(Winner, ‘International Library of Poetry’ contest. Featured in the compilation of poems, “Forever Spoken”, 2007)
The old bulldog
did a practiced imitation
of his aging keeper,
but he still had a jump or two left
in his hind legs,
and a few frolics percolating
in his otherwise tired disposition,
whereas the old man had all but
exhausted his own.
Wh
(Winner, ‘International Library of Poetry’ contest. Featured in the compilation of poems, “Forever Spoken”, 2007)
The old bulldog
did a practiced imitation
of his aging keeper,
but he still had a jump or two left
in his hind legs,
and a few frolics percolating
in his otherwise tired disposition,
whereas the old man had all but
exhausted his own.
What they still shared, however,
was that common, but uncanny
physical resemblance
honed quietly but carefully
through years spent living alone
together.
Barking at the TV.
A warm heart cannot be broken.
A heart only breaks if it’s brittle.
Quite active today.
Sparrows splashing around
like children
in a summer puddle.
Like adolescent boys
in a backyard swimming pool
trying to impress the girls.
Like men bragging about
conquests, they never really
made.
Like those women
flapping their lips every morning
on The View.
She sat on the grass
filing her nails
with a big eraser board
closer to the size of
an ironing board
than a nail file.
And she had a bag
full of other stuff
in a support role.
It made me wonder
how men manage to get through life
with just a Swiss Army knife.
And a remote control
to change the channel.
An old red tractor
tearing up the field,
digging up the rocks,
filling holes,
moving earth around,
turning it over.
Like your therapist does
for 50 minutes
twice a week.
An old red barn
standing in a field.
An old chestnut mare
leaning on the fence.
An old oak tree
providing her shade.
An old creek bed
winding its way by the barn,
by the horse,
by the tree.
An old farmer
Sitting on the porch,
half asleep.
There’s something
to be said
for not saying
anything at all.
The people lost their way
when they followed the sound
of their own echo.
Everybody loves a parade.
Nice to see people all moving
in the same direction
for a change.
I don’t mean anything I say.
Including what I just said.
A soft exterior.
Like a down coat
on a hard man.
Half moon
in a midnight sky.
It’s half dark
but half light.
If you’re half dim
You’re half bright.
Hey, half wet
is half dry.
If you’re half wrong
you’re half right.
But a half truth
is still a half lie.
We can’t believe
everything we read
in the papers.
What we really need
is a newspaper
that tells us
what we can believe,
and what we can’t
in the other papers.
He died
at the end of his life.
Life is where
they keep you
while they’re making up
your room.
You must have been
an interesting man
What with such profound
experience and all.
Your candid observations
have most frequently escaped
the thoughts of
others who have looked upon
similar situations
but without the vision
you had.
That sight lacking,
Those who looked saw
only ordinary glass
when you saw
diamonds.
Men.
They weak
Even dreamers die
like everybody else.
Death holds no regard
for who we are
or what we’ve done,
or want to do.
And it will not delay
it’s coming for a king
as it hasn’t for the pauper.
The clocks are set
for the correct time now.
They are not five minutes fast
(as they have been)
for the sake of being
on time.
And I am not pretending
I can fool myself
anymore.
It seems we’re given
equal measure,
comparable skill
to view things clearly,
to see inside.
But some don’t see
beneath the surface,
some don’t look,
and some don’t even
try.
Lazy eyes
Make lazy minds.
They always say,
The news is not that bad,
when
The news is not that good.
I can’t really see
them.
Only myself
in them.
And the room
I’m in.
We love the dawn and the dusk,
the suspicion and the trust,
the east and the west,
the right and the left,
the north and the south,
the up and the down,
the quiet and the loud,
the sky and the ground,
the short and the long,
the right and the wrong,
the soft and the hard,
the house and the yard,
the truth and the lie,
the black and the white,
the good
We love the dawn and the dusk,
the suspicion and the trust,
the east and the west,
the right and the left,
the north and the south,
the up and the down,
the quiet and the loud,
the sky and the ground,
the short and the long,
the right and the wrong,
the soft and the hard,
the house and the yard,
the truth and the lie,
the black and the white,
the good and the bad,
the happy and the sad,
the short and the tall,
the big and the small,
the broad and the narrow,
the bone and the marrow,
the high and the low,
the hot and the cold,
the yes and the no
the adversary and the foe.
But if the truth be told, I know,
we all prefer the status quo.
That is our one safe place,
our sacred comfort zone.
Over in the corner
by the fan.
It’s hot today.
The cat lays around
because he
can.
Scares us.
Makes us buy
all kinds of
antivirus
stuff.
Maybe that’s
the real
Virus.
They keep my ankles warm
in winter.
But, as socks are wont to do,
sometimes one gets lost.
Occasionally,
when I feel something significant
is missing in my life
I’ll eventually come to realize that
it’s probably just the other sock.
And I feel better.
You can hang up.
But you can never
disconnect.
What’s so bad
about being
out of touch?
If you expect the unexpected
doesn’t that invalidate it altogether?
Like love,
we cannot see it.
We can only feel it,
and observe
the manifestation
of its presence.
We can only see
what we are willing
to look at.
Everything else
remains in
darkness.
It does not exist
for us.
Our world is
constricted
By our fear.
They give us
an opportunity
to be late
when we’d otherwise
never even know that
we were.
like a coin,
has the opposite side.
All coins turn
in time.
Faith.
You become
what you believe.
Hope.
A desire to reach
your dream.
Charity.
You give
what you don’t need.
Love.
Unfortunately,
a conditional state of being.
Reflective of
the love invested.
The time,
and the knowledge.
It lives or dies
by that investment.
Like we do.
There are no problems
here.
There are only insurmountable
odds.
There’s nothing left
to say.
It’s all been said
before
except
the silence.
Put a hundred restless people
in a room somewhere.
