying to be

reasonable and fair

to one another unlike

how we lived.

all things were torn

in two.

but the dog
and the child
winced and whimpered

at the sound

of the power saw

starting up
as we laid them down

to cut.

make a left at the light

i need directions.
a map,
a pamphlet, a gps
to get me where i want
to go.
i need a gas station
attendant
to scratch his head
and say,
i think you made a wrong
turn back there.
i need
someone in the car
with me,
to say turn here,
go left at the light,
go right,
hit the pedal,
we're almost there.

don't make me say it

you don't get it,
she says.
you're not listening.
how many times
do I have to
almost say what
I really mean to say
for you to get
what I mean.
why do I actually have
to say the words.
write the words.
shout the words
for the world to hear,
for you to know what
the truth is?

the outlet coat

the zipper wouldn't move
on my brand
new Calvin Klein
winter coat purchased
smartly on sale
at the outlet store.
waterproof and warm it was.
stylish too, grey with black
trim. but
no matter hard i
pulled, or greased
or ironed
out the zipper, even
after thirty tries
at up and down, it wouldn't
budge.
i'd have to lift the coat
over my head to get
it off
then stretch the fabric
to pull the zipper free.
finally.
tired of the routine,
with both hands
I pulled as hard as I
could to break the zipper
free from the point where it
was stuck.
it was liberating
to hear the tear of fabric,
the flying pieces of
metal teeth and nylon
spraying across
the room. I liked
that coat for the whole
two weeks I had it, but
happily, now, I balled it up
and stuffed it
in the trash.

the insurance claims

he had some bad luck.
his house
burned down.
the fire starting suspiciously
close
to his new baby grand
piano,
which he didn't know how
to play
to begin with,
then his boat sank.
then another sank,
both mysteriously while
no one was aboard.
a car would disappear.
there were break ins,
accidents when he slipped
on a puddle
going down an aisle
in a large chain store.
but he was always tanned
and smiling.
the happiest unfortunate
man
i'd ever known.

puppets

we want
others to be who we want
them to be.
to be the Gods they are not.
we want them to do things
we want
them to do.
behave in a way
that makes us believe
that they are ours.
we want, like puppets,
to pull
their strings.
to dance when we need
them to dance,
to sing, when
we want them to sing.
how strange we are in
thinking others can make
us happy.

relief

it can't keep
raining like this, can
it?
this wind.
this cold.
the discomfort
of so many things.
at some point it has
to give up.
light needs
to come out
from behind
these fisted clouds
that pummel us
to sleep.

the unseen

it's the black ice
we need
to watch out for.
the slick on the road,
that subtle freeze.
the shadow
in the alley.
it's the unknown
that gets us.
the unwanted call.
words whispered
beyond our reach.
the stalker in
the window.
the eyes in the woods
peering in.
carefully
we need to tread,
to turn
the key on the lock
to get us inside
away from what could
be grim.

work release

they hired men
mostly
from the jump, the county
jail,
the state pen,
the lock up
in the city. they hired
them to sweep,
to mop,
to take out the garbage.
it was a job
to get them on their
feet again.
minimum wage.
grey uniforms, with names.
some made
it. some took a broom
handle and broke
it in half before stabbing
someone.
some robbed
the apartments, or stole
fruit from
the basement store.
they were old men, for
the most part. even the young
ones.
some became friends.
some died, taking their
own lives
with cocaine or drink.
some though, made it out.
got free,
and never looked back.

the first time

the first time you see
the ocean
startles you. the vastness.
the shades
of green, blue.
those ships in the distance.
those gulls,
the waves
repeating on and on
forever
as they unfold.
the first time is the best.
the one
you'll hold
closest to your heart.

start again

don't worry so much
about things
you have no control over.
let it go.
move on to other things.
the small
things will kill you
over time.
don't let your mind
play
that game.
don't let it fill
with darkness.
empty it.
breathe out, breathe
in.
start again.

the work week

i'll leave
the gate unlatched.
come
and go as you please,
i'll be working late,
wipe
your feet.
I've left you a note
on the counter,
next to the other ones
signed
me.

reluctant pear

the pears
out
of season are still
sweet,
the soft
green color
splotched brown,
but the meat
is good,
the juice rolls
down your chin.
it's
a conscious effort
though,
to pick up a pear
and eat.

get what you want

i should get what i always
get and
stop looking at the menu.
i know what i like, what i
don't like
and yet, there's this urge
to experiment, take a chance,
to broaden my culinary
tastes.
it never fails though, i wish after
one bite
that's i'd gotten what i
really wanted, not this.

something else

we are here,
but not here. this feeling,
this
too will pass.
these clothes that hang
against my
skin
and bones.
this hair, these nails,
the eyes
and tongue,
are me, but will disappear.
the bed I lie in,
even that moon
beyond the trees.
all that is
doesn't last,
something else must
be going on.

amy's soup

a can
of soup remains
in the cupboard. I just
can't
get rid of it.
it belongs to Amy.
at least that's what
the label says.
Amy's organic Lintel
soup.
with white beans, no less.
I feel as if I need
to hold onto it.
that I might regret
tossing it away
after all these years.
gathering dust
on the shelf.
so I put
it back, right next
to Ben's rice.
next to the smiling
face of Quaker Oats.
beside
Pete's skinny bottle
of hot sauce.

what good is it

time to purge.
time to strip down
your
links on social media.
time to hunker
down
and go under.
to be free from the webs
of
this tangled world
of wires.
time to smell the air.
to get away.
to be done with the trivial
drama
that we
thrive on.
time to take your hands
off the key
board and put your hand
into another's
and walk away.

it's up to you

we can plug
the leaks in your tires
at a small fee, or
you can take the high risk
of driving on them,
and perhaps having a blow
out
flipping your car
over a guard rail
into on coming traffic,
risking your car going up
in a ball of flames,
or perhaps you can get our
four brand new
tires, which are on
sale this week
for presidents day
that happens next month,
newly balanced,
aligned, with a
three year warranty.
no pressure, but you choose.
death on the highway,
or take advantage of
our once in a lifetime
tire sale. it's up
to you. by the way,
there's coffee over there
near the bathroom,
made fresh weekly.

the vines

these vines
their small clawed nails
digging into
the fence,
the brick. crawling
with a mind of their
towards
no good.
gripping what they find
in their path.
are we like that?
trying to hold onto
things
we shouldn't,
going places we have
no place going?
at the root lies
the problem.

moon set nights

we drink long into the night.
we talk
about
God.
we talk about our sons.
what work means.
we discuss
the meaning
of life.
the question of divine
intervention,
free will.
the drinking does little
to uncloud
our minds.
but we try. we try to
get somewhere
where it all makes sense.
where we
no longer worry about
what the next
day might bring.
we take small steps
into the light as the moon
sets
and the sun rises.

the long ladders

I have memories of these
ladders.
these long extension metal
things
that I climbed
one boot after the other
up the sides of buildings
in the wind
in rain.
thirty two feet skyward,
forty feet.
some fell,
some crashed to the side,
some I tumbled from
when careless and hurried
trying to win a clock that
beat inside.
so many days I pulled
on the braided ropes
raising
the rungs higher and
higher
to get to the highest
point,
then carried buckets
and brushes, tools
to the top
where a bird's nest might
be, where
bats might hang by their
clawed feet.
I climbed into the sky
closer to the clouds,
to the sun,
to a place I knew so well
when I was young.

split life

you live
a split life. one side
good
the other
not so good.
one shoe clean, the other
in mud.
words fall
from your mouth
at times,
spewing
what lies within, while
other times
silence
is what you need to do,
choosing
a higher road,
not sin.

return to sender

there's new mail.
old mail.
junk mail.
trash.
recently deleted mail.
blocked mail.
there's spam,
unable to send
mail,
unable to receive
mail.
mail
from stores, from
banks,
from gas stations.
medicare mail.
insurance mail.
tax mail.
mail from someone
in Russia
named Olga.
it keeps coming. it
keeps pouring in
while my calloused
thumb
leans on the delete
button.

touch stones

we attach ourselves
to things.
that coat, that glove,
a ring.
we want to remember,
to make
the past feel real
once more,
not just a memory
fading
in time. we want a
touch stone,
a card, a letter to hold
in our hands
something lost
that we can still find,
no matter
what the day or hour
as our life
slips by.

the first one's free

the lick of a flame
under
the silver
spoon, heats this
insidious brew,
the crystals,
a fine white powder
melting
into a forever
stew.
how sublime
the light is cascading
through the window,
how soft
the rain sounds
falling down,
how hopeless the world
becomes
with a needle in
your vein.

another place to be

we all want
to reach chapter five.
the chapter in portia nelson's
succinct
and difficult poem.
how easily
we slip into holes
time and time
again.
climbing out
as if we had no clue
they were
there to begin with.
some holes
are deeper than others.
some are shallow
full of old rain water.
we repeat the chaos
of our lives thinking it's
home.
some holes you can
never get out of without
divine intervention.
without courage,
without knowing
where the bottom
lies,
but you can, so
let's find another street
to walk on.
another place
to be.

the hair cut

i tell the barber
to leave
a little on the top this time.
maybe part it on
the side.
I've got a job interview
tomorrow
and I've met someone
that really melts my butter.
the other barbers
chuckle
and shake their heads.
okay,
he says. you're the boss.
i'll leave some.
three minutes go by
and he swings the chair
around to the long mirrored
wall.
nice, i tell him. nice.
he splashes
some blue fragrant water
onto my cheeks
and brushes me down.
go get him handsome,
he says.
i'm ten years old all
over again.

vive la difference

she says can you pass
me another vol-au-vent
sil vous plait.
I say what.
you mean the canapés,
no, she says, pointing
at the small dish
of puffed pastries filled
with meat.
those, she says,
her delicate finger
bent in their direction.
so I do.
merci, she says.
more champagne, I ask.
certainment, she says.
oui.
I put down my Budweiser
and leg of chicken
and pour
the bubbly into her
flute.
she smiles, she winks.
she puckers her lips and blows
me a kiss.

the ball and chain days

I remember when the boss
used to whip
us.
he had a long leather whip
black
and oiled
with barbs on the end.
it was office
work. we were hunched over desks
in cubicles,
a ball and chain strapped
to our ankles,
but in the back there
was a dungeon,
next to the copier,
and reams of paper
where we'd be punished
for our many transgressions.
sometimes
they'd lay us out on
the stretching machine and
pull our arms
and legs in four different
directions.
did we work more efficiently,
yes,
did we take shorter
coffee and lunch breaks, yes.
did we drink more
at happy hour, and steal staplers,
yes.

places beside home

there are places
beside
home, Dorothy.
better places in fact.
peaceful and safe places.
most of the pain
and suffering endured
by many
started in a childhood home.
and it's lingered
until they place you
in another home,
the sunset home,
not yours of course,
but one where they feed
you oatmeal
with a spoon.

meant to be

careless
about the bills in my pocket
some fall out.
get caught in the wind.
I watch them
as they curve upwards
into the air,
crossing the street,
the wind
making them swirl, pushing
them away.
a part of me wants to chase
them,
but another part
says let them go, this
was meant to be.

the downed tree

I see a tree down
behind
the fence.
a large old oak.
we had no relationship,
this tree and I
despite passing it daily,
looking out
as it swayed
in the summer,
full of leaves
and emptied itself
come fall.
we were not unfriendly,
or unaware
of one another,
but respectful
and distant
in a neighborly
sort of way.

lava lamp musings

the lava
lamp
with it's swirl
of orange
and purple, how it made
the room
swim in color.
the black light
under jimi
and Janis, their posters
pinned
on the far wall.
the stereo
playing scratched
records.
the thump of pioneer
speakers
churning out a whole
lotta love
by zeppelin.
the bottle of wine.
the candles
slouching in cold
wax. a cloud of smoke
in the air.
wild talk about God,
if there was one,
and the universe.
it was a different
era then,
a different time.

asleep

the line of her
beneath the sheets,
asleep,
the soft curve of her.
the brush of hair,
the arm
over her eyes.
the smell, the taste
of her
on my lips, on my
hands.
how deep she's fallen
into sleep,
hardly moving, hardly
breathing,
away in a dream
she won't remember,
hoping it's of me.

we had words

we had words.
then we had other words.
the floor was littered
with them.
words we hadn't used before
with each other. there were
letters strewn about.
punctuation marks,
periods
and questions,
exclamation points.
there was small print
on our hands.
large case
letters inked on
our foreheads.
at some point she spoke
in French.
and I in Italian.
at times we didn't know
what the other one was
talking about.
but oh the words,
so many words.
some in red, in black.
it was a talk that
went on for hours.
on into the early morning
until we finally
ran out of things to say,
and said alright, enough.
let's go to bed.

no where to run

it smells like
rain.
feels like snow.
taste
like burned ashes.
something's in the air.
there's a fire
burning
to keep someone warm,
or did it start
while we were sleeping.
shovels lean
against the wall.
salt and sand.
the bags stacked and ready.
batteries.
water. dried food.
a pistol or two.
the news on, waiting for
word
to tell us which direction
we should run.

ships at sea

there's a crowd
at the docks. they lean
out towards the sea,
peering across the long water
under a gull
frenzied sky.
they wait.
all waiting for that
ship to come in.
that golden vessel.
the silver liner.
anxious for what lies
ahead.
where the money might be.
waiting for someone
up on the food
chain who might leave them
something, anything
to help them get by.

maid visit

nearly
done after hours
of going
up and down and under.
the maids
are weary.
I've given them more
dust and dirt
than
they're used to.
who knew so many webs
could
form beneath
the beds. so many
places to scrub
that
haven't been scrubbed
and cleaned
in ages.
the house sings
with the smell of cleaning
tonics.
the lemons,
the pine.
the air swims with a
a fragrance
i'm unused to.
a place for everything.
the books so neatly
lined against
one another.
the glasses clean,
the bed made.
when are you coming back
dear maids.
I miss you
already.

truth be told.

if we knew the truth
about everything,
about everyone,
about every e mail, every
text.
every word whispered
when not around,
each phone call taken
in the dead of night.
would it be better then?

truth be told.

if we knew the truth
about everything,
about everyone,
about every e mail, every
text.
every word whispered
when not around,
each phone call taken
in the dead of night.
would it be better then?

judgemental

it's hard to be a judge
whether behind
the bench, or walking the street.
holding
each apple
to the light.
each word uttered, weighed
and examined.
watching the body
language,
looking deep into the eyes
of those he
meets.
to believe
or not believe is a daily
chore.
even when the barista says
it's nice day
today,
he can't help but say,
is it really?

nearly gone

I don't want to say
that I have my father's hands,
his shoulders,
the way
his hair line recedes.
I don't want to say
that I have his sense of humor.
his sadness
and joy.
I don't want to say anything
like that.
it makes me feel
that he's nearly gone
when he's not.

nearly gone

I don't want to say
that I have my father's hands,
his shoulders,
the way
his hair line recedes.
I don't want to say
that I have his sense of humor.
his sadness
and joy.
I don't want to say anything
like that.
it makes me feel
that he's nearly gone
when he's not.

needs

i need little
to be content.
a hot bath, a nap.
some food
and a drink.
coffee.
i need my books, my
music.
my friends.
a hard days work.
beyond that is a blessing.
love
a cherry.

needs

i need little
to be content.
a hot bath, a nap.
some food
and a drink.
coffee.
i need my books, my
music.
my friends.
a hard days work.
beyond that is a blessing.
love
a cherry.

carryout

a man comes
in wearing a green luminous vest.
he's been
outside all day
in the cold.
his face raw, his hair
pulled back,
red and grey behind his
work helmet.
he's not old,
but his body leans
against
the counter as if in pain.
he pulls out
a pair of glasses
from his baggy pants
and reads the menu.
he counts the money that
he has,
letting the bills
unfold in his large in hand
then whispers, tiredly
what he wants
to the waitress.
a beer comes to him.
he doesn't look around.
he's not looking into anyone's
for anything.
he's hungry.

