When the car burst onto the empty highway,
the bridge stretched long over the river,
and the faint glow of streetlights
bathed the dashboard in a soft, cold light,
not bright, but a subtle wash
profoundly changing my thoughts.
Suddenly I wanted to feel clarity,
to dive deep into my center,
marriage and divorce throwaway words
for the deep sensation of home,
knowing I was once made to belong,
that I am both the home and the wanderer,
there, known, the place near-far
that I don’t know I need till I return.

What was it in the highway’s trance
that made me question so much about us?
The good and the bad, the love and the fights,
to stay or to walk away, I do not know
except, unknown to myself,
I carry the weight of my parents’ echoes—
Mom, frail in the hospital bed,
complications of diabetes wearing her down,
Dad, distant and angry,
his resentment a slow burn of injustice.

As my thoughts mirror theirs,
I think of my children—
a boy of six, a girl of eight,
their innocence and laughter,
their small hands and endless questions.
Fatherhood, an anxious dance
between fear and fleeting success,
my ambivalence heavy and lingering.

And my job, a professional manager
in a downsizing company,
uncertainty a constant companion,
the weight of decisions on my shoulders.
But even amidst the turmoil,
a flicker of hope remains,
the thought of returning home,
the possibility of a good future,
of being the father and husband
my children and wife deserve.

night drapes
day spreads
stars emit light
moons conceal dark
around the north star-fire
away from the south moon-water
stars journey
moons remain
in their wake
at their rest
stories extend
stories retract

In the mist,
black granite,
linked scales
melt away—
memories of
Times Square,
Broadway’s past.

From afar,
the ******
of a music box
is heard—
a hopeful melody,
almost a lullaby.

From below,
the street
pleads a prayer
to the broken sky—
“just a haunting,
gentle touch.”

Soon,
the morning breaks
over two towers
built and rebuilt-
over coffee, doughnuts—
old promises kept,
new promises
broken and rebroken.

Yet,
there is the hope
of new beginnings
rising through the
steaming sewer lids,
the proud
lady in the harbor    
seeing once again

New York awaken..

Summer wind hold my hand,
grasp it, rub it gentle  in the  sun
honeyed soothing mother’s touch.

Hide the coughing chimneys up ahead,
the night in the strut of yellow cat eyes,
amber streetlights yielding to blue tv glows.

Coming cold blows my hands into jacket tight.
The star I follow now hidden,  dark,
lost in the arguing noise outside and in.

Birds know the way home,
the door that has their name or
how to sing it into existence, if lost.

Through it they find each other
even in a burning world—
they find their being.

And in that last lost sky
they sing it into their feet,
combine it with the dirt’s prophecy.

Look up in the sky, at the birds
and praise these passerine who
can sing open doors we cannot.

The treaty they have made with
the sky includes us for they
treasure the world’s wholeness.

My America undresses its wounds to the world—
the Fathers memories living in torn clouds
and forgetful weather scribbled over in black.

The  new gods lick mine/our bones clean,
leaving the crumbs for the hungry aban-
doned by their once great country.

(All the bombs, the rockers red glare
can't create patriots better than
the Fathers good words.)

My flag once was my father(s) (and) mother’s.
Their true anthem, every word, every
single word, can now only be whispered.

Now,I watch the new gods in their jealousy
seek to colonize the world’s children
to maim those wishing only a gentle touch.

I cry as I imagine the true God,
witnessing his sons deported— the
new gods aiming rifles at the rest.

There is a song that will never be
not one of a crooning summer breeze
but of smothered dreams in ***** streets—

Those buried in shrouds of leaves
plucked from maple trees,
couched in green moss or
in lovely silks on soft downy beds

will never know those
who died on a freezing night,
a bottle by their side or
a needle in their arm.—

The lucky who lived and died
their dreams, earned laurel crowns
will never know the nightmare ones
murdered in their sleep just for fun.

Those who dream of seeing heaven,
rising beyond the drop of stars
with a chorus of trailing nightingales
and a full bench of funeral soloists

pay no heed to those *****, ragged ones,
with the infected heart who fell into the
road  pummeled by wheels that just rolled on—
loud music playing over their last silent notes.

In the rose of their blood, these murdered lie,
the violet of the violent passing bye-—
a thousand moonbeams strong filing  their
unmarked resting spot to the manicured tombs.