Bore them into lethargy
with speeches.
No more chaos there.
Carved in the rock
by rivers of time.
Like parents molded
our demeanor.
Without thinking.
The ghetto where we end up living when we fail to make our spiritual
mortgage.
They say,
Time heals all wounds.
It does not. But,
Time does eventually
wound all heels.
I said that.
Some see what they’re looking at,
some see what they’re looking for,
and others only see what’s missing. Nothing more.
You parked your boat
in front of me,
just offshore from my
blanket.
An intrusion of
my privacy.
An obstruction of
my view.
As if this were not
my lake.
Soft clouds formed slowly
on a perfect sky,
giving it depth
and dimension.
Like wrinkles used to do
on your face.
Before you had it
stretched.
Everything is off
In the distance.
Except the smudge
on the lens
of the glasses
on my face.
Turn left.
Go straight.
Then left again.
Straight some more before
turning left.
Then straight,
and one more left.
Stop where you
began.
The lie becomes truth
to the liar.
Robbing him
of his own equilibrium.
Justice comes
on the wings of
a buzzard.
Mercy on the wings
of a dove.
An F-16 roared overhead,
Out racing the sound of its own
dominance.
Leaving behind a sky torn asunder
by its passing.
Like a developer
moving swiftly through the heart
of another small town.
An old corner fence post
stood alone in the field,
weathered, worn down,
but standing.
Unlike the other stakes
long fallen,
it had been planted deep,
and fortified
in order to support the wire stretched
far and wide
from its now slumping
Shoulders.
Oh, aching back,
you’re back.
You torment me
periodically.
Like an obnoxious
neighbor.
You’re a regular pain
in the ass.
Someone gave us a ticket
to this dance,
and eventually somebody will
show us the door.
But at the end of the evening
it will have all been about
what we left out there on the floor.
The rocks were naked
long before we noticed.
Clothed only with a soft moss
to keep them warm for the winter.
I like all the oranges
hanging in bunches
On the tree.
Branches heavy laden
beneath the weight.
Fruit begging to be taken,
beseeching every passerby
to take a few,
to pick at least one or two,
to lighten the load
on its limbs.
To ease the pain
of its aching back.
No time like
the last time.
The next time
might not come.
There’s an extra day
in February this year.
29 days, rather than
the usual 28.
I wonder if it’s an
optional day,
or if it’s mandatory that
we use it.
If it were optional
I could choose to skip it
for now,
move right into March,
then add it on to the end
of my life,
when I’d be more inclined
to want an additional day
or two.
I’ve always liked Thursday.
It’s the sound of the word.
Like a slow curve on a mountain road.
It just feels good.
It’s that it’s not the beginning,
middle, or even the end of the week,
but somewhere in between,
on the downhill side.
It’s the day before the day
before the weekend.
You say Thursday the same way
you might say groovy, or forgiveness.
Yeah, I like Saturday,
but Thursday’s the best.
I have just a quick minute
to write what I’ve been wanting
to say.
But if I only had about half that time
I would say it more succinctly, and
I’d still have the other half left
to write something else I’ve been
meaning to say.
And if I could say that
in half the time. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Well, never mind.
Clouds laying up gracefully
in an amber sky,
mountains tracing the
unambiguous horizon,
cows moving quietly
about the meadow
while I ride herd
from my hammock.
Vs. Random Happenstance
The Pyramids
Vs. The Lottery
Cows.
Waiting.
For Nothing.
Just waiting.
Just lazing.
Some might say,
Lazy good-for-nothings.
I say, Waiting
is enough,
in and of, itself.
I can’t walk
On the path.
Cause there’s a rock
in the way.
Relationships
have been abandoned
for less.
From the pot to the cup
to the lips to the gut
to help the body get in gear,
and the head to get
the work done.
Our horses followed the trail for hours,
steady, confident,
unflinching.
Like mules carrying gear
up the mountain.
Canteen slung low
across my back,
cowboy hat casually shading
my weathered face,
spurs jingle jangling
in rhythm with our own gait,
pistol strapped high on my hip
in case of an encounter
with a hell-bent bandit,
a nasty rattlesnake,
an angr
Our horses followed the trail for hours,
steady, confident,
unflinching.
Like mules carrying gear
up the mountain.
Canteen slung low
across my back,
cowboy hat casually shading
my weathered face,
spurs jingle jangling
in rhythm with our own gait,
pistol strapped high on my hip
in case of an encounter
with a hell-bent bandit,
a nasty rattlesnake,
an angry bear,
or a mountain lion
with nefarious intentions.
I came prepared
for both the danger,
and for the pleasure
of the ride.
We buy these little barns
to store all the stuff that we
collect.
When a barn gets filled up,
rather than give some stuff
to someone who has less than us,
we just buy another little
barn.
And fill it up.
The curbs are painted
blue and green,
some kind of environmental thing.
I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.
They never mentioned it
in traffic school.
But I like it better this way
rather than the concrete gray curbs
that commonly line
most of the other streets,
displaying the usual limited imagination
of our elected officials.
Blue skies
beneath a myriad of satellites
flying by overhead,
keeping an eye on
the weather
so they can tell us
if we need to wear
a coat.
I remember a time
when we could figure
that out for
ourselves.
It will rust
If you neglect it,
if you just let it lay
out in the rain.
Needs to be rubbed up
on occasion,
with love, some tenderness,
and a good chamois.
Everything is lined up
in order.
Either in order of privilege,
in order of appearance,
or in order of importance.
Same thing, I suppose.
Those of us with clothes enough
for every occasion
have reason to clothe those who don’t
with at least a warm winter coat.
A pair of gloves and some wool socks
from the top drawer wouldn’t hurt anybody
either.
Creaky old train
bouncing through the fields
on a clear winter morning,
shaking the sleep from my bones,
the fog from my dreams.
Awakening the light that is
within me,
the life that is
without me.
