a small, black notebook
on a stand by the bed
filled with poems
that are not quite ready
like pieces of seaglass
with sharp, pointed edges
thrown back to the sea
to be tumbled till smooth
like hard, green tomatoes
saved from the frost
sitting on the window sills
to be warmed by the sun
maybe a rough cut diamond
waiting to be shaped
and highly polished
until it reflects the light perfectly
I don’t
believe in ghosts
but
sometimes they haunt me anyway
I
explain to them that they are just manifestations
of my
sub conscientious mind
but at
times they insist in trying to terrorize me.
So,
having no choice
I tell
them to fuck off.
Like I
said, I don’t believe in ghosts
and I am
trying to get them not to believe in me.
I
journey to the ocean several times each year
and look
out to my ancestral home
although
I can no longer go back there.
It’s
been years since my ancestors lived there…
over
three and a half billion years.
They
came out of the water and developed lungs and limbs
and
other complicated biological systems
which no
longer allow us to return to the sea.
On some
level I guess I miss swimming around in the primordial soup.
It was a
simpler time.
On this
early November morn
I walk
along the sandy shore
my senses
seem to be reborn
On this
early November morn
upon a
path extremely worn
where
many folks have walked before
On this
early November morn
I walk along the sandy shore
A lone
goose frantically flew across the morning sky
loudly
proclaiming its presence
and I
wonder was it lost
or left
behind as the flock flew South?
Was it
banished for not being a team player,
for not
pulling its own weight?
Maybe it
was a rebel trying to start its own flock.
Maybe it
decided not to go South this year.
Maybe it
was just out exploring its surroundings, sightseeing.
Perhaps
it was getting in a little exercise before the other geese were awake.
Maybe it
was a forward scout plotting out a flight plan for the rest of the flock.
Maybe it’s
just my mind overthinking things.
Maybe I
really didn’t need that third cup of coffee.
I tried
selling poetry
door to
door
long
before it was given away free
on the
internet to anonymous people.
I had
only one client
a
retired English professor,
a widow
who lived alone.
She would
read my work
in
exchange for me stacking firewood.
She would
offer her critique
in
exchange for me staying and eating supper with her.
She
would provide her assessment
in
exchange for sitting and drinking Scotch
with her
while she watched game show contestants on TV
and
corrected their grammar.
That was
long ago.
She is
dead now.
I still
write poetry only now I give it away for free
on the internet to anonymous people.
we all
are waiting for a bed
both day
and night we bide our time
a
peaceful place to rest our head
some
wait in anger, some with dread
some so
comfortably sublime
we all
are waiting for a bed
we think
about the lives we’ve lead
our
brains are working overtime
a
peaceful place to rest our head
no one
can say what lies ahead
within
this present paradigm
we all
are waiting for a bed
we
ponder all the things we’ve said
the
mountains that we’ve had to climb
a
peaceful place to rest our head
we think
of better days instead
when we
were young and in our prime
we all
are waiting for a bed
a peaceful place to rest our head
I wake
up to the beat of rain
the
metal roof echoes the sound
November
can be so mundane
my
happiness I can’t contain
it isn’t
snow upon the ground
I wake
up to the beat of rain
continuing
the same refrain
a steady
pattern can be found
November
can be so mundane
the
price we pay for summer’s gain
dead
leaves are lying all around
I wake
up to the beat of rain
I’m in
control of my domain
although
sometimes I feel housebound
November
can be so mundane
How much
water can we sustain?
as we
expect another round
I wake
up to the beat of rain
November can be so mundane
a
politician did what’s right
I
watched it on the news tonight
they
raised him to a hero’s height
for
doing what he had agreed
a book
about it he did write
to try
and satisfy his greed
a book
we really didn’t need
a book
nobody wants to read
“integrity”
is the book’s theme
and how
he’s standing by his creed
things
aren’t always what they seem
living
the American dream
a
soaring figure, watch him gleam
much
like a brightly rising star
if you
ask me it’s just a scheme
the
whole damn thing is so bazaar
that
they would take it quite this far
just how low can they set the bar?