carryout

a man comes
in wearing a green luminous vest.
he's been
outside all day
in the cold.
his face raw, his hair
pulled back,
red and grey behind his
work helmet.
he's not old,
but his body leans
against
the counter as if in pain.
he pulls out
a pair of glasses
from his baggy pants
and reads the menu.
he counts the money that
he has,
letting the bills
unfold in his large in hand
then whispers, tiredly
what he wants
to the waitress.
a beer comes to him.
he doesn't look around.
he's not looking into anyone's
for anything.
he's hungry.

boys in striped shirts

when things
were slow we'd go outside
and sit
on the porch.
when our legs were tired
from running
from kicking balls
across the yard,
when our mouths had no
more words to say,
our arms weary from games,
we'd go out
and sit on the porch.
the bunch of us.
the sun would linger
until nine or so,
then settle behind the buildings
across the ravine.
we were young.
boys
in striped shirts, short
hair,
dungarees.

boys in striped shirts

when things
were slow we'd go outside
and sit
on the porch.
when our legs were tired
from running
from kicking balls
across the yard,
when our mouths had no
more words to say,
our arms weary from games,
we'd go out
and sit on the porch.
the bunch of us.
the sun would linger
until nine or so,
then settle behind the buildings
across the ravine.
we were young.
boys
in striped shirts, short
hair,
dungarees.

are we there yet

are we there yet,
have we done enough,
have we said enough.
have we driven
the long
road long and far enough
to get there.
are we there yet.
have we not gone
to school,
have we not kneeled
in church
and prayed fervently,
do we watch what
goes into our mouth,
measure what
comes out.
have we given enough love
in return.
are we there yet.
have we read enough books.
have we learned enough lessons,
gone past
what was before
that tried to ruin us.
is it ever enough.
how much further on this
road do we need to go.
where and when
can we stop and get out.
and say,
that we've arrived.
we're there.
it's so.

are we there yet

are we there yet,
have we done enough,
have we said enough.
have we driven
the long
road long and far enough
to get there.
are we there yet.
have we not gone
to school,
have we not kneeled
in church
and prayed fervently,
do we watch what
goes into our mouth,
measure what
comes out.
have we given enough love
in return.
are we there yet.
have we read enough books.
have we learned enough lessons,
gone past
what was before
that tried to ruin us.
is it ever enough.
how much further on this
road do we need to go.
where and when
can we stop and get out.
and say,
that we've arrived.
we're there.
it's so.

no boundaries

the rabbits find
a way in.
the moles.
the snakes too. the squirrels.
a black
bird sits on the fence
and makes his
noise.
a hawk circles.
a vulture sits nearby
in his black robe.
it's judgement day.
it appears.
they've all gathered
to tell me what
I already know,
which is you can't keep
us out
if we don't want you to.

slow boat

someone gives me a ticket
to take a trip.
here, he says.
you look like a man who
needs a rest.
I look at the ticket.
china
it says.
I go down to the docks
with my suitcase
and look at the boat.
it's a small boat
with a wooden mast and old
yellowed sails.
it looks slow.
very very slow.
perfect.
I climb aboard and go.

forget about it

it's fifteen out there
the weatherman says.
but it feels like thirteen\
with the wind chill.
the wind
is gusting at six miles per
hour,
so button up.
bring the kids in,
the dogs
and cats
and if you have any tomato
plants in the yard,
forget about it.

home cooking

home cooking
would be nice. a meal
at
the table.
a glass of wine.
take the warm bread out
and set it here.
the tray of butter,
the gems
of salt and paper
in their shakers.
bring
the pot over.
the hot steam rising
in our faces.
we could less
than this. this home
cooked meal,
this simple act of
human kindness.

the high bid

the bid
is too high.
he tells me. others are
half that,
some a third.
why
is yours so high.
I want to use you,
but why
can't you go less?
can you do this for me?
I have more
work down
the road.
I promise. you won't
regret.

the get away

she leans back on her hotel
lounge chair
positioned just
so. pointing to where
the sun must go.
white sand, blue water,
a cold
drink in hand.
she just had to get away.
away from winter
to this post card
paradise. but
the food doesn't taste
right.
the beds don't cradle
her to sleep.
the hum of the fan is
a freight train.
her mind is elsewhere.
in a place,
in a far away place where
she wants to be.

stay home

we say
we're going here,
going there. we'll get there
soon.
we fill the car
with gas.
we pack for the road.
we go.
there is always somewhere
we need
to go.
but not me, not
anymore.
I want to stay home.

book ends

the day after
the party we pick up
where
we left off.
things go into bags.
into boxes.
we push the gaiety into
the closet.
the lights come down.
we start again,
these holidays mere
bookends
holding our
lives together.

the furnace

the slow frost
of
dust, the fog of us
gathers
on this new day.
the sun
decides to make an appearance
but provides
no heat.
a different heat
is needed
anyway.
one that radiates
from the inside,
the furnace of each heart.

mid century, like me

I prefer the clean line.
the smooth
surface,
that modern look of things.
mid century, like me.
I prefer
the black and white,
the square
tile,
the simple lamp,
and the George Nelson clock
with a wooden
ball
set on each dial.
give me your Frank Lloyd
Wright
with his falling water.
his flat stone
homes.
a place for everything
and everything in
its place.

the empty suitcase

before I throw
out the suitcase, I look
inside
the pockets, pull back the zippers
along the top.
not much is there.
a torn ticket
to a train, a bus.
small change.
a pen.
a toothbrush. a map.
a room key, or two.
I've been where this has
been,
this suitcase, faded
a cloudy grey,
but not always there.
not always present,
when there without you.

the rage within

the flare
of anger between the man
cutting
wood,
and the man buying
it is
fierce
and quick.
it tells you how easily
wars
begin, how
murders happen.
how
quickly men go
into a primitive
rage,
throwing themselves
into violence.

the rage within

the flare
of anger between the man
cutting
wood,
and the man buying
it is
fierce
and quick.
it tells you how easily
wars
begin, how
murders happen.
how
quickly men go
into a primitive
rage,
throwing themselves
into violence.

see you when you get home

I get a postcard
from my mother. I see her
familiar handwriting
learned
at the lessons
of nuns
in south
Philadelphia.
I see the smooth way
her letters swirl,
the lightly crossed
t's and dotted i's.
even and clear.
she says hello my son,
how are you these days?
my love
for you has never wavered.
don't be so
concerned about me,
i'm fine.
but i'll be leaving soon,
leaving this
old
body i'm trapped in, here
in his soft bed
where they feed me with
a baby's spoon.
none us can fathom
the mystery of why
God is taking His sweet time,
but please don't worry,
take good care of yourself,
i'm fine.
i'll be leaving soon.
i'll see you when you
get home.

see you when you get home

I get a postcard
from my mother. I see her
familiar handwriting
learned
at the lessons
of nuns
in south
Philadelphia.
I see the smooth way
her letters swirl,
the lightly crossed
t's and dotted i's.
even and clear.
she says hello my son,
how are you these days?
my love
for you has never wavered.
don't be so
concerned about me,
i'm fine.
but i'll be leaving soon,
leaving this
old
body i'm trapped in, here
in his soft bed
where they feed me with
a baby's spoon.
none us can fathom
the mystery of why
God is taking His sweet time,
but please don't worry,
take good care of yourself,
i'm fine.
i'll be leaving soon.
i'll see you when you
get home.

