Saturday, April 21, 2012

How's the Weather?

I grew up in Ohio.
We didn't talk about our pains and our problems.
We talked about the weather.
Maybe sports...
Perhaps it was metaphor...but likely
it was out of fear
of showing our weaknesses,
our vulnerability.
We still were hard off the praire farm and
steel mills and blisters raising tools.
Many suffered in silence,
when it was their turn,
or so it seemed.

Perhaps the Bible helped
you know
the promise of a better life,
next time.
Or maybe a shot and beer and
happy days are here,
I am at the confluence
at the verge
of letting go of old ways and things
of those people and times
at least enough to see a new road
a new me,
But it isn't easy
as I fine my heals dug in to that soil, deep
and you know,
The rain is sure to let up,

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Another Island

I am the courier of memories carried
Over tides of time and oceans of uncertain distances,
Dispatched today by the taste of
A single blueberry,
On this a rain washed morning
Grown on the slopes of an ancient volcano
In the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
And with its sudden flash of flavor
A memory stirs loose of
Fond moments from some time ago
On another island,
This one hewn from granite by glacier and nor’easter
Hard off the coast of Maine,
Great Cranberry,
And though not easily attained
Does yield its small beauties and simple pleasures
That through the passage of time still endure:
Buckets of seastars stranded on the rocky shore
By moon swollen tides,
Great leaps of innocence from the mail boat dock
To the icy waters fresh from the cold north,
Sand dollars like small galaxies hidden amongst
The smooth dank stones rattling at the ocean’s edge,
And greater galaxies found overhead in the sweep of stars painted
On the true black of moonless nights,
Bicycles, chains clanging, ridden with fearless abandon
Down roads and lanes scented with balsam needles and salt hay,
And blueberries by the roadside
Free for the picking
One at a time or by the bucketful,
Sweet with the dawn and moist
With teardrops of fog-rendered waters,
Slowly lifting, burned away by the sun
Always abiding, written on the heart.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

The Bower Bird

Where there are chickens
There is always an egg hunt.
The bower bird clears the ground
And builds a nest of search-selected sticks
And brings from both near and far
Bright colored baubles
Then dreams that they will catch her eye
And waits, and hopes and fusses and worries, and waits
That he may find his mate.
The old bower bird has spread his seed in
Seasons past triumphantly
But builds again, though feathers may not shine
As bright, nor strut and step perhaps not so energized
Because this is what he needs to do…
And hopes that once again
She will appear and so approve,
When love and feather both draw near.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Of Amber Sun and Gentle Waters.

Drawn sweet from your roots
My friend,
From the dark minerals and elementals you grow
Dark in the mysteries of your
Purpose and form
Secrets that serve you and that only you understand,
Study as I may.
I watch your sway and gently touch your limbs
And probe and boldly harvest
From you the sweetness flowing and renewing,
Glorifying your crown once again,
I tap you, selfishly seeking
Your essence, which I may
Only casually comprehend,
And collect you, thinking that I am more
The child drinking deeply than the parasite depleting,
And boil away the weakness and sullied
And drive the vapors wisping to return
And skim away the unclear foam
To drink the rendered nectar
Of amber sun and gentle waters.
From such a wishing well I
Drink and drink and savor
But still want more and more.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

On the Near Horizon

A bunch of old lizards
Basking in the sun,
Searching for a warm rock
With heads cocked solar,
Covering their balding leathery pates with paper plates
Taking small doses from their brown bottles
And issuing idle threats
Writing checks on long lost accounts.
Regrettable reptiles sitting in the noon day glare
Mad and sometimes angry too, but
No longer able to bring the heat
And while the pilot lights still burns
The fuel runs low
No eight day miracles
Mostly a menorah of memories
And no heavy lifting
No, just worshiping the sun god
As most other deities have been cast out, denounced
Requiring too much cash
And offering not enough carry,
Waiting with a number in their hands
But eyes too blurred with tears
To really read,
Waiting at the back of the line
You’ll find then, just
Sitting in the sun
And cursing the wispy clouds
Forming on the near horizon.

Sunday, April 1, 2012


Is there a switch
That you can toggle back and forth
Between on and off
Willfully at your control
And in the waning moments before the darkness falls
Engage that switch and ignite a light that
Prevents the likely stumble
On the uneven pathway
The same tumble I nearly took
Just yesterday
(I wonder why I carelessly let such an easy task go…
To make my way smoother
Clearer of hobbling stones
And careless debris)
I am not careless
I will hold the lamp for you
And guide your hand along the course
Need be
So why not me
As we both find ourselves
Passing this way?