Standing in the darkened garage
I listen to the whistling winter air
And think of times so long ago
And of one who is not there

My Grand dad was a whistler
No matter what he did
Whether reading, sitting, standing still
Whistling is what he did

He told me once the secret was
To purse your lips and blow
It took me years to figure out
But the secret I now know

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

Chopin, List, John Lennon
It didn't matter one **** bit
He would whistle what was in his head
And I would listen and I'd sit

Grandad could make music
No matter where he was
His whistle made him special
At least, special to us

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around

The wind sounds high and vicious
As I listen through the door
It's a sound Grandad made daily
It's a sound I hear no more

A simple act of moving air
Across one's lips is all
But Grandad could translate it
Into a wild birds call

No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

Beauty's not the rose,
nor is it the red,
Beauty is the dew drop
that kisses it's sweet head.

Beauty's not the maiden,
or the knight in shining armor,
Beauty is the love
the two together harbor.  

Beauty's not a thing,
Beauty's not an it,
Beauty's not a seraph,
because Beauty simply is.

She is on my wall.
She is perfect.
I had no idea I could create
something so BEAUTIFUL.
Modeled off a real love
BUT an amalgamation of two,


loves that is.
My own Frankenstein
but more exquisite
and fine


A lovely being
put onto paper
with a nice flower
that is a manifest of my love.

Every once and awhile
I escape
I get out of this place
It's only momentarily though
I know I will return
Even if I don't want to
(which I don't)
I'll be back here
Just lying
Lying in bed
Not wanting to move
Cursing the world
In a prison of boredom fueled
sorrow


Nothing to think about
Nothing to take my mind off it
Nothing to fill the hole

Look into my eyes
Now tell me, what do you see?
A Sinner? or Saint?

Maybe different?
Perhaps a Human? or GOD?
You see what you want

Like all of my relationships -
acquaintanceships, chumships, courtships, worships -
the connection between poetry and me
is a little queer.

Because I write when I feel like it
is going to burst out of me.
I write to get the feeling out,
throwing it out, like refuse.

So when the feeling is there sitting,
staring at me, on unblanked paper,
all that's left to read it first
is Reason...

who shows it to Judgement,
who defers to Knowledge,
who laughs it to Shame
who wears down my Ego.

And if I am a clue,
maybe that's why
there are too many poets,
and not enough poetry.