the student loan

i get the daily call
about my student
loan.
we can help you pay it off,
the woman says, stating
first that we're on a recorded
line.
i wait for all
the small talk to go away,
for an agent to come on the phone.
we can help you,
she says. she's kind, she's sweet,
compassionate in her
predatory way.
how much do you owe?
i don't know, i tell her,
you called me. I was hoping you knew.
what's your name?
you don't know? i ask her.
again, you called me.
we can help you pay off your
loan, she repeats.
but i don't have a student loan.
I've never had
a student loan. i finished
college thirty five years
ago.
perhaps you've heard of it.
Faber College.
they made a movie about it.
I spent the best seven years
of my life there.
well, she says, clicking a pen
against her desk.
is there anyone in your house
hold that has
an outstanding student loan.
a son, a daughter, a wife, or
relative?
let me check i tell her.
hold on.
i yell out across the house,
does anyone here have a student
loan?
my voice echoes back,
bouncing through the empty rooms.
there's no answer.
the dog barks.
wait, i tell the woman.
there's someone here who wants
to talk to you
about your payment plan.

floss more

the dentist is relentless.
floss,
she says.
you're not flossing enough.
your brushing
is fine,
real good, but i can't
say enough about
how important it is for
you to floss.
we've gone through this
so many times.
don't you care about your teeth?
your health?
my mouth is full of cotton,
while a hooked tube
sucks
saliva out of my cheeks.
my eyes water, but i nod
yes, in that meek trapped
sort of way.
okay,
she says.
your x rays look great.
mindy will finish up here
and i'll see you in
six months.
she taps me on the head
like a small child.
floss she says.

green peas

i have a bone to pick
with you
she says to her husband
while leaning over the table
with a fork
and carving knife.
every stone
in the chandelier above
the table
captures their faces
in the reflection.
we can talk it out now,
or we can
talk about it later over
coffee
and dessert.
what about tomorrow morning,
he says. sliding green
peas onto his fork.
call me,
i'll be on the golf course
shooting
eighteen holes.

at seventy eight

he wants to tell
his story.
I try to add in my two cents.
my own
connected
tale
to match his, or top his,
but I give
in.
he doesn't care so much
about what
i'm saying.
he's starved to let out
his well told words
to a new set of ears,
so I let him have his way.
we go on like this for
hours.
me silent, him
reminiscing
until the cows come home.

at seventy eight

he wants to tell
his story.
I try to add in my two cents.
my own
connected
tale
to match his, or top his,
but I give
in.
he doesn't care so much
about what
i'm saying.
he's starved to let out
his well told words
to a new set of ears,
so I let him have his way.
we go on like this for
hours.
me silent, him
reminiscing
until the cows come home.

the news

some news
you need to sit down for
to hear
so that you don't
fall down.
while
other news
makes you run
through the streets
to shout it
out, to let everyone
know
what you know now.

no worry

there's not a line
of worry
creased
on a birds face,
there is
no slouch in his
shoulders,
no angst or anxiety
about
today or tomorrow.
no lingering
thoughts of where
he flew to
yesterday. he
stretches his wings
and finds
a tree
to builds the nest.
he doesn't wonder if
the other tree would
have been better.
he finds
the worms, the berries
that his family
needs.
he does what he's able
to do,
and lets God do
the rest.

the other world

there is reason
and structure, there are rules
to follow,
instinct
and intuition.
logic.
but there is something
else going
on here too.
something beyond what
we can see
or feel or
even know, unless
you let go
of this world and let
the other in.

the other world

there is reason
and structure, there are rules
to follow,
instinct
and intuition.
logic.
but there is something
else going
on here too.
something beyond what
we can see
or feel or
even know, unless
you let go
of this world and let
the other in.

the paper route

when delivering papers
before the sun
came up
I would run with my
wagon.
dog beside me.
each paper folded
into a baton,
for easy throwing.
with a gentle toss
I'd watch the papers
land on porches
or sidewalks
of the addresses
I knew.
my hands would be black
with the soft
ink of that days news.
not a soul
out.
just the yellow
white lights
from a room here and there
along
the streets
of early risers.
the lingering stars
above me.

one of a kind

we are glass
figurines at times.
fragile
and small in our
ways.
we break easily.
we drop
we fall, we get
tossed aside,
thrown away.
handle with care
these hearts.
there's only of
of us.
just one of a kind.

to the other side

who doesn't want calm
waters.
a clear sky.
who doesn't want
to sail
into the sunset
or sunrise
with a steady boat
a tall
sail
and you.
throw down the map,
set the sexton
aside.
just let the wind
take us,
take us far away,
to the other
side.

clean house

I can't
vacuum fast enough
this dust
and debris that lies
within.
I can't sweep hard
enough,
dig deep
enough into the corners
of my mind
and pull out
the webs, the broken
latches,
the doors
and windows.
I can't toss the junk
far
enough away
to keep it out
of sight,
to keep it from
coming back,
but i'm trying.
good lord i'm trying
and in time,
will succeed.

clean house

I can't
vacuum fast enough
this dust
and debris that lies
within.
I can't sweep hard
enough,
dig deep
enough into the corners
of my mind
and pull out
the webs, the broken
latches,
the doors
and windows.
I can't toss the junk
far
enough away
to keep it out
of sight,
to keep it from
coming back,
but i'm trying.
good lord i'm trying
and in time,
will succeed.

stop the clock

the day
the day
the day.
another follows
another.
it's what
we do.
where is Friday?
why
do the weekends
speed by
so fast.
stop the clock.

stop the clock

the day
the day
the day.
another follows
another.
it's what
we do.
where is Friday?
why
do the weekends
speed by
so fast.
stop the clock.

clean glass

let's clean
the windows. wipe
the glass.
let's undo the smudges,
the fog
that blocks
our vision.
let's put the past
behind us.
you need to look
in at
me,
and me at you
with no obstruction,
let's take
the glass away
and go eye to eye,
heart to heart.
speak
freely
saying what we need
to say.

clean glass

let's clean
the windows. wipe
the glass.
let's undo the smudges,
the fog
that blocks
our vision.
let's put the past
behind us.
you need to look
in at
me,
and me at you
with no obstruction,
let's take
the glass away
and go eye to eye,
heart to heart.
speak
freely
saying what we need
to say.

the smith cake

the smith cake
from St. Michaels
reminds me of you.
the sweetness, the layer
upon layer,
baked just right.
the high cake, the round
and iced
cake.
the delicate nature
of it all
when served,
so rich, so thin.

let's go up

it takes
some time to get to the high
road.
the low
roads are
easy. how they wind
and circle
without any fear
of falling,
how they hug the mountain.
wide and familiar.
it takes
a while
to go up,
to leave what we know,
to go up and stay there.
to see
what's really out there,
the broad view
of what life
can truly be.
let's go up.

the breathing of two

a fire would be nice
on this cold day.
sleeping in would too.
a hot cup
of something on the
night stand.
books waiting to be read.
the quiet of everything,
but the wind
outside,
a heart beside you,
the breathing
of two.

taffy

one arm
goes this way, the other
is stretched
in another
direction.
her legs too,
move
left, one going
right.
she's being pulled
like
taffy
towards places
she doesn't want
to go again,
everyone still
wanting a taste,
a bite.

still working

the lamp is old.
stained
with whatever has
floated
in the air.
the inside singed
with heat,
the outside
fuzzed
with lint.
the base
is bent,
but the light still
works.
the light goes
on
with a click of the switch.
like us,
we keep
bright, keep working
at it
despite
what the mirror says.

the king's chair

he had a recliner,
an oversized stuffed mauve
chair
that could be
moved backwards or
forward
electronically or manually
with a wooden
handle on the side.
it felt like velvet.
there was an oval spot
on the arm rest
for bowls.
two inserts for cups
or cans.
a webbed pouch on the side
for remote controls.
a phone,
a guide.
he sat
there for decades.
as time flew by,
the children grew
and moved,
his wife turned grey,
finding a life on her own,
but
this was where he wanted
to be,
in his king's chair,
a king quietly
growing old.

it's all the same

the children
don't know a Ming vase
from
a lamp
bought at target on
the discount,
discontinued table.
they
don't care
if they take the marker
and write
boldly on the silk wallpaper,
or etch into a table
with
a key their names.
drawing
cows
or dogs, who's to know.
unaffected
by value,
by the price
we've placed upon things.
they think it's
all the same.
and truly it
is.