Like a cup of old
coffee.
He called with
a big N.O.
That’s No, he said.
Rigid.
Can’t tolerate any change
in the status quo.
Even though it would mean
participation in the stream
of blessing.
I feel bad for him.
Waiting
in the waiting room,
where there is no room, really,
to do anything
but wait.
I’m reluctant to touch
anything here,
for fear of its austere disposition
Might contaminate me.
She wanted to know
how tall I was.
I told her I was 6’ 3,
but that was before shrinkage.
I’m 6’2 now,
and well aware that 6’ 3
was as tall as I was
ever going to be.
Age not only reduces the days
we have left on earth,
but it cuts us down to size
as well.
Around in circles, she ran.
Like a hamster on a wheel.
Like a junkie getting high.
Like a dog chasing his tail.
Like a man seeking love
in a strip club.
I’m restless from
too much rest.
I guess I just need to
rest less.
They sit on rock
by the water
holding a familiar
rod.
Lightening strikes
where it will.
And when it wants.
After all, it’s not on a timer,
And it’s not in our control.
It’s lightning, for
Christ’s sake.
It’ll do whatever it likes.
Like killing time
that lingers too long,
refusing to die.
Dogs and Geiger counters
scouring the beach
for anything of interest, really.
Intent on making that elusive find,
that treasure buried just out of sight.
Minds on overdrive, on high alert,
eyes stretched wide.
Noses in the dirt,
working overtime.
Trying to walk on slick hardwood floors
in the very early morning,
your claws scraping like nails across
an old chalkboard.
Your grip all but gone
as you skid and slide along the
surface
begging for your feet to cling
to something that will not allow
the temporal imbalance,
or the frightening insecurity.
Both your ferocity
and your dignit
Trying to walk on slick hardwood floors
in the very early morning,
your claws scraping like nails across
an old chalkboard.
Your grip all but gone
as you skid and slide along the
surface
begging for your feet to cling
to something that will not allow
the temporal imbalance,
or the frightening insecurity.
Both your ferocity
and your dignity
severely compromised this morning
by a casual dose of the
mundane.
Paper airplanes
folded to spec,
built to perfection
in the eyes of a child.
Flown with the best
of intentions, passing the test
of fine adolescent engineering,
embracing that eternal quest
to remain above ground
the longest,
to fly the farthest
without touching
down.
Like we do in our
own lives.
As you have no doubt read,
or at least heard a time or two,
What does it profit a man
to gain the whole world
but lose his own soul?
Well, I know some who’ve lost their soul
and haven’t got a thing to show for it
in return.
So, that being said, it doesn’t even make sense
from a business point of view.
Time passes all at once.
But we divide it into segments
to try and slow it down.
It is in our nature
to delay the inevitable.
Contrary to what we think
we’re doing, we cannot
kill time.
But time, most assuredly
will one day end up
killing each of us.
You’ve got to get past Jesus
If you want to get to God.
Laying near you
late night shadows fall
drifting in from
streetlamps
covering your sleep
in soft light
stirring me to
touch you
but I don’t
lest I disturb you
beauty.
And I snuggle up
beside you,
smooth as ivory,
softer than
a whisper.
Close enough
that I can feel
as if I’m wearing them
Myself.
Yesterday
I felt detached from
your devotion.
Had I spoken of my
pain
you may have raced across
the world
to hold me.
But I kept silent. . .
And you remained in Paris.
The plane fare saved
should buy a thousand
post cards.
The first time I kissed you, I knew,
tulips are better than one lip.
For the Rest Of My Life
Your voice on the phone,
like velvet
in my sandpaper
world.
I could stay on the phone
with you
for the rest of my
life.
You buzzed me,
like the best espresso,
or an overly ambitious
libido.
Like the shock of a young nun
dancing naked in a midnight mass.
Like lightning striking water
where I’m standing,
peering through the frosted glass
at your window.
I didn’t know it
At the time,
but she was drawing
my portrait
while I was writing her
a poem.
If I had
just a couple of minutes
left to live
I’d close my eyes
and breathe in the fragrance of
the last time you walked by.
I love you like
a rooster loves the
morning.
You make me want
to crow.
You
Eyes to see
the need.
Ears to hear
the weeping.
A heart to understand
the pain.
A hand to wipe
the tears.
You. . . .
Shoulders the world.
Loving you
is helping me
to love myself.
I hope I can
refrain
from loving you
For me.
I would let myself become
reachable again, touchable,
vulnerable as a child.
I’d allow myself
the privilege
of a close friend.
I would let my fantasy
unfold, and vanish
with the passing wind.
I would give space
graciously,
and learn to bend
as you have.
I would willingly surrender
my most subtle
expectations.
For you.
I told you all my secrets
yesterday.
Every one of them.
I entrusted them
to your keeping.
And you still
love me
today.
I wish you magic.
I wish for you
a thousand nice surprises
and a million smiles.
I wish for you
an autumn afternoon
in the dead of winter
and a lovely summer rain
to walk in with a friend.
I wish for you
a teardrop
When you find it hard to cry,
or a symphony of laughter
on a dark and lonely night.
I wish for you
the long end of the wishbone
next time (so
I wish you magic.
I wish for you
a thousand nice surprises
and a million smiles.
I wish for you
an autumn afternoon
in the dead of winter
and a lovely summer rain
to walk in with a friend.
I wish for you
a teardrop
When you find it hard to cry,
or a symphony of laughter
on a dark and lonely night.
I wish for you
the long end of the wishbone
next time (so that you can make
your own wish),
and for long-ago-made promises
to quickly come to pass.
I wish for you
a rainbow in your window
and a Daisy in your hand.
I wish for you
a marching band
On every other Sunday.
She Was Sitting on the Couch
It used to be empty
when I was not on it.
It used to hold the indentation
of my body.