a
politician did what’s right
I guess
that’s just the way things are
a
left-handed shotgun
a twelve
gauge
a
Brownington
or maybe
a Remington
I don’t
remember
a
beautiful gun
a gift
from his grandfather
for his
Sixteenth birthday
a high
school friend of my son
he told
me he had been hunting grouse in the area
and
asked if he could leave the gun at my house
because
he couldn’t take it where he was going
and he
didn’t want to keep it in his truck
months
went by
and he
never returned
to
retrieve the gun
I wasn’t
sure how to get ahold of him
and hadn’t
heard anything about him
until I
read his obituary
another
tragic overdose
within
the obituary
I found
his mother’s name
she was
living in a nearby town
a few
weeks later I brought the gun to her
she said
she had never seen it before
and that
his grandfather
died
when he was twelve years old
she said
he had been involved
in a lot
of questionable things in the past several months
and
maybe I should get rid of the gun
it is a
beautiful gun
at the
bottom of a deep lake
tiny
fingerprints
on the
kitchen window
I notice
them a few times a day
I grab a
paper towel to wipe them away
but I
just can’t seem to do it
they
remind me
of just
how excited she was
looking
out
at the
first few flakes of snow coming down
so, I
will leave them there
until
her next visit
to
grandpa’s house
when she
will leave other little reminders
of the
awe of viewing the world
through
innocent eyes
instinctively
you grab your phone
when you
hear that distinctive ring
don’t
worry you are not alone
it’s
called “classic conditioning”
and yes,
it is a real thing
pick up
the phone and don’t ask why
just
mindlessly reach for that ring
reacting
to a stimuli
he
disappeared without a trace
his
friends knew nothing but heartache
they
tried to handle it with grace
but some
things they just couldn’t fake
while
the anger made them shake
as
anxiety level climbs
only
intensifies the ache
that's how
it goes with unsolved crimes
his car
displayed in a public place
a scene
they’re trying to remake
a poster
with his name and face
with
flyers there for folks to take
a
dormant memory to awake?
and as a
distant church bell chimes
his
memory they will not forsake
that's how
it goes with unsolved crimes
leads
come in at a snail’s pace
some
years later they catch a break
a
jailhouse tip about the case
“in a
trailer sunk below the lake”
not wanting to make a mistake
they
searched the bottom many times
their
reputation was at stake
that's how
it goes with unsolved crimes
no
conclusions could they make
I check
the “cold case” list sometimes
it’s
been decades for heaven’s sake
that's how
it goes with unsolved crimes
I grew
up in one of those towns
where
both sides of the track were the wrong side.
It was a
place of indecision
where
the river flowed in both directions.
Every
street was a one way street
even the
dead ends.
A place
where failure was always an option,
in fact
it was the most likely outcome.
There
were no winners here
just
boarded up storefronts and abandoned factories.
We
climbed through holes in chain link fences
and
dared each other to ascend the piles
of
dangerous leftovers from discarded American dreams.
Tall,
dark, concrete buildings
with
randomly placed holes in the floors
that
vent shafts or steam pipes once occupied.
We rode
our bikes through vacant gravel lots
long
before the government had labeled them
“Superfund
Sites.”
The
older kids taught the younger ones
how to
play with matches without getting burned.
There
was little left to ignite however,
anything
that would burn had already been incinerated long ago.
She
liked drinking beer
and she
loved to swear.
She
could be nasty to strangers
when she’d
had a few too many.
Hell,
she could be nasty to her friends
when she’d
had a few too many.
She liked
staying up late and would party with the boys
and she
wasn’t above peeing in the woods.
She
never asked for help with anything
and she
wanted everyone to know she was tough.
After
not seeing her around for a couple of days
I
stopped by her apartment one morning
with a
couple cups of coffee.
She
reluctantly opened the door and let me in.
I could
see she had been crying
and
there was a half-finished needlepoint on the kitchen table.
There
were several other completed pieces
on a
chair next to the table.
“Did you
make these?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied “and if you tell anyone I will kill you.”
At first
the stars are few and dim
but as
my eyes adjust
they
continue to increase
in
number and brightness.
Some
twinkle every now and then
as not
to be forgotten.
With no
moon to steal the show,
nothing
to outshine them
they compete
for my attention.
My
patience may be rewarded
with the
sighting of a meteor.
I stand
outside
sometimes
for hours
feeling
smaller and smaller
the
longer I stare into the night sky.
Not just
feeling inconsequential
about
myself but for all mankind
and all
the so called “achievements” we have made.
I stare
until I feel insignificant
enough
to go back inside
and crawl under a blanket and go to sleep.
an old
man lives in my mirror
I see
him a few times a day
his
wrinkles remind me
of the
passing of time.
I have watched
his hair turn gray
and his
eyes look weary
but
sometimes wise
though I
often feel I’m viewing them
through
a younger man’s vision,
at least
that’s what I tell myself.
Sometimes
he looks sad
as if he’s
remembering better days
or
thinking about someone he has lost.
He looks
tired today
but I
have to leave him standing there
as I have things to do.
I see
the roses in full bloom
though
the garden’s been neglected
so I no
longer can assume
roses
need to be protected
left
alone yet still perfected
and the
flowers turned out fine
their
resilience is respected
although the garden’s in decline
Before
we all knew what an N95 was
and a
mask was something we wore on Halloween.
Before
the restaurants closed their doors
and left
the food at the curbside
to be
scooped up by hungry customers.
Before
the kitchen table was turned into a classroom
and the
teacher, the lunch lady and the janitor
were all
the same person.
