Sometimes
When I need to read a long poem
I find I don't have the patience.
So I don't.
You're welcome.

My pants had a hole in the pocket where I carry my keys
and

after a week of picking them up after they had slid down my leg to my right shoe

and another week of carrying them in my left pocket with my phone and glasses transferred to my right
they are too big to fit through the hole
I decided to sew the hole closed

To do this I bought a "sewing kit" at the supermarket
It contained thread, needles, a tape measure printed on tracing paper
that little wire loopy thing that helps you thread the needle
and a pair of ridiculous scissors.

The label "scissors" carries with it certain expectations
Cutting of course
and finger holes that actually fit your fingers

It's like when you order a hot dog
you expect a tube of meat in a longish bun
not a wilted salad between two stale rice cakes

The issue was that these "scissors"
met neither of those expectations
that one has when picking up scissors

They seemed to be stamped out of a new alloy
of aluminum foil
and mylar balloon

The "blades" didn't actually meet
and the holes for fingers
would present an obstacle for any escaping green pea

I did use them and finally
after some sawing
cut the thread

I was going to complain
but thought of who had probably made them
this pair of ridiculous scissors
and pictured

the child or man or woman
in a sweaty factory somewhere
probably hungry

They might work long hours
for meager wages
and

I sit in a comfortable life
and complain about ridiculous scissors

I saw a sticker on a car coming home from work this afternoon.
One of those "international ovals" that used to indicate a foreign country
like France, Switzerland or, if you believe the TV commercials,
Detroit.

Now they stand for everything from the local swim team
to the driver's favorite species of dog
although pinning it on the driver might be unfair
probably better to say the owner.

The sticker I saw today, and it was a sticker not a magnet,
it was stuck on the window,
was OLF and it made me miss mom more than yesterday,
Mother's Day, did.

OLF stands for Our Lady of Fatima, the local Catholic Church
and it was adorning an SUV of appropriate size and sticker price for these parts.
Mom always called Fatima, Saint Olaf's because everyone around here calls it OLF
so it wasn't her fault.

Every time I, or my wife, politely corrected her she'd reply,
"I know" and then promptly call it Olaf's ten minutes later.
So today waiting for the green light on the way home
a little sadness as St. Olaf's SUV reminded me of mom.

and
I laughed.

Morning yawns and stretches across aged mountains.
It rolls over, pulling its blanket of mist over their shoulders
and wearily, yet steadily, opens it eyes.
It sighs with a breath that trembles the leaves on oaks and birches
and whispers its way through the countless needles of pines.
It wakens the birds who give song to its breath and announce the new day
to weary hikers, canoeists, climbers and shoppers
still nestled in their beds
still weary from yesterday's
adventures.

From underbrush it creeps
along spring's damp ground
crawling, dragging towards light
Then
A crutch with which to achieve up
begins the climb
tendrils grabbing bark
First
a few at the end of the grow
more and more as maturity is gained
and grow moves upwards
Three
Green leaves on of each stalk
waxy, jagged and glistening
Will turn red in autumn
Pretty
But best left alone
should rash and itch
follow the handler's
folly

The lines are drawn
my side, your side

We walk our lines
back and forth, forth and back

A rut appears, two in fact
one on my side, one on yours

Our lines are marched
my side, your side

We never waver
never look at the other, never step out of our rut

So

Rut becomes trench
knee then thigh, waist then chest deep

We march on
we never waver, never look nor climb out

Fear of what might happen
bars us from communication

Quiet separation is safe
separation from argument is feared

We march on
trench deeper that we are tall

We march on still

I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb

My grandmother lived in Buffalo
Amherst really
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born

We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles

But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh

Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur

There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
From brothers-in-law
On a wedding day

There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon

There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends

Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever

I do remember Buffalo
Amherst really
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten

As a child I walked, no ran, downtown
a dollar grasped in hands that wanted to move small plastic armies
to Woolworth's for a bag of soldiers in Gloversville

Then as the places that made things left
and Main Street began to starve and it's abandoned bones bleached in the Adirondack sun
We drove to shop, like everyone else in Gloversville

Standing once proud and full of life
Then left to decay and die
The resurrection of the Schine brings light to Gloversville