let me know

less is more,
unless
the tank is nearly
dry, or empty.
then I want it to
overflow.
I want extra
to get me through the night.
call it affection, call
it love,
call it what it
is,
but bring it on,
let me know.

thirty minutes

thirty minutes
the driver
says, calling again for
the third time.
you just called me, I tell
him.
you told me thirty minutes
ago,
that you'd be here
in thirty minutes.
thirty minutes, he repeats.
I will be there.
I hear the grinding
of gears,
the rumble of exhaust
as his big truck
pulls away from a
light into traffic.
i'm here, I tell him.
i'm waiting.
knock on the door
when you arrive.
okay, he says.
thirty minutes.

bleeds through

despite so many
coats
of paint, the words in ink
come through.
the script on the wall.
little can mask the message.
the large
letters formed
into words
still bleed through,
as transparent thoughts
in us,
most often do.

the vision

the vision
comes
at any time, but only
to the chosen.
the child,
the woman, a person
of divine intent.
Mary in
blue and white,
her hands
open
with compassion.
listen to my son
she says.
only in He will
you find
true life.

finding felicity

we find
ourselves in felicity.
a small
town
outside
of nowhere,
on the border
of somewhere,
away from
everything we know.
we find a white house
made
of stone.
a bare yard
with a small
wall and garden beside
it.
in the distance
there are mountains
capped
in snow.
we string white
lights
upon the walls.
we paint,
we throw down rugs,
hang pictures.
we make it our own.
during the day
we look out,
hand in hand at
the cloudless sky
and smile. at night we
hold onto each other
under the dense array
of stars
and wonder why
we didn't do this
sooner.

doubt

he was strung
as gossamer,
so light
upon a slight breeze
blowing
to and fro
barely holding on
to what,
at times,
he truly believed.

oblique methods

they are feathers,
soft tickles across
a neck,
small
tear drop kisses,
oblique
methods
of getting what one
wants.
they fly
under our radar,
we assume
the best of intentions
in the shape
of gifts laid
forth, unknowing
purposely,
perhaps, what they really
mean.

the session

the therapist
is warm.
her soft eyes,
glow
like gems.
she's in her blue sweater today.
a white scarf
wrapped
around her neck.
she holds her pad
and pen,
her legs folded beneath her.
the room is gentle.
pictures of friends,
books
and posters saying things
like
true love never ends.
what brings you
here today, she asks,
as you sit across
in your coat.
your hat still on,
your hands
trembling from the cold,
what should we talk about
today?

word play

words
are dangerous.
they're strong,
they carry
weight, they have
sharp points,
but they can ease
the pain as well.
they can heal a broken heart,
or break
it again.
words
are everything
when spoken plain,
said
together, face to face,
or written and sent
from some far away
land.

the world outside

a day off.
a day
to do what?
to go where?
to sing, to write.
to sleep.
to indulge in things
that bring
a smile.
the options are wide
open.
the world
outside is white.

the pipes are frozen

the knob won't turn
to the left or right.
the water
runs and freezes in
this
cold spell.
soon the pipes will burst.
soon,
the sea
of water
will envelope the floor
rise
up the stairs.
soon we
will be floating along
towards
the river
to the bay to the ocean,
out the door.

light and easy

the house
sags
with the weight of books.
the ink
heavy
on the page, the covers
thick,
the markers
stiff in place.
the house
bends with the knowledge
of so much
fixing
of hearts, of pain.
bring me
adventure,
bring me mark twain.
bring me
something light and easy
for a change.

the dark light

it's a bitter taste
in one's mouth
to be misunderstood, to
be looked at
in a dark light that
truly isn't there.
where can one go
if even those dear
to you, see so little
of the love
and compassion
that dwells so
strongly
within your soul?

that happy whistle

his whistle
reminded me of my father's
whistle.
if you heard it,
you knew that things were
bad.
something was amiss.
he'd whistle and whistle
some happy tune
and we'd wait
for that foot
to fall, for
the tree to crash,
for the earth
to quake.
we'd run for cover
and wait
when we heard
that happy whistle.

the stew

it's our stew.
this life.
this pot of boiling
potatoes
and rice,
carrots and onions.
meat.
it's our pot.
our lot in life
part chosen,
part given.
our hand seasons it.
the ladle
goes to our lips
and tastes
what boils
on the stove, what's
good enough
to eat, to serve
to others
or throw away.

speak up

to be silent
and suffer as if a martyr
about to die,
with no
whimper
or cry. no response
to the slings
and arrows, the crack
of a whip
against your back.
to lay
low and do nothing,
saying nothing,
just turning the cheek
to smile
as they slap, to
pretend that everything
is fine
is no longer
a viable option.

needs

the list is short.
love
and warmth.
fun
and adventure,
conversation.
kisses.
a desk to write at.
a home
to nest in.
and cake.
the rest is nice,
but a box
in the woods
with the one you
love would
work as well.

a house into a home

the movers
tuck one box under an arm,
the other
goes onto
a shoulder.
there's a man coming
down the ramp
with a dresser
strapped to his wide
back.
they are fast
and efficient.
it's everything you own
bought
from day one,
brought into your life
over years.
a picture, a lamp,
a vase.
finding a new spot
for each,
turning a house into a home.

the spill of stars

the stars
are a surprise tonight.
the gems
spilled out from some
black bag
of sky.
a pattern of sorts appears,
everything
in place,
as it was one
or a million years
ago.
but still
they awaken you to something
beyond
your home,
your house, the things
you own,
or desire.
the problems that surround
you.
how small we are
beneath the stars.

what to read

I was trying
to figure out which self help
book to read
on this cold day
in January
as I sit on the long dark
couch and take
my emotional temperature.
should we go with
grief,
or regret, or am I blue
because of the weather?
perhaps the miracle book
would be helpful
in this current state of mind.
or the one
that says i'm okay you're okay,
let's just live and let live,
then forget.
I toss a coin
jung or freud,
nouwen or manning.
c.s. lewis, or Stanley.
maybe a long sweet nap
would be best.

twenty nine cents a gallon

I remember when gas
was twenty nine cents a gallon,
leaded.
when the guy
would run out
in his white uniform and hat
and pump your car
for free.
he'd check the oil,
show you the black wet stick
and say
you're a tad low,
or you're just right.
he fill the tires with air.
wipe the windshield,
both front and back.
and then
sometimes he'd give you
a dinner plate or a saucer
and cup
to match.
things were different then,
jfk was still in the white
house, and
betty crocker was a mere
child.

fruit cakes

the fruit cakes
that arrived in the mail
have come in handy this year.
I've lined them
up against the drafty door
to keep
the winter air
out.
two I use on the shelf
for books,
thick and heavy volumes
of updike and cheever,
billy Collins,
holding them in place.
another is on the porch
for the birds,
but only woodpeckers seem
to have an luck
with them.
one pair
I use for weights when I wake
up in the morning.
twenty lifts with each
arm into the air.
next year i'll regift
them all,
they never seem to go bad.

still falling

we box
our love letters,
our sweet nothings,
we save
messages on our phones,
the texts,
the photos of anything that
remind us of happier
times, we send them again
hoping against hope
that they might
change your mind,
and bring you home.
we think
of ways say to hello,
we lie awake at night and wonder
who you're kissing now.
we find
excuses to reach out
and say
remember when
we did this, went there,
the time
you slipped and I caught
you and held you in my arms,
now when
I do these things I think
of you,
but i'm alone,
and when I fall, I keep falling
like i'm
doing now.

a late christmas

the gin
smells like Christmas
cold and clear
in a tumbler of ice.
but
Christmas isn't here.
it hasn't
arrived quite yet.
maybe the gifts
under the tree will help.
the songs on the radio.
the snow falling.
the dinner,
the candles the lights.
maybe the mistletoe
too
will get us there.
or at least get us through
the night.