It used to be my bed
sometimes
in the dead of night,
when I would feel lost
in my queen size.
It used to be
a subtle reminder
that I was still
alone.
But when I walked by
this morning
she was sitting on the couch.
And when it’s empty now
It holds the indentation
of her body
Next to mine.
It was early.
It was quiet.
You were drawing apples
in a basket by the window.
And I felt a deep connection
to your pen.
Because I love you.
Not just because
I love thinking of you.
Waking up beside you
has enabled me to feel
connected,
to the thread of life,
to the breath of passion,
to the depth of union,
to the gift of love.
I am made more complete
because of you.
And more satisfied.
Even when it's dark
inside.
Even when it's
empty.
Even when it's
cold.
Your love enables
mine
First published in the International Library Of Poetry’s
‘Best Poems and Poets of 2008’
In the stillness of the morning,
before coffee,
may you find each other,
in welcoming arms.
May you rest a moment there
before the day begins.
May you be friends
before lovers,
husband and wife
before friend to any other.
May you be gracious in your love,
and grate
First published in the International Library Of Poetry’s
‘Best Poems and Poets of 2008’
In the stillness of the morning,
before coffee,
may you find each other,
in welcoming arms.
May you rest a moment there
before the day begins.
May you be friends
before lovers,
husband and wife
before friend to any other.
May you be gracious in your love,
and grateful in your lives.
May you see one another
in the face of every stranger.
May you feel your partner's beating heart
in your own breast.
May you live as if it were
your own.
May the breath of your lives,
mingled,
be your communion.
In the stillness of the night,
before sleep,
may you find each other,
in welcoming arms.
May you rest a moment there
before the day is done.
You disappeared
before my eyes,
before I had a chance
to say goodbye.
I stood in your footprints,
thinking they might give me
just another moment
In your company.
Green pants
on your lovely legs.
You let them fall gracefully
to the floor.
They settled there
in a light pile
while my eyes landed
on the legs, they had embraced.
I like those pants,
but prefer them crumpled
in a light pile
on the floor
Around your feet.
She removed her bra,
to my delight.
And her tits smiled
at my surprise.
I wish I could be for you
an easy walk in the vineyard,
a comfortable chair by the fire,
a romantic savior with a bottle of wine
and amorous intentions while we dine,
a good friend with which to share secrets,
clean sheets,
and unimaginable dreams.
To celebrate the joy
of your birthday.
Your voice on the telephone,
softly in my ear.
I can hear the quiet desperation
from deep within that tiny space
where you have always lived.
I’d like to reach in there somehow,
and pull you through the phone.
Or at least give you permission
to crawl out on your own.
I moved away from her
for the shade.
She moved herself back
beside me,
but even closer
this time.
I’m fifty-nine,
and he’s not quite three.
Fifty-six years between us.
It took some time
for me to live long enough
to become his grandpa.
Didn’t take him any time at all
to become my grandson.
Born right into that relationship.
But we find our way
together.
Little man
asleep in his car seat.
Long morning out in the wind
watching those Ferraris
burning up tires, and track
at the Infineon.
A little boy's delight.
Grandpas delayed
adolescence.
Something there
for both of us.
I sat in the dugout
with my grandson.
He’s just a little kid.
He liked the idea of a team,
taking turns pretending to bat,
and running the bases.
The whole ritual thing,
the rules, the game chatter,
the uniforms, the coaches
and all that.
In a precious,
and unscripted moment, he said to me
You sit here in the dugout, grandpa,
I’m going to pick the bas
I sat in the dugout
with my grandson.
He’s just a little kid.
He liked the idea of a team,
taking turns pretending to bat,
and running the bases.
The whole ritual thing,
the rules, the game chatter,
the uniforms, the coaches
and all that.
In a precious,
and unscripted moment, he said to me
You sit here in the dugout, grandpa,
I’m going to pick the baseball player
a flower.
And he did.
I carried it with me in my shirt pocket
for the remainder of the day.
I know some things
that you don’t know I know
about you.
Because I pay attention
while you’re sleeping.
I traced the skyline
with my finger,
accounting for every treetop
and mountain.
It will now be fixed
in my mind
alongside your remarkable
silhouette.
Christmas cards
arranged comfortably
together,
about three feet high
and just as wide,
clinging to the wall
by the door,
reminding us that we
are remembered.
The sun’s getting closer
to the shade
where we’ve been sitting.
It can’t come soon enough
to warm my cold feet.
The same size 13’s
as in the winter of 2001
when I was trying to summon
the courage
just to say hello.
Babe,
you just relax.
Sleep peacefully.
Don’t worry about a thing.
And I’ll keep my eyes peeled
for snakes.
In the hour just before sunset
I sat in the diminishing sun,
the late afternoon shadows,
and set myself to remembering
How you used to set the table
every evening in the same soft light,
like an architect, at the end of the day.
Like an artist at her very best,
finishing the canvass
that someone else began.
I’m alive.
The wind stirs my soul
at times.
The beauty of life
extracts
an occasional
Tear.
Kisses
The creek rises up
to tickle my feet
Like a lapdog
licking my face.
Death is like love.
It takes you unawares.
Life is like a fruit.
Got to enjoy it
before it goes
bad.
There were eleven stars
in the sky last night.
Some might say there were
several billion more
that I could not see.
But to me, there were eleven stars.
And I could see every one of them.
The tree has grown up over my head
while I’ve been sitting on this rock.
I asked for shade, and
that’s exactly what I got.
Silence brings an inner voice
to the troubled heart of the broken.
Humility allows their tired ears
to hear what has been spoken.
Casting themselves long
behind trees,
leaning away from the morning sun,
making shapes of their own,
expressions of themselves
on sparkling grass
still wet with dew
from the rain.
Like we shape ourselves
Each day we are alive.
I sat there
quiet as the clouds
and thought about
the silence.