In the midst of the abandoned and empty
a spark grows to a small flame
and a more vibrant life returns to Gloversville

The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land
it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth
in the smile of an old tannery worker

Now,
the tooth worn away by years of
spring waves
and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point

but many things are the same

the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes
being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water

which was further away when I was a boy

The trouble with poetry is
that sometimes, often
it likes to hear itself talk too much
with words no one understands
with metaphors about beaches and rockets
and how they relate to love and loss
just to make the poet
feel superior
to the reader
and the reader
to hate poetry

When a boulder falls from a height
And crashes into the forest below
Focus not on the boulder
How it fell
Why
Focus instead on the sheltering oaks
In the peaceful forest
Shattered and broken by the unexpected impact
And the many little acorns they sheltered
Crushed
Which will never grow to tree

Why does the titmouse
flick from feeder to clothes line
with his small beak still empty?

Titmouse does this as
your face is in the window
the face of a grumpy bear

A bud's life
Is short, yet wonder comes
As flower unfolds

Last night's softshells
send vaporic reminders
To take trash out

Morning sun catches slick legs, toes outstretched, frozen in warmth near surface

Those who choose to live
In the idyllic fifties
Must go all the way

Often I wonder about just what it is that I am doing
with what I say
with what I write
with my family and work and health
with everything I do

I don't wonder about the all at once
but in the quiet on a summer afternoon
my wife still at work
my daughter off at camp
I wonder

It is not the wonder of how
of fireworks
of Starry Night
of a successful Aioli
of an airplane heavier than I can lift gliding silently overhead through cloudless blue

It is the wonder that bares the burden of wrong
of blindness towards others
of their fears and needs and beliefs
of reaction without thought
of articulation for it's own sake

And in the quiet
on a summer afternoon
I am
saddened
and truly sorry
for the blindness

pill bug
no insect

small crustacean spends entire life
on land

pregnant
carry young in a pouch in her belly

rolling herself into a ball for protection
from the likes of a harvestman

Los Alamitos
is where I learned
where kittens come from
babies too
I also learned that ivy
when used as a groundcover
is an excellent place to hide
when playing army
Until the old lady
whose ivy you are hiding in
comes out and chases you off

Los Alamitos
is where I found I could play
The Professor
from Gilligan's Island
with just my dad's white shirt
sleeves rolled up
tucked in to my khakis
my friend
a boy
always wanted
to play Ginger

Los Alamitos
gave me a picture
of my brother on his new bike
free and happy
and gave me a sister
a love of enchiladas
the word Smorgasbord
and two cats
Smokey and Signal
Those where the cats
My sister we named Wendy

The beaten dog trembles
at the thought of being free
and would rather stay
beaten

For if it's home
which is where one expects
the happiest to be
is this bad, then terrifying is
outside?

As August matures
My patio grows green
and is a new lawn

Daffodil sprouts say spring, yet the weatherman says not

I've always thought that there should be
A change in personality
At that time of year when the holidays come 'round.

There is a change that I observe
In parking lots as people swerve
Around each other to get a spot they've found

They swear, they scream they go insane
In cars with kids they yell out names
names that'd make a life-long sailor blush

their faces red, they pound the wheel
with two arms flailing and fist of steel
shopping in a frantic blur and rush

Then done they speed out in the night
causing other drivers to pause with fright
going home to dinner with family and friends

They all sit down and raise a glass
asking peace and harmony to last
and beg for prosperity that never ends

please bless these folks who have no clue
or think a smidge of what they do
and take your shopping trips defensively

For they know not that when they bluster
it's all the self control we can muster
not to laugh so hard at them we can not see.

