Monday, May 21, 2018

This Day

I have seen this day before
And foolishly have walked on by
Too full of me
My meager ways
Obscured from sight by
Molehills risen as mountains,
Such self-creations
These clouds brewed within,
While missing the mare’s tails that scud above
As they gloriously steamship by.

I stumbled-on too frequently,
  eyes down
  half closed
  half blind.

This day starts like any other
In its thousand different ways
Though this one has made a modest point
To call unassuming attention to itself.

Ands so as if to say,
She spoke to me:
You found the woes of winter such
That I have brought in sweet bouquet
And sumptuous songs of sparrow-speak
These dewy jewels on verdant grass
And zephyrs bearing blossom showers
Redolent reminders of such beauty here
Yours but for a bended knee
And a softly listening ear…

These whispers roared and beckoned so
Compelling and seducing me
That I have left the world behind
The one that weights the spirit down
And found my way
A barefoot boy
To wander in the garden green
And there to grow my very soul.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Small and Large

the beginnings & endings
are perfectly clear
though the middle lies clouded 
and although a truth
may be found there
may be known by you
may be known by me
these are often small truths 
such low hanging fruit
debatable and dependent on small consequences
petty causes
petulant to the moment
and the ways of the heart’s wilder winds.

larger truths
which lay dormant but accessible
perhaps within my reach and yours,
will materialize and manifest
to those of us who willingly hold our hearts open
and our empty hands extended
in the clear quiet moments of soft breathing.

Monday, May 14, 2018

Lilacs and Stones

Two writers of note
Are buried
At Poet’s Corner,
Their graves within chatting distance.
And if they could but emerge
From their rest
And smell the lilac nearby
In full fragrance
Gaudy and grand in its regalia
The writers might be pleased to note
That those blossoms are
Drawing from them
Some molecular muse,
A passage from poet to plant that
Only mid-May can produce.

I stop to photograph each maker’s stone
Which are beautiful but unremarkable
Found in this cemetery
That seemingly pays lavish tribute to
Secular grandness,
Monuments that call out To the universe
For a life beyond life,
Recovering and resurrecting
The one that stopped at the stone.

The camera captures my immortal moment
With them this mid-May day.
And so, rest in peace my
Wordsmith friends,
As the lilacs
Surely will bloom again.

Friday, May 11, 2018

Vacuuming the Pool

At this late date
Some twenty-five years forward
From his death,
A cancer,
That maybe today he could have survived,
I am thinking of my father
And how after a day’s work
Selling concrete
Or hanging a door for some neighbor,
He would find his way after dinner
To the swimming pool
Which he and mom built
In their struggle to work their way
Into the great American middle class.

And as a summer’s heat dissipated
Into the golden hours of the evening
He would vacuum the pool
Carefully cleaning the bottom of
Leaves, grass clippings and such,
The detritus of privilege.

I was a teenager then
And although it was one of my chores
I expressed no interest in cleaning the pool;
The duty seemed tedious.
My father would remind me to vacuum
But he never asked twice.
Sometimes I would feel a pang of guilt
As I left for the evening with friends,
Seeing him push the pole
Slowly back and forth.

It was only just the other day
These twenty-five years out
That it came to me
In a daydream randomly accessed,
That he in fact might have enjoyed the task;
The solitude
Sounding the depths
Lost for a few moments
In this singular activity.

If I had been the man I am today
Back then
I might have joined him
To share a moment
Or at least give him a nod of acknowledgement From across the backyard.

Wednesday, May 9, 2018


And then all at once
It struck me,
As if it had been fermenting
In some psycho-yeasty still,
Maniacal microbes of the mind
It came rushing to the forefront,
A bad dream tamped down
But not stomped out
(Only you can prevent wild-thinking!)

These little devils,
Dreams that whirl dervishly
Choose to plague me occasionally.

The shaman claims that they are there
To help make meaning:
Process and sort symbolically,
Like a recycling center.
(Maybe a recycling center
Struck by a hurricane.)

Is life such a layer cake,
And is this the creamy nugget filling?

But why so metaphorical,
So disconcerting?

You got my attention
Can’t we just deal with it,
Move on,
And let me loose
All at once?

Saturday, May 5, 2018

Fix It

Trying not to dissolve
Is not the solution,
Or is it?

I am stymied
By the problems in the world
As they tend to take up
And corrupting
The truce of peronal peace
 I have fought for
(As if one can fight for peace.)
It is so easy to let
Those demons dance:
They are happy
To twist and turn,
Some sort of maniacal macarena.
(Noisy neighbors,
 shut the fuck up!)

And then to be bombarded
By the bombastic news,
(Somewhere out there
Everywhere out there)
Of hatred and cruelty
Fear and famine…
(“It’s not my problem”
Is my problem)
My mind says, “fix it!”
Just let go of your shit
(my shit, your shit, our shit)
And fix it.
Let go indeed.

And while fix it
Means fix you,
Fix me,
(aka see the truth, known the truth,
The very music we dirty dance to)
I spend my days
Head under the sheets
Or running off to some pretty place
Trying to save my very soul.