How wonderful it was.
And how I’d never heard
that sound
before today.
Half Moon
in the midnight
sky.
Capturing my attention,
inviting my indulgence
In the mystery.
Dreamers, and even visionaries, fade away like everybody else, no longer able to oblige the journey or the insincerity of life.
Yes, they die like everybody else; they just leave more quietly, I suppose.
Lifeblood. It’s not in the emeralds and rubies in our bedroom vaults, but in the deep, rich mud of the ancient soil: in the salt of the ea
Dreamers, and even visionaries, fade away like everybody else, no longer able to oblige the journey or the insincerity of life.
Yes, they die like everybody else; they just leave more quietly, I suppose.
Lifeblood. It’s not in the emeralds and rubies in our bedroom vaults, but in the deep, rich mud of the ancient soil: in the salt of the earth, in the song of the wild, and in the quiet longing of a restless soul.
Lifeblood. Chiseled in the hands of simple folk, plowing in the field,
gathering the food, and gathering the fire. Drinking from the stream to quench a quiet thirst; and in the virgin birth of sacrifice. Laying down a life, lifting a voice to a timeless sky. Bringing up our children with a nod to what’s right, with a watchful eye, and a boundless grace.
Lifeblood. It’s not in the gold and silver we wear on our hands, but in the recognition of strangers and the smiles of friends; in the miles of road we’ve traveled, and the rivers we’ve had to cross, in the trials we’ve faced, and, of course, in the love we’ve lost.
No time left
to walk in the wind.
It’s passing like
a friend
gone down the road.
Like a circus
leaving town.
Like a kite blown
well beyond
It's a length of string.
Like an old man’s
fading memory.
Like a failing marriage
or a waning affair
or someone’s sanity.
Sad to think
what the wind takes with it
When it goes.
Water for thirst.
Food for hunger.
Air to breathe.
Love for life.
Sex to satisfy the need.
In the early a.m.
I am not yet alive to you.
Not yet awake to your presence,
not yet in time with your breath.
In the early a.m.
I am not yet fully conscious,
not yet home from the river,
not yet back from the dead.
But in the early afternoon,
in the early afternoon,
I am alive again
to you.
I am.
Brilliant shadows
leaving your impression
as they fade,
in the latest afternoon,
in the disappearing shade.
Brilliant shadows
casting your reflection
on the gate,
waiting still beneath the moon
at the closing of the day.
Brilliant shadows
lingering about me in the yard,
with a vague, familiar presence
like roses in the garden.
Early morning sun
dancing on the roof
like sparklers
on the Fourth of July
throwing radiant light
across a brilliant sky
through trees darkened
by a long night,
through me as I come quietly
to life.
Clean land.
Cream land.
Chocolate land.
Cheese land.
Cows on every hill.
And in every field.
Ducks on every lake.
I am eternal.
I’ll be here
when you come back.
We are born to roam
this wilderness,
to find our way,
to make our lives,
to select a mate
from among the herd.
We remain alert
to preserve our lives,
and those of our companions.
We have learned to run
from impending danger,
from the scent of any threat,
or the sound of its aggression.
And then as we grow older
we are left alone
to stand our ground
until we die.
Comes early.
It is where life
meets expectation.
It is where I fill
my lungs,
and reach my voice
to the sky.
If it is possible
it is probable.
If it is momentarily
beyond my grasp
my arms will grow
To reach it.
I can shake the peaches
from an apple tree.
I can drink champagne
from a mountain stream.
I can paint a picture
of Pablo Picasso's favorite dream.
And walk on fields
of glass.
Seagulls in the rain.
I hear their shrill exchange.
It is communion among them.
But it is solitary too.
It is who they are.
It is what they are.
It is their way of saying,
We are still here.
Fog laying softly
on the surface of the lake,
like a down comforter on a water bed.
A quiet fog, without sound
except the light splash of paddle
as my canoe moves secretly
through this private place.
Now you’re One.
Being one is fun
for learning everything you can.
For standing on your own new feet
like a penguin.
For playing in the sand,
with a friend,
or on the swing, or on
the slide,
or in the pool with dad.
For doing things you’ve never done
from sun-up to sun gone.
For walking to your grandpa
on the grass, arms outstretched.
Or watching birds
w
Now you’re One.
Being one is fun
for learning everything you can.
For standing on your own new feet
like a penguin.
For playing in the sand,
with a friend,
or on the swing, or on
the slide,
or in the pool with dad.
For doing things you’ve never done
from sun-up to sun gone.
For walking to your grandpa
on the grass, arms outstretched.
Or watching birds
while they watch your back.
Being one is about singing with your dad,
Discovering a voice you never knew
you had.
Or drumming with your uncle,
or reading with your mom,
or eating books or new food,
or laughing with your Grammies,
or having grandma come to visit.
Or your Aunt show you how to draw.
Being One is for everything you can think of
that you haven’t thought of yet.
And that’s a lot, don’t ya think?
You bet.
They make me laugh,
with their tails
in the air,
and their faces stuck
in the mud
just offshore,
searching for those
tender morsels
on the lake bottom.
Like we look
for love.
The surface of
the water,
level at all times,
no matter the weather,
or the season,
the varying depth,
the rise and fall
of the bottom,
the shelves, the holes,
the rocks, the mounds.
The surface of
the water.
Constant.
Level at all times.
Like we wish our lives
to be.
Trees,
stunted, growing weak,
but in good earth.
And others
growing strong,
and tall
through rock, in
shallow soil.
Strength found,
ultimately,
within one's self.
No matter the condition,
or the circumstance.
The wind came
from every direction,
with every intention
of finding me here.
And it did.
There is no evading
the wind.
The wind of life,
or the winds of change.
Ultimately
they are one and the same.
Edge of the lake.
In the shade.
A resting place.
It’s quiet here,
except for the sound
of birds
laughing, vocal dancing,
flights of fancy.