Hard to know the number of "friends" that live out past where lawn meets wet
Their dusk song speaks of a throng that participates post sunset
Slick wet sopranos sing a stream with sudden baritone splashes

The farmer needs to move his produce to market
But the harness for the mule is broken
And won't be fixed for another day

The farmer needs to go to market
but can't until the harness is fixed
The wagon wants to feel the road beneath its wheels
but can't until the harness is fixed
The harness wants to help but can't
it won't be fixed for another day
or so the tack man says
The produce knows that it needs to get to market soon
But can't until the harness is fixed
The mule?
He's happy in the barn and hopes
The harness is never fixed

Heads raise
eyes question
false buried
anguish flies
echoes
stronger demons hang
awaiting their turn

February cold sneaks beneath my floor and grabs bare feet through tile

When from your mouth
the non-truth flies
and you fill your head
with your own lies
you can bluster
you can mumble
but sooner
your wall
starts to crumble

The hush of the morning breeze
whispers through aged pines
The rush of tires on asphalt
As an unseen car moves an unseen driver
Closer to the start, or end I guess, of a workday

Meow

The birds begin to wake
Softly at first
Then, as more and more of them awaken
The chorus grows louder and louder
Filling the near stillness with a multitude of calls

Meow, meow

A squirrel scurries in fits and starts
Across the shingle roof outside my window
An acorn, not yet ripe falls from the oak out front
And hits the slate walk
Heard this morning where as the sound would pass unnoticed later in the day

Meow, meeeoooww, meow

Then there's the cat

The anguish of loss
is compounded by the fact
That while she has gone from me,
I  live
and yet
am dead
to her

The little dog sits
staring out the large window
to the street
beyond

where he is a wolf on the Steppes
a jackal on the Serengeti
a coyote of the Mojave

But for now
he sits

The wind is clueless.
It blows without thought,
or consequence.
It promises freedom
when there is none.
Not yet anyway,
for the tiny seed,
it's diaphanous tail
frozen

for a time

to an icicle
hanging from my porch roof
melting in the sun

When the warm summer breeze
blows from sea to sand
and gently caresses your face
while you stand on the dunes
it's breath overflowing
with the scent of the ocean
do you simply enjoy its caress?
or
Do you ponder the individual molecules?
The atoms?
The updrafts?
The suns rays?
The spin of the earth on its axis?
Where the wind came from?
or
Where it is going?

Or do you, like I
simply close your eyes
breathe deeply
and enjoy the moment?

A tall man shakes hands with a shorter man.
No big deal.

But it is a big deal.
Years ago the shorter man bloodied the tall man's nose
when they were younger
after the shorter man had rebelled against his father
whom the tall man liked
because the father was his friend and
despite the terrible things the father did to his family
the tall man liked him
because the father did things for him.

When the shorter man rebelled and threw the father from his home
the tall man, much younger then, tried to throw the short man out
and return the house to his father
but when the tall man burst through the door full of youthful indignation,
the short man bloodied his nose, turned him around and threw him back out the door.

For over fifty years they lived next door to each other never speaking
but now
at the funeral of a mutual friend
they meet face to face
hands are joined
and a smile is exchanged.

A very big deal indeed.

In my small town supermarket
they have a soup bar.
It's self-serve
and they allow free samples.
But,
Free sample
means samples
as in before you buy soup
so you can try a little sip
to see if you like
the clam chowder,
beef and barley which has too much green pepper,
or squash bisque
before you fill the paper cup
or the larger one
with hot
delicious
soup.

It doesn't mean
"free soup"
to eat while walking
through the store
and not buying any soup
after the sample is gone
and then
as if to add insult
to injury,
leave the empty ramekin
with your sample tailings
on a random shelf,
sometimes even with a little plastic spoon
and a used napkin,
tucked behind a roll of paper towels
or toilet paper
or catfood
on your way out of the store
to stand in the parking lot
and complain to other petty soup thieves
about how "some people"
get stuff
for
free.

Tiny beaked alarms mark hawk's return to the steamy marsh for the night

Now that you're done
you're not
not really
actually you've not even started

Oh sure
you're done with the free part of your schooling
and with childhood
but take it from me, you can make childhood a skill to build a career on
but life as a big person
and I don't mean fat
is just starting
like in the movie Silverado
when Scott Glenn opens the door to his shack on a mountain
and sees the world before him
except you don't have to have a gunfight to get out
like he did
but that was just a movie and we are talking about your life
still that is a favorite movie of mine
So yes
your life is just beginning
and as much as it will hurt me when you go away and live it
I knew this day would come
that you would go
that our lives would forever be different
and mostly separate
I'm taking for granted that you'll be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas
just stay in touch
throw in an awful joke about the civil war and giraffes once in awhile for good measure
and after the "that was an awful joke" comments have faded

think of me
and smile

Oh

and don't forget to call your mom once in awhile or I''l hear about it.