a late christmas

the gin
smells like Christmas
cold and clear
in a tumbler of ice.
but
Christmas isn't here.
it hasn't
arrived quite yet.
maybe the gifts
under the tree will help.
the songs on the radio.
the snow falling.
the dinner,
the candles the lights.
maybe the mistletoe
too
will get us there.
or at least get us through
the night.

press on

we curse the cold.
the wind that rattles our
bones.
we feel
the strength of a world
we
are powerless against.
there is
so much
we can do little
about, but
bundle ourselves,
wrap scarves around our
necks, glove our hands,
button up
and press on.

press on

we curse the cold.
the wind that rattles our
bones.
we feel
the strength of a world
we
are powerless against.
there is
so much
we can do little
about, but
bundle ourselves,
wrap scarves around our
necks, glove our hands,
button up
and press on.

nothing but rest

a day of nothing
would be nice right about now.
nowhere to go,
things to do,
people
to greet.
lets stay in bed.
watch the sun rise
then set.
we'll bring food up
and drinks,
turn on a movie.
we'll cancel the day
and do
nothing but rest.

the aftermath

the room
is littered with empties.
champagne,
wine,
vodka bottles
scattered about
some on their sides
drained
and exhausted.
the plates are scattered
with cake
and icing,
half eaten sandwiches.
someone is asleep
on the floor
still in a suit,
a woman beside him
in a dress,
her hand on her blinking
phone
full of messages
asking
where are you, are
you coming home?

i'll do anything for you

i'll do anything for you,
i tell her in the heat of passion.
anything.
she takes it
word for word. okay, she says.
go jump
into that lake covered
in thin ice
and swim to the other side
and back.
you said anything.
quickly i change
my proclamation
to nearly
anything, wondering what
could be next.

where are you going?

where
do they go,
the ducks, the birds,
the animals
in this cold. where
is the burrow
that they find,
the tree
knotted out,
the stones stacked
just so,
to give
them a cave to lie
in.
where do they sleep,
or wander
on a night like
this.
where are you going?

new year resolutions

what is your new years
resolution
the waitress
behind the counter asks
as I sit and order
a chopped green salad.
funny you should ask,
I tell her. I actually
have several.
for one thing i'm going to start
speaking my mind.
I've earned the right.
i'm at that age now where I
should be able to call
people out
on the bad things they're doing.
tell people how I really feel
about them.
okay, she says, okay,
putting a knife and fork
beside my bowl
of greens.
what else?
i think I might
start drinking more, martinis
or manhattans maybe, and
eating more red meat,
grilling out on real charcoal,
not those gas grills.
what else, she asks, as
I flip the lettuce leaves over,
pulling out
the cranberries.
I need to relax more and stop
stressing out
about things I have no
control over, like traffic
and my immediate family.
I thought about taking
up smoking too,
but that's a cup of crazy.
so, she says,
hands on her aproned hips,
speaking
without a filter, red meat,
and drinking are your
new years resolutions?
and being more relaxed?
yeah, and less salads too,
I tell her,
sprinkling bacon bits onto
the bowl, then chunks of blue
cheese.
I've had it with salads.

men and women

the women
have their cheese.
their salmon,
their red wine,
and chardonnay.
politely they say excuse
me when going
to powder their nose,
while over in the corner
the men
are pulling the legs
off a chicken
and drinking
beer or hard cider,
chewing on slow cooked
swine.
somehow they find
a middle ground,
and get along.

tell me how you really feel

the gravy train
stops
and you discover who people
really are when
they no
longer get what they want,
no longer
get a check
in the mail.
a pocket of cash to get
them buy.
or a quiet nod when they
tell you of
their lies.
you discover sadly
how you've been played.
conned,
and manipulated for
so many years, enabling
them
by saying nothing, calling
them out
on nothing. letting them
go on,
as if everything
was alright.
no one is perfect, especially
me,
but speaking
up is difficult
at times.

what must be done

I dream of salmon
large pink salmon,
swimming upstream,
their bodies bending
with muscle
in the sunlight.
the glisten of their
scales, the bright flecks
of blue
and silver,
small rainbows above
the rage
of white water.
I dream of them
leaping, pushing their way
up to where they need
to be.
I dream of some
in the mouths of bears,
clawed from
thin air, they too
doing what must be done
to go on.

the square yard

I see no hope
for the back yard.
the stack of ladders,
the old fire place made
of metal,
the rattle of the wood
on the limp
shed.
a weber grill
that's seen better days.
look at how the vines
have
creeped
into the fence, climbed
with fast fingers,
green
upon the brick.
where's it going?
the bushes are scarce,
and stiff,
the ground cover a mix
of gravel and weeds.
it's a pleasant place perhaps
for birds,
for snakes, for passing
animals
looking for shelter,
but not for me.

bewitched

every bone

in my

body says run, every

inkling every

ounce of intuition

says

head for the hills, you've

been duped.

tricked,

put under

an evil spell. trust your

nose,

your eyes

and ears,

disregard that heart,

it's a liar.

she's a witch stirring

an awful brew.

she's the devil

that will bring you to tears.

to unworry

we are what
we do. the habits we
form
and continue
from day
to day, into night.
how we sleep,
or eat,
how we speak to one
another,
moving things into
positions
that feel just
right.
we need the comfort
of the same.
narrowing our
world into
tidy safe places.
oasis
we can go to
and unworry.

take one

the woman at the market
stands
by her tomatoes, her plums,
her apples.
she's proud of the boxed
fruit, the busheled
potatoes. it's
as if she herself
put the seeds into
the ground, watered
and tended to their growth.
maybe.
she says taste one, go
on, see what they taste like.
you wont regret, you'll
buy. you will take them home
to your wife, your
children, your friends,
they will smile and want
to know where they
came from. go on, take one.

hot coffee

the coffee is hot
here.
the waitress is soft spoken
and fun.
older than rain, but
clever with a wink.
she knows what I want,
but brings
a menu just the same.
I slide it to
the side
and say her name.
over easy, I tell her.
bacon and toast.
juice.
I know she says
and walks away.
tomorrow i'll come back
and we'll
do it again
for old time's sake.

the man outside

I see a man standing
outside my house.
he's across the street
wearing a long black
coat.
he's stiff, looking
towards my
window.
the shape of him
in the fog
is tall and lean.
he looks like a shadow.
his hands are in
his pockets.
he wants something,
from someone,
perhaps from me.
but i'm busy with things.
I don't have
the time for whatever
it is he wants,
or needs to say.
I go out the back door.
I hope one day
he comes to his senses
and goes away.

remember the time

I ask her if she
remembers Woodstock, how
hard it rained,
the music,
the craziness of it all,
how we danced
and sang
threw our hands
to sky
when Janis Joplin
came on.
how we passed around
a bottle of
boone's farm wine.
she says no,
I was only nine.
oh. well,
what about when
the beatles came to
town?
oh never mind, just
come here and kiss
me. perhaps we should
make our
own history.

home again

it might take days or
months
when younger to get over
being misunderstood
by someone I love.
now I sigh
say a prayer
and go for a walk.
I skip a stone across
the icy pond.
I count the stars,
gaze at the moon.
at walks end
i'm whole again
and home.

how nice to have a dog

how nice
to have a dog.
a big pooch with floppy
ears
and wet nose,
a paw
scratching at his
side.
how he howls at the moon
and stretches
before lying
in a puddle of sun.
his bark
heard down the block.
look how he gnaws
at my shoe.
how nice to have
dog.
thanks for bringing
him by.