Water lapping against a weathered log.
Ripples kiss the new grass.
A mountain green canoe
drifts by. In silence.
A thoughtful apparition.
Two otters cruise
the shore line
in search of snacks, relaxing
in the late morn
Edge of the lake.
In the shade.
A resting place.
It’s quiet here,
except for the sound
of birds
laughing, vocal dancing,
flights of fancy.
Water lapping against a weathered log.
Ripples kiss the new grass.
A mountain green canoe
drifts by. In silence.
A thoughtful apparition.
Two otters cruise
the shore line
in search of snacks, relaxing
in the late morning sun.
No hint of a concern
for what goes on
beyond this tranquil setting.
And I’ve forgotten I ever had
A care in the world.
I found him this morning
buzzing about in a field
of flowers.
Drunk with nectar.
Looking for the queen.
The sun moved slowly across
the early morning sky.
Cautious, it seemed,
as if it were not sure if the landscape
wished to be warmed
and lighted.
As if the darkness would not welcome
it’s arrival.
Ss shhh.
Listen.
Just listen.
It’s quiet now.
Can you hear?
This silence could be
the last sound left
On the planet.
It tussles the hair
It dries the skin
A fireman’s foe
A sailors friend.
It took a lifetime
to find you,
a minute to love you,
a moment to miss you
when I was gone.
I hiked up the mountain
as dawn was breaking
this morning
to the highest elevation
to touch the sky.
To be unencumbered by the conflicts
of everyday life.
I found the sound of
my own thoughts,
stuttering, struggling,
like a weary heart wearing down
in measurable degrees,
pleading for release
in this pure, rare atmosphere
near heaven.
I came to touch
the
I hiked up the mountain
as dawn was breaking
this morning
to the highest elevation
to touch the sky.
To be unencumbered by the conflicts
of everyday life.
I found the sound of
my own thoughts,
stuttering, struggling,
like a weary heart wearing down
in measurable degrees,
pleading for release
in this pure, rare atmosphere
near heaven.
I came to touch
the sky,
and it has settled lightly
on my shoulders,
displacing every burden
I used to carry
there.
I thought I heard Yeti
screaming in the forest,
but it was just a 7-year-old kid.
expressing his delight
at finding Bigfoot tracks
on a high, back country path.
Much the same as I did.
I used to cry for no reason,
but not anymore.
There are no tears.
There is no sorrow left inside.
There is no regret.
There is no fear.
A high mountain
rises beyond the hills,
which serve as it’s
reception area.
Make it through the lobby
and the mountain will be glad
to negotiate your
survival.
Old decaying branches
pierce the surface of
the lake
where deep water
used to lie.
An ancient graveyard.
Wood bodies
buried upright.
I float between
the barren trees
like a log.
Incognito.
Wearing my own
weathered skin
like bark.
Indistinguishable
from them.
I am
among friends.
The broken branches
continued to hang down
from the overburdened tree
as it struggled to remain
upright
under the weight
of it’s aging limbs.
Like someone hanging on
to a weary past.
I will live as if
I had a hundred years.
But each year as if
it were my last.
Each month like I would
never see the next.
Each week like it were
racing past my window in the rain.
Each day like it were a new love
and I would never know another.
Each hour as if it really were
tiny grains of sand falling through the glass.
Each minute like
a prelude to
I will live as if
I had a hundred years.
But each year as if
it were my last.
Each month like I would
never see the next.
Each week like it were
racing past my window in the rain.
Each day like it were a new love
and I would never know another.
Each hour as if it really were
tiny grains of sand falling through the glass.
Each minute like
a prelude to my death.
Each moment as if
it were my final breath.
But like I said,
I will live as if
I had a hundred years.
I express myself
in writing,
and in other ways
known only to time
As I move through it.
Watching,
in the woods.
The movement of life
around me.
Nature would be fine
without me.
It always has been.
I am just a pimple
on its chin.
The leaves were scattered
across the ground
like pieces of a complex jigsaw puzzle
laid out on a large kitchen table.
Parts of the whole,
waiting to be raked,
or placed together
with thoughtful deliberation,
by careful hands,
in a manner meant to complete,
and compliment, the
picture.
The leaves don’t actually
fall.
They slowly work their way
free of the branch, the tree.
Then calmly float
to the ground
as if they each had wings
of their own.
This meadow.
The green and gold.
The red, stretching
ahead, out before me,
deep inside me,
far and wide,
long, and seemingly
unending,
like the promise
of life.
Like the best
of my remembrance.
Live in peace with yourself,
rather than in pieces with somebody else.
Casting themselves long
behind trees,
leaning away from the morning sun,
making shapes of their own,
expressions of themselves
on sparkling grass
still wet with dew
from the rain.
Like we shape ourselves
each day we are alive.
The air is brisk.
A hint of rain in the wind.
The scent of fresh scat on my
broken heel.
The carcass of a dead deer
crumpled at my feet,
decomposing before my eyes.
My time-lapse vision capturing its
beautiful decay.
I hear my own confession
in the prayer that I breathe
for it, for having been here.
As part of my extended family.
Morning sunlight
lifting fog
from a heavy heart.
All things become
new again
as life flows freely,
when blood pumps freshly
from the living well.
Every thought we entertain
is given us like data entered
from the fingertips of God.
We choose what to do
with the information.
Bear scat
where we landed
our canoe.
Left there, I presume,
to welcome our
arrival.
A bald eagle
flew by this morning
just overhead
and dipped his wing
to my canoe.
I tipped my hat
Back at him
to acknowledge
the gesture.
Chica, flopping, plopping,
contorting, cavorting around
the lakeshore this morning.
Dopey, loping, Dobie pup,
just eighteen weeks old,
jumping, prancing, dancing
like a lion cub,
wrestling with herself,
and with the wind.
