Tuesday, April 10, 2018

The Fire Next Time

The Fire Next Time
(With props to James Baldwin)

That someone is calling for me
Is evident by the list of
Phone calls I get,
Which I leave unanswered.
My smart-ass phone
Emboldens them in red.
No one I know really wants to talk to me…
So just leave a message or send one.

These other folk, call center creatures,
Really just want me to fork over funds
Or fess up to where my son Sean is
Apparently, he owes
Really?  You want me to rat out my own kid??

My strategy
Which is tantalizingly unproven
And likely fatally flawed,
Is that if I don’t answer
It (the call generating computer program)
Will give up
Get tired
Go on to other ripe fruit.
Three strikes and I’m out!

Some people fear that there might someday be
A global electromagnetic pulse
Manmade or celestial
Which will fry the internet,
The fire next time.
I see this purge as a potential blessing
In that we all might get liberated
From such probing pestilence.
In any event
I prefer to be un-plucked…

So if you really want me
You need to be on my contact list
My red velvet electronic rope
That discerns the wheat
-I’m SO honored that you answered-
From the chaff
“We’re not worthy…”
You could try knocking at my door.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Drive By

There are signs that clearly point the way,
If you read them
If you let them:

I drive by Chickadee Way
And wonder what they say there
About me
About you.
What do they know?
And I puzzle that a handful of feathers
can so easily cheer
A wanting heart.

I drive by Granite Street
And think long and hard
About just how long and large
The universe is/was/will be
And how small and short my stay
And how great the opportunity.

I drive by Easy Street
(Yes, there is such a place)
And picture people
Warm hand in hand, I think
Blind and blissfully
Joined together to lessen pain
To share a knowing smile
Lessons learned.

I drive by Poet's Corner
(Which is really a pocket park)
And I fill it like black Friday
With a line around the block
Around the world
Sending beauty word by word
Into the tingling future of now.

Drive carefully
But look for your way
Side street, alley or circle
You may need to round the block
Or even get out and walk
To find the streets where your mind can wander
Where your heart can live.

Monday, April 2, 2018

Spring Snow

This spring snowfall does not bother me…
No not at all.
I am not inconvenienced,
Unlike the birds,
Migrant guests who arrived on time
Only to find their rooms not ready.
And it appears that they will make do,
And survive within their world of deeper wisdom.
Such trusting souls.

Spring is such a relative season
A time of arrivals and departures,
The heat of the sun struggles with the cold
Of darker days,
The story of creation ongoing,
As the earth wobbles its winding way
Leaving us with weather filled with a high degree
Of in-betweenness.

Spring looks both backward and forward
I see that now.
So on this morning
And at this moment
I will not struggle in the in-between,
Rather I will choose to be mindful of its wonder
This heat and cold
These flakes and feathers
and be grateful for such gifts.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Late Winter

The storm covers the willow buds
And crocus blossoms
With its churlish chill.
The first flakes in their solo dances
All lace and frozen spindrift
Late of the Atlantic
Are now accumulating,
Bending boughs
Marching madly
In great unison chorus lines,
Dampening the hope of an early spring and
Forwarding for another day
This wanton winter swell
And the story of such days
Somewhere in between.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018


Is that all there is to a nor'easter?

Or should I just look out the window

   and smile?

As for this while

There is a sky, dirty-wet-white

Crossing the heavens low

From shoulder to shoulder

And trees, aplenty

Wait-watching in moldering puddle of leaves.

The squirrels, my new neighbors

Are hanging off the bird feeder

By tenuous toenails

Great grey pendulums

They are tracking the morning's moments

Seed by seed

And nothing more shall willfully come

Of any of this

Except for the waiting and watching.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Through a Photo of Fog

It took a while
But eventually I got it.
The walk through the orchard
At first was a walk through a photo of fog,
My eyes would stumble from stem to leaf and
When I finally did see the fruit I hardly recognized
Ripe from raw,
Good from bad.
Hunger driven
I only plucked from those
That hung within easy grasp.

It took some time,
(And that clock still runs)
To connect tongue to eye to hand to heart,
So that impetuous desire may yet yield
To more deliberate ways.
The shape of good,
It's form and figure
Can make a fool,
And morph uncertainty within
The sheer short moments found
Between the choices of a novice
And the commitment to the basket.