Santa Cruise

at last i meet

her married boyfriend

of seven years.

a white mustache

across his sunburned face.

she calls him piggy,

because of how

pink he is

and he calls her kitty,

because i guess

he reminds her of a cat,

or something.

he's the former water

skiing Santa

of Old Town.

i'm not impressed

as he gives me a fishy

hand shake.

he looks like captain Kangaroo

on a bad day.

fat and sad.

a white belt holds up

his baby blue pants.

he's a former coke head

and the leader of a geezer

band.

still married, he promises

the mistress, my anorexic,

covert narcissistic,

psychopath,

and suicidal fiancé

nearly

everything

as he takes her out on his

new big boat,

the Santa Cruise.

this, this fellow,

this tax cheating adulterous

man is my

competition for her hand?

obviously there's a lot

here, i don't understand.

i've got a bad feeling about

this. help me,

dear lord, help me.

the stage mother

some mothers shadow
the child
from birth till death,
keeping close,
never letting
them breathe
on their own, they never
cut the cord
or let them know
what pain is when suffered
alone,
or
what it means to bleed,
or to find their
way when lost,
without a line of seeds,
back home.

we disagree

I surrender,
toss in the towel, raise
the white
flag.
what good is it to argue.
two minds
made up
with different views.
leave it on
the table, why go over
it again
as done ten years ago,
or more,
and will be same
ten more from now.

quick haste

the mud comes in
on his boots.
red brown and wet.
he make his tracks
along
the floor,
the stairs, into
the room
where she waits.
the carpet holds
the imprint
of his weight.
there is no time to
clean
or take them off.
she must be seen,
she must
be made aware of how much
betrayal costs.
the trail
he'll leave behind
will tell her.

sand pebble

this pebble in my hand
so smooth
so round, so white,
where it's been
or how it got here
from some
distant land of
ice, or wind,
swept along in rain
is hard to say.
this pebble,
so smooth in my hand,
i'll set it down again
and let it go on
its way.

too cold to sin

a moon
appears in the sky,

sliding out of the clouds,

sharing light on
a few

desperate men

in long coats,

leaning forward
in the wind.

everyone at once

has agreed that
it's too cold to sin,

too cold
to be of good cheer too.
the brittle trees

hold on
as i do, trying to get

home to you.

nothing left to do or say

all you can do
sometimes
is pray about things.
be silent,
let go
and pray
that the truth will somehow
prevail,
that love will overcome
the differences,
and rise
and fill each soul
with compassion
and forgiveness.

the apple and the tree

the apple,
now bitter,
does not
fall too far
from the tree,
but there are
two trees
and one wins out
unfortunately,
planting herself
again,
nearby.

thirty years later

still you protect your children,
you cover
their ears
and eyes from the harsh
truth
of reality.
you give and give hoping
to make up
for some loss
of time.
you make their lives as
normal as possible,
through
grade school into college
and beyond.
saving and spending,
giving them all the things
they need
out of love.
some see the effort,
some don't, some churn
inside forever,
wondering why things are
they way they are,
but still you don't tell
them.
it's too hard.

the spill of time

the spill
of time, that puddle of hours
we've lost
in worry.
in grieving what can't
be undone,
that dull spot on the floor,
where
we let it drip and drip
until
empty, until there was
no more.
how careless we
are
with time, with each
hour,
with each daily pour.

how she rolls

some are dressed in bling.
from
neck to toe,
a bracelet, a watch,
an emerald ring, or
a band of gold.
some
never leave the house
without
a diamond
or ruby placed somewhere
where it must
be seen,
while others just rely
on what's inside,
that inner glow,
they need nothing
to make them shine,
they are walking bling.

beauty within

she's not a pretty
girl anymore,
the man says, at least not
like she was
when we met
so many years ago. and yet
I love her
more today
than yesterday and I realize
how fleeting
beauty on the outside
is
but not within,
how foolish I have been
to wait so long
to know what I should have
known then.

slow down

it's hard to change
from being
so fast
with things,
scurrying ahead
without a thought
or looking
both ways.
just getting there seems
to be the only goal,
then to find
that in
getting there.
by being the hare,
you've become
too rash.
it's time to slow down,
to be
the tortoise,
to pace oneself
and seek that
and only that which
will last.

all night long

there is singing
next door.
a piano, I can hear
them.
I hear the dogs barking,
the children
running
up the stairs.
there is life next
door.
the open windows,
the sound
of dancing
against the floors.
what fun they're having
beyond my wall.
what joy
there is in their
lives.
I hope it goes on
all night long.

one petal

the small gifts
are large,
the book, the poem,
the baked
goods.
a note written with
love.
they outshine
the diamond,
out live
the clothes.
they last forever in
a heart, one petal
plucked
from a keepsake
rose.

still in touch

it's hard to let go
of old things, things that
no longer
can be used or worn.
the shirts and shoes,
that luggage
dust caked in the corner.
the broken things
we store
and keep for sentimental
reasons.
the loves that linger
on,
that we keep nearby,
unable to
let go.

our actions

the words are fine.
the sweet talk of love
and forever,
I want you to be mine.
but they mean
little
compared to the touch,
the things
done.
action
says it all, not wishes
and whispers,
not cards
or letters, not calls.
we decide who's in
who's out,
who stays close by,
or not at all.

time to sleep

the bones of the beast
are dry in the light,
the scrapings
of corn pudding, the hard
scraps
of crust
from bread
we had no room to eat.
the stain
of cranberry
on the white linen cloth.
the packages
torn asunder
of all things shopped
for
and hastily bought.
the sleep
of the night is welcome
now,
it's over it's over
only three hundred and fifty
three days
before we
do more.

don't say i'm fine

we need to tell one another
that we hurt.
that we
are in pain, or confused,
distressed.
we can't stay silent
and let this problem simmer
beneath the skin,
into a hot boil.
don't say i'm fine.
we are lying if we do.
hard words
are good words at times.
the gloves
have to come off
if love is to be lasting,
and true.

the room where she dies

she's unwhole,
lying in the same bed for nine
months.
her glasses gone,
her voice silent.
she's underwater, does she hear,
does she
know her son who
sits on the bed beside
her
and holds her hand.
it's a sad room.
a dark
room down the hall.
we pray,
I push her hair back.
I wipe her
chin of food.
I cry and feel for her life
which isn't a life
anymore,
but a slow death.
and after she dies
someone else
will
lie where she lies,
another son will come and
think these things
as well.

the one night room

the room, not far
from the shore, but not close
enough
to make the cost
be more,
is square and simple.
the smell of dust
and loneliness linger
in the wallpaper,
patterned as if the beige
scales
of an old fish.
the bed of iron rests
against the far wall.
a table,
and lamp,
a curtain, sheers,
of a flowered nature
fall
short of the sill.
a bathroom down the hall.
it's a room for one night
or two.
not a room for lovers,
or for keeps,
but a room to rest
and be off the road,
to sleep.

lost love

lost love is hard.
the pangs
of it,
the sleepless nights.
the ill
feeling of something
isn't right.
desperation sets in.
we reach,
we call, we send.
we play the music we
once listened to
together.
we tearfully visit
the spots
where love once bloomed,
now old and grey,
ancient ruins.
we ride by
to catch a glimpse,
we hope.
lost love is hard,
the tears
and trying keep
going,
keep going, we keep
walking
blindly in the wind.

the tiled floor

the tiles
cut easily. each finding
a place
upon the floor.
each
snug and tight
against the other,
the wall,
cut clean and even
where the end is,
at the door.
how sweet life would be
if it
went that way. with
no loose ends,
no frayed edges to worry
us
throughout
the day.

purging

the trash truck
is fun to watch as it gobbles
up
the years
of unwanted things.
bad prints of monet and van
gogh.
shoes with worn
soles.
there goes the lamp
my mother gave me when I was
twenty years old.
that pot
that burned on the stove.
a box of old photos
of people I never knew then,
and still don't know.
how easily the big
doors open
and moan,
then crunch down with its
metal mouth
upon my history, for better
or worse,
making it gone.

the answer

life
is not a circle.
not a square
or
rectangle. there are
no even sides,
no middle, no
straight lines
going from
point a
to point b.
there is no equation,
no mathematical
solution
to solve
the problems put
before you.
no sine or cosine.
no square root of anything.
you just have to wing
it sometimes
close your eyes
and say
I think that's the answer
today.

social media quicksand

you try to delete
your life from social media.
sick
of the voyeuristic nature
of it all.
the inane postings,
the searching,
the snooping around into
other's lives, but they wont
let you go.
you delete, you wipe clean
the slate,
but when you go to look
to make sure you're gone,
you're still there.
your picture, your name,
your life's information.
like tentacles they wrap
themselves around
you and won't let go,
dragging you
forever into the quicksand.
even the dead are active
within the last
two hours.