Beginning to explore
dimensions yet unknown
to her,
undiscovered by the energy
that is her rapidly emerging
nature.
A pup in paradise,
enhancing my pleasure,
and my own sense
of wonder.
You shook the water
from your back,
and wet the world
around you.
Then rolled in that
refreshing patch of
heaven.
As I was driving
down the mountain
in the rain
I spoke quietly again to
that old master gardener
even though he was busy
watering the fields.
And on the ride back home
up the mountain
I just listened
to what he had
to say.
Time is the salve
that eventually softens
every wound.
Clouds
floating
unencumbered,
drifting
in slow motion
in no particular hurry,
without boundary
without a fixed dimension,
appearing, somehow,
as if they couldn’t possibly
even be there.
Natural magic
Cerulean blue
Sky meets water
Like I met you.
Pacman clouds
gobbling each other up
for lunch.
My dog stood barking
at ducks on the water,
her voice on a half-second delay.
As it echoed from a distant granite canyon
she forgot about the ducks
and began an animated conversation
with herself.
I could see the bottom
of the lake
as if it were the soul
behind your eyes.
Water crashing on rocks.
Now let me know
When the thought is gone.
Wind whipping waves
on a spring mountain lake.
Birds gliding by
without effort.
I snuggle with myself
against the cold.
The geese were flying north
for the winter, rather than south
as they normally do.
I saw them this morning.
Either my vertigo is even worse
than I thought,
or the geese are misdirected,
GPS on the blink.
Little do they know
they’re on the brink of a
pretty rude awakening.
And a pretty cold vacation.
Miles and miles
of wide open space.
Places some have forsaken,
afraid of their own freedom.
Fresh Tread
Rolling down the blacktop
on new tires, fresh tread,
headed in the next direction.
They grip that wandering road
again.
Like you once held my destiny
in your bemused and beleaguered,
but, yes, benevolent arms,
When I’m gone
I will not have passed
without you having had the chance
to know me.
And if you don’t
it will have been by your own choice,
with unambiguous intent
and reasoned self-persuasion.
It would make me sad.
But I can live with that.
Burns my feet and curls my toes
through my shoes.
While you burn my ears
and melt my bones
with your pedestrian
complaints.
He said,
I never had the chance
to hurt you
because you beat me
to the punch.
She said,
I never had the chance
to love you
because every time I tried
you ducked.
Don’t point at me
as the source of your
displeasure.
I’m only the source of
my own.
Don’t resent me.
Augment me.
I’ve slept in a ditch
by the side of the road,
and in the valley of my despair.
Been fed bad meat
in a dungeon
by a devil living there.
Been lost in the forest,
been found in the alley,
been ignored in a crowd.
Been out of my head,
been left for dead,
beat up and beaten down.
I’ve been abandoned
by my best friend
for a better friend up there.
Been betra
I’ve slept in a ditch
by the side of the road,
and in the valley of my despair.
Been fed bad meat
in a dungeon
by a devil living there.
Been lost in the forest,
been found in the alley,
been ignored in a crowd.
Been out of my head,
been left for dead,
beat up and beaten down.
I’ve been abandoned
by my best friend
for a better friend up there.
Been betrayed by my own
point of view
and lost my way somewhere.
I’ve drowned
in my own sorrow,
and in your murky eyes.
But I’ve learned to live
outside your love,
and without your feeble lies.
Shower the people you love
with love.
Yeah, I know.
But the faucet runs hot
and cold.
The forest was logged,
not clear-cut, but logged,
then planted to replace what
was taken.
I thought,
Never take more from a relationship
than you’re willing to leave
behind.
Otherwise, that relationship will be left
bereft of its original beauty.
Bear in mind,
things get difficult at times
because of love.
Indifference comes easy.
He said, You’re getting better.
She said, Whatever!
He said, Don't say ‘Whatever’.
She said, don’t say ‘You’re getting better’.
Quietly
through the door
with a furtive glance
And were gone.
(The following poems are people I have known. Perhaps you've known some of them as well.)
Generous
like the sea.
Warm like
the earth.
Kind like shade
in the desert.
Soul and Spirit
that enhance the heart
of men like me.
A human in our midst.
The one who gives life,
and asks only that we live.
Like a willow, willing to bend,
even when the wind does not provoke it.
Like the sun, comfort for my soul,
even when the morning seems so distant.
Companion in my aloneness and in my joy.
Lover in my need and in my freedom.
You are my wife, my woof,
my chosen road.
You are my light, my laughter,
the moon in my sky,
the source of my hope,
the heart of my life.
Little girl in a big world,
moves in a dervish dance.
Stretched beyond measure,
but her soul remains intact.
Beauty uncompromised,
passion, at times untamed.
Body bending with the wind,
her laughter unrestrained.
Embracing truth in mystery
as the cards unfold.
Finding pleasure in the unforeseen.
And in the hard, yet tender intrusion
of her deliberate lover.
Firmly planted in place.
An ancient, weathered tree,
with roots reaching deep
and arms stretched wide.
Stability.
Larger than circumstance.
Reducing life to purpose,
love to embers,
dreams to earth,
soul to flesh.
With eyes that see the far side
of every fixed horizon.
Reaching tall
towards a welcoming sky.
Beyond vision,
beyond boundary,
beyond rhythm.
Dancing deep into the unforeseen.
Looking back for assurance,
but ahead for life.
Standing on the brink of reason
near a warm spring,
in the heart of the matter.
On the verge of self-discovery.
Movement,
like the breeze
on an autumn afternoon.
Stirring up possibility
amid debris,
breathing promise into sadness,
hope into despair,
finding balance
of measure,
fair, but tough.
The breath of sons
who reflect her heart.
Like a doe
in a redwood grove.
Wide-eyed, awestruck,
embracing her surroundings.
Carefree but cautious.
Wise, but indulgent of life.
