Last evening, like every other evening
I clutched my coffee and ventured familiar roads home.
April’s setting sun pierced the windshield.
Each night, that blinding light appeared
At dusk on this road heading west.
So I did not notice the little bird,
But I did hear the thump.
A plume of blue-gray feathers scattered
Verifying the sad ending my windshield had caused.
As I contemplated this poor bird’s passing
I turned the corner onto my street of canopied trees,
And noted Tom had left out his trash cans again.
Directly across the street, Mrs. Sally,
Dressed in her familiar Muu Muu, dragged a tree branch
That had fallen in the afternoon storm.
Her dearest Joe used to do these things,
His honey-do list sits eternally near his coffee ***
Wistfully, yearning for the touch of his callused fingers.
I often thought of my end, last breath and adieu.
I prefer to pass unknowingly, sleeping.
A warm thought, for me, but not my wife.
Imagine her jabbing me, attempting to wake me,
Her former husband, now lifeless beside her.
How impolite of me, a weekday morning, no less.
She would probably be late to work
Due to my boorish finish
The morning of her big presentation.
No such conclusion would befall me.
I should go suddenly, in my study,
Surrounded by piles of unread books.
Sitting with a cup of coffee warming my hands.
I took mine black and I was often reminded,
When spilt, Coffee leaves a terrible stain.
I arrived home and noticed the leaves,
Seasons were changing,
They needed a good raking.
My wife met me at the door,
Smiled in her embrace,
There was diner with small talk.
As I retired to my study,
Savoring my coffee, staring at my books,
Contemplating what should be read next,
I did not feel the cup slipping from my hand,
Nor hear its crash as it splintered into a million pieces.
My “World’s Best Dad” cup was finished.
Laid out on the floor, I could see
The spatter of coffee across the rug.
Now I’ll admit, coffee does leave a good hard stain.
I glanced at my wife entering the room in a panic
And felt life drain my body,
I could only think to say,
“I know, the coffee… you’ve told me a thousand times.”
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.
I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.
Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.
The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.
Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.
My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.
All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.
Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.
Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?
Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.
Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…
This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.
I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Darling
Bright eyes that call
Like stars in summer skies
They laugh, and smile, drawing me near
My bride
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
The crowd pushes and pulls
Motioning forward without effort
Life has a way of happening
Without intention
Tan slacks
Brown shoes
Matching belt
Lost in the landscape
Within the throng of humans
I am one of the many others
I am one of the obscure
That is me there
Yes, there I am
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Home is warm, not always feeling
That love known to so many
Children take for granted
A winter coat thick with it
A campfire burning bright with it
A known embrace held tight with it
The warmth known like birthday candles
Burning then extinguished suddenly
The eighteenth year, coldly, shown the door.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
We can conceal a broken heart,
demoralized faith,
shattered will,
a crushed spirit.
Pierced skin screams pain.
A plaster cast demonstrates healing.
But listen closely.
Some pains whisper softly.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Who said the grass was greener on the other side?
The one alone on the ***** soaked sidewalk?
The bearded man walking two paces behind
His wife while glancing my way?
The woman with the frown, the hard face
Eye rolling as the lovers smile into each other’s eyes?
The fast food nation dying inside out
The tilted heads, phone glowing, never noticing
The world around, the clouds, the sky.
The nation of talking heads stuck in the portals
The aimless many searching for nothing in particular.
The grass is greenest when freshly sprouting
Tender shoots reaching for the sky in hardy soil
Grass matures into a strong and vibrant pasture
Wild flowers and butterflies bouncing off sunlight
Its season comes and goes light and dark.
Pity so few stay long enough to enjoy its seasons
To see its growth to the fullest potential
Inflated expectations lead to disappointment.
Egocentric self-indulgence rolls along
Jumping one flower to the next.
Love is not feeling gratification
A heightened sense of intense emotion
Love is not lust, lust is not Love.
Love is not experienced in a moment.
Love lies in-between the moments.
Experienced in a lifetime.
That grass? No, it is not greener.
It will turn just as the grass you stand in
The faster you walk through it
The less you will understand its beauty and wonder
Between the moments.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
Stony ground plantings,
surrounded by weeds.
They grow fast and wild,
don't they.
But bear little fruit.
As the sun rises
and gathers heat
they wither quickly. Yes,
Choked out by the weeds.
They thirst,
but cannot be quenched.
They are quick to sprout
with excitement,
but have such shallow roots.
Ah, and as the winds pick up
and the storms rise
they fell first and fast.
Oh, do they ever
tumble quickly.
Having no firm ground
on which to stand.
Such a pity really.
So much promise lost.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Still is the morning air
Heavy with silent moisture
Invisible state of being
Suffering no admiration.
Its muggy circumstance
No friend of the tender
Stifling energy willfully
Eagerly depressing and listless
What curse could be
We pray relief directly
Son of Astraeus and Eos
Gentlest of winds
Yet, Boreas appears coldly,
He comes bitter always
Accompanied stubbornly,
His biting demeanor chills.
Footprints in frost frozen
in place they are still
with uneasy eagerness they sit
waiting to dance again.
Come now if you will,
If ****** allows,
Come early if you please
Bring Flora alongside.
With flowers in her hair
soft and wondrous essence
carried in your arms
you’re gentlest of breezes
As I sit in this humid misery
in months you will take flight
I pray your willingness
in late summer dreams.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
We count hours slowly
Hot humid air hangs leaden
The days thick and course
Persistent, overbearing
So eternally August
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC