All of my childhood heroes are dead,
the famous ones,
the uncelebrated ones,
they're all gone now.
All but one;
my mother.
She is still alive.
She is old.
She is tired.
She is feeble and weak
but she is still funny
and kind
and she struggles to discern
between reality and illusion.
Is it the medication
or is it the disease ?
It matters not.
She drifts between worlds
and lives in both.
Oh, my father is still alive too.
as I make my way
through the labyrinth of life
I look for clues
and ask advice
but all the answers
are in my own voice
for it is I alone
who must make the choice
which path to choose
but in the end
it matters not
for we all end up
in the very same spot
though the routes may vary
or our paths entwine
we finish like we started
one at a time
filtered
light
through
dirty windows
illuminates
the ancient wood
a
workbench
and some
antique tools
tobacco
cans
full of
nuts and bolts
a hint
of oil in the air
a faded,
water stained calendar
hangs on
the wall
1936
the last
year this land was farmed
sometimes
I sit in the workshop
on a
hard wooden stool
not to
work on farm implements
but to
go back in time
and take
in the sights
and
smells of 1936
my only
tools:
a pencil and a notebook
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.
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
It started as an apology
from a father to a son
for the times I wasn’t there when I should have been
and for the times I was there
when you needed to figure it out on your own.
I hope my diligence to have you do better
was never taken to mean you weren’t good enough.
For the times I didn’t say. ‘I love you’
when you really needed to hear it.
For the times when my silence
may have been mistaken as a lack of caring
when really I was scared
because I didn’t know how to help you.
For all the times that I was proud of you
but I never really learned how to show it.
That’s when I realized
this was more than an apology
from a father to a son.
It was also a note of forgiveness
from a son to a father.
A
single candle lit the room
where
many of our nights prevailed.
Enough
light to reveal
the
soft curves and the warm glow
of
her naked body.
Enough
light to expose the details
of
the small seashell
she
wore around her neck
on
a thin silk ribbon.
It
was a shell I had found for her
on
our first walk by the ocean.
It
was a simple seashell
very
smooth, highly polished.
It
had a golden translucent hue
with
a naturally worn hole
where
she attached the black silk ribbon.
She
wore the shell everywhere
and
every day
right
up until the day she left.
She
left it hanging from the rear view mirror of my truck
where
it hung for a time
reminding
me of her beauty
and
of the pain of her departure.
It
hung there until my next visit to the ocean
where
I held it in my hand for a minute
before relinquishing it back into the sea.
I remember
the night my younger sister came home from the hospital. She was number four of
us five siblings. We lived in a drafty, old brick farmhouse in the middle of
town.
I was sitting
in an overstuffed chair that had been dragged into the kitchen from the living
room. I was five years old and my next younger sister, sibling number two was
sitting in the chair with me. I am sibling number one. Sibling number three was
wrapped up in a comforter asleep in a smaller chair next to us.
Our mother
was sitting in a straight back kitchen chair directly in front of the gas stove
whose oven door was wide open. She had the baby bundled up in blankets lying on
her lap. She was wearing her winter coat over her pajamas.
There were a
couple of candles that provided the only light and casting long, dancing
shadows on the high ceilings of the huge room. Sibling number two was scared of
the flickering shadows so I had to pretend that I wasn’t. We shared a bowl of
popcorn.
The power was
out.
It was January 6th in Northern
Vermont so we could have been without power as a result of a snowstorm. Our father
was still drinking in those days so it could have been a result of not paying
the electric bill.
We asked our
mother why we all were bundled up huddled around the kitchen stove. We asked
her where our father was. She said, “We wouldn’t understand”.
And we didn’t.
I’ve never
been to New Zealand
although we
talked about going
back when we
were lovers.
We talked
about the beautiful
photographs
we would take
she focusing
on the Maori culture
and me concentrating
on the extraordinary landscapes.
She always
loved photographing the people wherever we went.
I always
waited for them to get out of the way so I could take my photos.
That was many
years ago but today I stumbled upon her web site
and was
astounded by the amazing portraits of the Maori people.
Her
landscapes were pretty magnificent too.
I’ve never
been to New Zealand
I look at her
social media page
every once in
a while
to see if she’s
okay
or maybe to
see if I’m okay.
It has been a
while since we have seen each other.
The last time
our eyes met she was walking down the street
while I happened
to be driving by
With a
nervous smile she awkwardly tried to wave unintentionally
throwing her
keys into the road.
Returning the
awkward smile
I watched her
getting smaller in the rear view mirror
as I
accidentally drove up onto the sidewalk.
Yeah, we are
both doing just fine.
It takes
years to find perfect shoes.
When you are
young
someone else
picks your shoes out for you.
As you get
older you try many different types and brands.
Shoes come
and go often due to changes in styles or trends.
Fashion
prevails over practicality.
When you are
older you settle for comfortable shoes
Shoes that
support your feet.
Shoes that
make you feel good.
However, no
matter how comfortable
and no matter
how well you care for them
they
eventually wear out.
Left in the
closet, taken for granted.
Inevitably, you
feel the need to seek out new shoes,
to pursue
another pair,
a better fit,
more comfortable.
Another thing
I have noticed about shoes is that when poets
write about
shoes they are never talking about shoes.
Except that
one about the Old Lady who lived in a shoe.
I’m not
really sure about that one.