before sleep

it's nearly
midnight, but I decide
to wash my car
in the dark.
it's thirty eight degrees.
I fill a bucket
of warm water and soap
and go at it,
feeling my way along
the body,
the tires, the windshield.
I throw more buckets
of water onto
the hood,
the sides. I rub it down
with a dry towel.
then wipe each window.
it's nearly midnight
and I can see a crescent
moon
between the bare limbs
of swaying
trees.
I can go to sleep now.

surrender

I used to care
about so many things I no
longer care
about now.
the list is long.
the focus
is different now
with grey in my hair,
the heart
still strong despite
the scars.
so much has come and gone,
all the worry
and angst in the world
has done nothing
to change that.
I get it now.
relax. be at peace with
whatever comes,
or doesn't.
surrender to that
higher power
and have no fear
of tomorrow.

permanent liberty

my father
begins each day with a black
cup of coffee.
very hot.
two slices
of toast and a bowl of
oatmeal.
he reads the paper,
checks the lottery numbers,
then
takes a walk around
the block
before coming home
to cut coupons.
he might go out into the small
square of a back
yard and tend to his
tomatoes and peppers.
straighten the fence around
them.
the television is always
on.
a new flat screen,
jerry rigged to use one
remote.
his big chair is in the corner.
it's pleather
with cup holders.
around him are photos
of all of his
children and grand
children of whom
he rarely sees or
speaks to,
but there they are.
after being on a dozen ships
and serving
thirty one years in the navy.
he's docked
for good now.

getting a complex

the woman next
door
accidentally said hello to me
the other day.
normally her and her husband
are cold as ice.
silent
and unresponsive
to my cheerful
greetings.
she thought I was someone
else
taking the trash to the curb.
she said,
hey.
then she saw who I was,
and quickly
put her trash down
and moved like a bunny
back into her house.
i'm not sure what I must
have done
to either of them
to cause this behavior
but it's giving me a complex.

the go to analysis

my therapist
was on vacation, but I called
her anyway.
i'm on vacation, she said
when she picked up the phone.
I could hear
the ocean behind her,
the clinking of glasses,
the breaking of
lobster shells
in her hand.
more butter, I heard her
whisper. garcon,
more butter.
can't this wait? she said.
I had a bad dream,
I told her.
I dreamed I was in the ocean
swimming
and swimming.
the waves were enormous,
but I wasn't scared.
she let out a sigh.
we've been over this dream
so many times.
it's your mother, you have
to let go of these
feelings of abandonment
and let her be
who she is. you be you.
move on with your life.
garcon, I hear her say.
tapping the table with a glass.
we're out of champagne
over here.
that's it? I told her.
no matter what I say you say
it's about my mother.
I know, I know. it's my go to
analysis, but hey.
i'll see you when I get back
in two weeks.
we'll have a session
and talk this through again.
i'll have cindy in the office
bill you for this one.

sit up straight

where once I was deemed
adorable,
with flaws, I was
now, almost over night,
it seemed, deplorable.
the ex would needle me
incessantly,
pick the lint off my coat.
brush
back an eyebrow, point
out
the spinach
in my teeth, or tell
me that i'm
talking too loud.
tuck in your shirt,
sit up straight.
you have shaving cream
in your ear, she'd say.
let me help you with that.
I appreciated all of her
hard work,
making me the man she
wanted me to be.
but finally she gave up,
there was just too much
to fix. now
I feel lost without her,
walking about
with a long strip of paper
stuck to the sole
of my shoe.

say what?

I forget to
put the stickers on the tags,
misplace
my keys,
my wallet. I don't remember
the name of my
first dog,
my first wife, what I had
for dinner.
did I even have dinner?
did I eat
yesterday, or this morning?
how do I separate an egg white?
who am I?
who are these people that keep
calling me by
a strange name.
is that the sun, or is it
the moon rising
in the sky.
is it old age,
dementia?
am I ready for that padded
room,
or is it just the holiday
season upon me?

daily devotions

without
these words in ink,
these thoughts that I go
to daily,
i'd be lost,
i'd sink.
i'd be drowning in a sea
of mystery
without a light.
bring me
more words to read,
more
blood from the cross,
more
rising from the dead
in victory.

imperfections

we turn the vase
so that the vein of a crack
doesn't show.
we knock down
the webs in the corner,
turn over
the pillows on the sofa
to hide the stain.
we do our
best to be perfect,
worrying foolishly
about things that don't
matter.

postcard from LA

to the west coast he goes,
hardly
to be seen again, the post
card,
the call.
the plea
for supplies. the painted
picture of
how hard life is there.
send money.
how quickly
the need for love
subsides.

early morning dmv

third in line at the dmv
was
an act of mercy.
by seven thirty there were
twenty people
behind me
standing outside the locked
doors,
shivering in the cold
air.
drinking coffee, smoking,
tapping their
feet, staring
numbly into their phones,
the paper work
of cars and trucks,
hard plates beneath their
arms.

gazelles

we would jump
the chain link fences in
a bound.
our young legs lifting us
over the three foot
high
steel wire
to the other side.
a short run then over
we'd go.
gazelles full of sugar,
full of spice.
sunshine
in our faces.
tireless in our summer
days,
fresh into
the night.

to be broken

God is unfair,
she says. why me?
why this, why now.
I've been a good person
all of my
life. not perfect,
but good,
and now i'm broken.
truly this is where
the blessings
can begin.

the hidden genius

the genius
of so many never comes to light.
the checker
at the supermarket
bent darkly over the belt,
the hairdresser
her hands
in water and soap,
the man pushing the mower
across a lawn.
they till
the soil, make the bread,
prune
the shrubs
of our lives.
their genius stays intact,
unspent.
never being
seen by most,
except by those
who love them.

no need for pockets

he keeps
a nest egg tucked away.
it's been
the same number
for ten years, untouched.
he has no need
for pockets,
for spare change,
or cash.
he's an astronaut
on land,
never needing to pay
his way,
there are others who
will gladly
do that.

before it begins

like
short bread
the pre school kids
are lined
in rows on their blue
and pink mats.
the lights dimmed low.
music
playing from above.
it's nap time.
not a wiggle in any
of them.
innocence personified,
before the world
begins
to keep them awake,
twisting
and turning
with worry.

i'll get us there

I can row
all day. across any lake.
give me
an ocean and i'll
cross it in no time.
a stream,
a river, don't be
silly,
it's easy. give me
a good boat,
an oar and
with these arms,
these legs,
this heart,
i'll get us there.

double bubble

there was the time
I got gum in the hair of
the girl
I was dating in high school.
we were slow
dancing to a beatles song
in her parents
basement.
other kids were making
out on the couch.
the no stop, don't do that,
pleas were louder
than the music.
she was captain of the cheerleaders,
long black
hair. a shining
mass of straight black locks
that she parted down the middle.
I was chewing double bubble
to keep
my breath fresh in case
she allowed me to kiss her.
but the gum fell out,
and I tried desperately
to retrieve it with my
lips and teeth, to no avail.
she screamed as she
asked me what I was doing
and felt the stuck wad
in her hair,
the lights went up.
the music stopped.
her parents ran down
the stairs as she cried,
and all the girls called me
horrible names, screaming.
I saw her that Monday in school,
passing her in the hallway.
she looked the other way,
her hair now short, just
below her ears.
we never danced again.
every time I chew a stick
of gum, I think of her
and what could have been.

some weather we've been having

it's a deep
talk.
a long talk into
the night.
we get into it.
love and death,
sex
and money.
children and work.
old loves.
parents.
God.
we turn
over each and every stone
that we've
had in
our lives,
the mistakes, the paths
not taken.
the ones we're on.
exhausted,
we look at the clock
and say
as one. bed?
yes, she says.
I tell her this is some
weather we've
been having, lately,
and she says
I know, leading the way
up the stairs.