Through falling snow bird feeder appears empty, victim of a night thief

Teacher I see you
As I saw you long ago
Teacher I see you
To me the same now as then
Teacher I see you
The spark in your eyes still shines
Teacher I see you
Knowing look and welcome smile
Teacher I see you
Kind words echo from the past
Teacher you are here
I am eleven again
You're by my side and I smile

I will love everyone
Who is just like me
In the name of The Father

I will be tolerant of others
As long as they believe what I do
In the name of The Father

I will not be bigotted towards others
As long as they follow the same lifestyle and make the same choices as I do
In the name of The Father

I will not **** or harm others
Unless they behave in ways contrary to my beliefs
In the name of The Father

I will be open of mind
Unless that causes me to question my beliefs
In the name of The Father

I will fight ignorance
Unless that ignorance serves my purpose and advances my beliefs
In the name of The Father

But
I am a father
I can not believe that any father
Would accept ignorance, bigotry, intolerance, violence and hate
As apt tribute for the life of his loving, tolerant and caring son

So then, in the name of whose father?

That you can't see the positive before you
Or the gift you have been given
Or the change that reality has carefully draped around your shoulders
Has me in agony

The house stood
on a slight rise just
on the edge of the village.

It looked out
over
a broad spread of West Country farmland.

Not a remarkable house by any means
It was about thirty years old
squattish
squarish
made of brick
and
had four windows
set in the front
of a size
and proportion
which
more or less
exactly failed
to please the eye.

Who is the more powerful?
The vengeful god
who delivers pain
and loss
and suffering?
Or those on whom
the pain and loss and suffering
are heaped upon
whose blind faith,
often pushed beyond any reasonable limit,
is the only thing
that keeps the god
alive?

I saw a grown-up tonight for the first time.

I had seen her before

Seen her born
after three days of trying
and wrapped
in a warm blanket with just her little face
poking out.

Seen the elation in her face
when she realized she had walked
from her mother
to me
for the first time without her toy shopping cart
in front of her
for support

Seen her first day nursery school
of kindergarten
of new schools in a new town
of High School
of College

Seen her stoically sitting in  my mother's chair
in the living room of the house where I had grown up
saying goodbye
to her grandmother
for one last time

Seen her arrive home with a learner's permit
then with a driver's license
and later
leave the driveway
in grandma's green Subaru
her's now.

Seen her grow for 18 years
but tonight
sitting across the table
at a packed restaurant with lousy parking
in Ithaca New York
I saw and heard a grown-up
for the first time
and with that
the little girl
with the toy shopping cart
was gone.

The Man was a man of a color they were afraid of
so they hated him already.
When he offered his hand so that they could walk together
down a new path, they chose another hand.
A hand from behind
from a dark path covered in the sharp thorns
of intolerance
of hate and fear
of lies and misleadings.
So they rejected the hand of The Man
and turning their backs on him
strode proudly into the dark
where their clothes and skin were torn
and cut.

Still The Man offered his hand
and a way out of the darkness
of the lies and intolerance
of the hate and misleading
of the fear...
But the hands from the dark kept a firm grip
and the voices of the blackness
called out to them and played upon their fears
of the new
of the different
of those who were not the same as them
and they kept walking backwards
into the dark.
....
....
....
finally...
when they had reached the deepest darkest bottom
and their clothing had been rendered from their bodies
and their skin was shredded and bleeding
and they had nothing left
they realized...

and they turned to look for The Man
but they couldn't see him
for they were in too deep
and had turned from him
when they had had the chance...
the chance to walk together with the rest of us
into the brightest of forwards.

Truth
The non surgical
treatment
to rumor

At a new home, warm air and sun bring forth random daffodils

Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
but come to stay

I know not
If I die this day

The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say

I know not
If I die this day

We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray

I know not
If I die this day

Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins

Soon we will be apart
not for good
but still apart

That I will miss you
is a given

but we will see each other again
on a weekend or two
over vacations
holidays

it'll be different from here on out
this will not be your home base
yours will be yours
new
not ours

but at least we'll have
facebook
text messages
cell phones

so even though we won't be together
we also won't really be
apart