Deeply conscious of
ebb and flow.
A quiet strength,
with grace.
She makes her way
with eloquent determination.
Architect
of family.
Matriarch, mother,
with faith to hold
water in a basket.
Friend to many,
strength for the weary,
Save for the wounded.
Beauty unqualified.
A quiet love,
with the guts to be
unique.
A visible mystery
to all but those
who know her well.
Mother of life.
A smile to light
the sky,
eyes to light
the darkness,
a laugh to make one’s heart dance.
A deep well,
where clear water waits
to welcome thirsty lips.
Breathing life
into the barren.
Weaving words
like yarn.
Expressions of the heart,
which paint the sky soft
for the hardened,
the earth warm
for the frozen hearted.
A soul that knows
we are alive today,
and not just dreaming.
Physical poet
who writes love scenes
with her body first,
with pen to follow.
Playful, but deliberate.
Peculiar, odd
by some measure.
Wonderful by mine.
Sinking comfortably into
her seduction
like collapsing
into an old, familiar chair.
Animated
like a child,
but with the depth
of water.
Sky to my earth,
Moon to my sky.
Rich,
like chocolate,
or Khalil Gibran.
Searching far
for an anchor,
wide for a port.
Sensitivity
like that of a child.
Feeling pain in places
Only children seem to be
allowed to hurt.
Heart worn bleeding
on your tattered sleeve,
stain set deeply in your weary soul.
Strong enough to stand,
but not alone.
Drifting off to sleep
forever.
Reaching wide across the world
to find what lies
within himself.
Without a traveling companion,
only faith, only hope
to lean on.
Armed only with a strong sword
and a silver tongue,
sharpened like cut glass.
Like his own wit.
Like the Holy Ghost
in a midnight mass.
Sister
for life, by birth.
But it would’ve been
by choice.
The conscience of my soul.
The voice of reason.
A warm heart
in a frozen land.
Eyes that dance
in rhythm to my own.
Like the wind in autumn
or the moon at midnight.
Pouring life
into the lonely.
A man such as he.
Seeds of kindness
sown only by one whose known
his own share of sadness.
A man much more than muscle,
weaker than a child,
yet stronger
than the songs we hear
that break our hearts
each time we get too close to them.
Smiles to tears
in the beginning.
Then slowly,
an emerging trust.
Small steps
carry large intentions,
to be known more fully,
more freely,
more truly.
A woman of her own time,
of her own mind,
prone to fits of kindness.
Sees the upside
and the down
in order to arrive at
an elusive middle ground.
Cautious like a cat,
with eyes wide.
Curious like a child
without boundary.
Goes both ways in love
and play,
in joy and pain,
to embrace life soundly.
Chocolate Buddha
to my vanilla Jesus.
A man who loves
much deeper than life,
more profoundly than words,
much better than me.
A laugh
to crack the sky,
a voice
to calm the restless.
An ancient soul
biding time between two worlds.
Forgets to breathe,
in her excitement.
But never forgets to laugh.
Likes hugs, and needs them
like roses need the morning sun,
like lungs need oxygen,
like love needs expression.
Suffers hurt harder than some.
A soft heart that absorbs pain,
her own, and others.
Gives warmth to the earth,
gives wetness to the rain.
Not the largest man in stature,
but a giant man in heart.
A quiet voice,
living in a place of calm.
Of subtle, but deliberate assessment,
even as a storm may rage about him.
A friend to friends who are his family.
He blows the lowest notes,
the sound of the earth,
with the sweetest of intentions.
A freelance artist
who changed his name for love.
Kind,
like warm flannels
on a cold winter night.
Deep
like the darkness.
A friend for life.
Trusted
like family.
Generous like light.
Card-carrying queen
of the bewilderment
community.
Like a safe harbor
in a strong storm,
a mother who has thrown
her arms wide
to welcome and protect her own.
To shelter them from harm,
to hold them close through time.
And as the hours of her own life pass,
as arms shorten with each breath,
her children have become for her,
with arms thrown wide
and hearts made warm,
a safe harbor
in a strong storm.
Child of reason.
One foot in the future,
but rooted in the values
of time.
Draws the sky with one hand,
the earth with her other.
A gift of warm
in a cold place.
She paints the dark with light,
colors death with life,
and, like a quiet violin
she lifts the sad from within us.
Solitary man,
with strong hands
and convictions.
Heart on fire, head on straight.
Standing watch at the gate,
like a lion in the desert,
like an ancient sentinel,
or an Archangel with attitude.
Family man,
with a burning pistol in his belt.
Soft as velvet.
Hard as nails.
Quiet man,
with more to hear than say.
More to give than take.
Weighs the good
against the bad.
Lives in a place of honesty,
of conscience, and integrity.
Reduces life to its simplicity.
Plant seeds in barren fields.
Plants hope among despair.
Love where there had only been
indifference.
A man among men.
Big men, dangerous men.
But a child in their world, really.
Not in stature, courage, or maturity,
but in how I still remember him.
Gives his best
in competition and in life.
Twists the hand of fate
like an ankle.
Faces fear and beats it back,
like Daniel in the lion's den,
Like light beats down the darkness.
Like soft light
crawling through the front door
at dawn.
Like the color of daffodils
in the midday sun.
Like the sound of laughter
in the yard, or a Martin guitar
on the back porch.
Mother of children born for love,
and for each other.
Like bread and wine.
Like earth and sky.
Little girl
who wields a big ambition,
in a big profession.
A family expectation
that she measures up to
well.
Without resentment,
without question.
A quiet disposition,
and a kind heart
that overshadows
even her own accomplishment.
You left too early
my friend.
The bell never sounded
at the end of the day.
It was just a lunch break
We were on.
How could you have mistaken it
for quitting time?
Now you can’t return to work,
or collect retirement.
And we’ll never get to fish
that mountain stream.
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