Before
the cashier was stationed behind Plexiglas
and we waited
six feet apart standing
on a
line of tape that had been stuck to the floor
to buy a
gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.
Before
the National Guard took over the school parking lots
placing
boxes of food in the back of any car
whose
driver wanted to wait in line.
Before
the supply chain had broken it’s links
and we
started counting on UPS and FedEx
to bring
us everything from snow tires to underwear.
October
morning break of day
the
pastel colors of the trees
the
tinted sky in pink and grey
the air
is still, no hint of breeze
under
this misty, foggy veil
faded
hues on water gleaming
I can’t
make out the fine detail
wide
awake or am I dreaming?
specific
shapes just fade away
I walk
along without a sound
like a
painting by Claude Monet
a single
cricket can’t be found
no Crow
nor Blue Jay make a call
these
magic moments won’t last long
and in
the air a hint of Fall
the
rising sun will soon get strong
the
light of dawn is shifting fast
completely
changing atmosphere
this grand
illusion cannot last
the morning haze will disappear
She
starts each day saying
“today
is going to be a great day”.
She’s
seven years old.
I smile
and wonder
how long
it will be before she realizes
that not
every day is going to be a great day
but for
now I do what I can to encourage her.
They said that burning sage
would drive negative energy
from
your house. I was skeptical
but she
talked me into trying it.
When the
smudging was completed
I didn’t
notice any difference
and I
hated the smell.
So I
went outside for some fresh air.
Once I
got outside that’s when it hit me.
It had worked.
I played
the game the best I could
on my
own board, by my own rules
but I
let others take control
now I’m too
old to start anew
not
brave enough to walk away
so I
will stay, pretend to play
inside
this box that I have built
a trap that I can not escape
Winter –
Out of
the north the wind now blows
the
autumn leaves have all now froze
and lie
beneath the mounting snows
as
nature dons her winter clothes
the days
grow short, the sun is low
the
frozen streams no longer flow
familiar
sights we’ve come to know
are buried
now beneath the snow
the
covered landscape looks so nice
a
blanket made from snow and ice
sometimes
we have to pay a price
for
living in this paradise
Spring –
The river’s
eddies start to whirl
we stand
and watch the water swirl
before
the fiddleheads unfurl
before
the grapevines start to curl
a hint
of warmth is in the breeze
water
droplets no longer freeze
early
flowers attract the bees
the buds
appear upon the trees
as bees
emerge out of the hive
the
lifeless vines seem to revive
and tiny
seedlings start to thrive
the
ponds begin to come alive
Summer –
As temperature
defines the rules
trout
find their way to deeper pools
the
minnows swimming by in schools
reflecting
summer sun like jewels
as
thunderstorms begin to clear
in the
meadows does appear
quite
confident their fawns are near
the
slightest sound they lift an ear
the
canopy in summer’s glow
on
forests floors way down below
the
Chanterelles begin to grow
their
brilliant yellows start to show
Autumn –
And now
the leaves begin to turn
we see
the browning of the fern
the
squirrels find cause for concern
as this
year’s acorn crops return
the
nights beginning to get long
the
Autumn winds becoming strong
the
birds no longer sing their song
the
geese begin to move along
the colors soon become subdued
the deer by hunters are pursued
the bear are in a heightened mood
while searching tirelessly for food
the
apple that we cannot reach
is bound
to be the sweetest
or just
a lesson meant to teach
that we
are but elitists
so if
the fruit is all the same
then all
our choices are in vain
and
human nature is to blame
to seek what we cannot attain
while
every man no matter worth
ends up
lying beneath the earth
a wooden
cross or granite stone
inside
a box he lies alone
a fancy
suit, a shirt and tie
those left behind to wonder why
perhaps
the best thing that he wrote
with
words that came straight from the heart
it
really was a work of art
from
what I’ve read it gets my vote
each
line was worthy of a quote
each
word was clever, clean and smart
perhaps
the best thing that he wrote
with
words that came straight from the heart
it left
a lump deep in my throat
no one
predicted his depart
who knew
the pain was off the chart?
who knew
it was a suicide note?
perhaps
the best thing that he wrote
We were
the misfits working third shift cleaning those places that were too busy to be
tackled during the daytime.
Buffing
the terrazzo floors.
Wiping
fingerprints from glass doors.
Ray –
who carried his own thermos full of coffee even though there was an unlimited
amount of fresh, hot coffee in the breakroom. No one ever checked his thermos
even though we all knew that there was something besides coffee inside it.
Frank –
who would check the air filters in the service tunnels on a nightly basis. He
took me with him a few times to show me how to change the filters should the
need ever arise. He also showed me the best place to sit and smoke a joint,
where no one would ever find you should the need ever arise.
Me – I worked nights so I could make enough money to take a few classes each semester. I was the person who let the students who slept in their cars use the showers in the gym each night. I was also one of the students who used the showers each night when I had to sleep in my car after getting fired for letting students use the showers each night.
she is
brimming with confidence
she is
independent and outgoing
she is
lovely and intelligent
she is
motivated
she is
friendly, always smiling
she is
energetic
she is
beautiful
she may
be the perfect woman
and we
have absolutely nothing in common
those
who know me
know how
sarcastic I am
they
know how irreverent I can be
they are
aware of my self-deprecating remarks
I can be
rude, profane or obscene
those
who really know me
understand
that my responses
are
derived from a place of insecurity
as a self-defense mechanism
He used
to visit me in dreams although less and less as the time since his death has
passed.
I remember the first time we talked and he told me he was okay and then he showed me his watch which had no hands on it.
“What
good is that?” I asked.
He
laughed.
“It’s to remind me that time does not exist here.” he replied.
He was the first of my close friends to die. He was only twenty-five and just about to graduate from medical school when he was killed in a car accident.
I never really talked to anyone about these “visits” I had experienced in dreams.
One time at a small get together of high school friends I saw a girl sitting alone on the front porch. She looked familiar but I could not remember her name.
Something about her made me think that maybe she would understand about these dreams and not think I was crazy. I told her about the conversations I had had with my deceased buddy.
She said that she not only understood but that she too had had many conversations with people in dreams. We talked for what seemed like hours. I began to get tired and glanced over at her watch to see what time it was.
Her
watch had no hands.
the beams have sagged, the timbers bowed
door wide open, hinges busted
the
ceiling droops as pipes corrode
the
railing’s broke, the iron rusted
the
stairs creak and can’t be trusted
the
floors begin to rot in place
window
sills are now encrusted
the
earth will soon reclaim this place
Not
everyone who is hungry is longing for food.
Some
hunger for companionship.
Some
yearn for physical touch.
Some require
nothing more than conversation.
Some
want love.
Some
lack attention.
Some
simply need to know things will be okay.
Some
seek knowledge.
Some
desire peace.
Some
crave consistency.
No
matter what I hunger for
she
brings me a sandwich.
when other
people set the pace
you have
a greater chance to lose
you’ll
never win a single race
while
wearing someone else’s shoes
it’s
always up to you to choose
just how
to start, how to begin
so, pay
attention, read the cues
and heaven knows you just might win
as
babies
mobiles
hung
over our
cribs
because
motion is essential
it keeps
the mind busy
and
gives us something to focus on
to
remind us we are not alone
as
children
we sat
on the stoop
watching
cars go by
because
motion is essential
and not
every kid
lives on
a river
or has
access to the ocean
as
teenagers
we rode
up and down the streets
going
nowhere
because
motion is essential
and it’s
hard for emotions
or
problems
to catch
up to a moving target
as
adults
we are
constantly moving
proceeding
with caution, running errands
jumping
to conclusions
because
motion is essential
it keeps
us on our toes
distracting
us long enough
so we
don’t notice we are getting old
as
elderly
it’s
harder to move
with
aching bones, lost muscle tone
because
motion is essential
we hang
up bird feeders
and move
vicariously
via our
colorful, feathered friends
to
remind us we are not alone
there is
a wooden swing
hanging
from the apple tree
like an
old cliché
like a
feeble imitation of a Norman Rockwell painting
as if it
was hung there as a prop
by a savvy
realtor trying to sell the property
with the
apples beginning to ripen
she
happily swings
sometimes
for hours
she is
only five
and she
doesn’t know what a cliché is
she has
never heard of Norman Rockwell
and is
not looking to buy real estate
I walk
the summer path alone
my
grandfather has long since passed
while
everything around has grown
with all
those things that he had shown
creating
memories that last
I walk
the summer path alone
he
taught me how to skip a stone
upon a
pond as smooth as glass
while
everything around has grown
I miss
that time, it was our own
he
answered questions that I’d ask
I walk
the summer path alone
an empty
nest, the birds have flown
into a
world that is so vast
while
everything around has grown
he
talked of people he had known
and how
the years go by so fast
I walk
the summer path alone
while
everything around has grown
violent entry,
uninvited
moving
in the same direction
angry
people now excited
infiltrate
another section
trying
to cause an insurrection
while battle
lines are being drawn
pick a
side, make a selection
still
mindlessly they carry on
with
their leader’s lies recited
in their
minds like an infection
radical
groups become united
to
change results of an election
no time
to think, no self-reflection
don’t
use their brain, just use their brawn
carelessly
without objection
still
mindlessly they carry on
hoping that
they don’t get cited
trying
to avoid detection
trying
not to get indicted
straight
ahead without deflection
on a
course with no correction
while
all the options now are gone
they
expose their imperfections
still
mindlessly they carry on
angry
crowd of one complexion
policemen
with their weapons drawn
while
people try to find protection
still
mindlessly they carry on
