the little white basket
with the pink and yellow daisy
bobbles along,
as the streamers on the handlebars
flutter in the wind.
"wheeeeeee!" she cries,
and i am ashamed because i forgot -
it's supposed to be fun.

palest moonlight throws its glow
on the earth piled high
'round the fresh pit dug today,
an open maw hungry to be filled.
not far away,
a solemn vigil is kept by the new widow,
tonight she mourns the loss of a lover,
a long-time friend and partner,
gone too soon for her.
tomorrow will be the well-wishers,
the relatives, the friends, and the feast -
before the vast emptiness sets in.
meanwhile, the kingdom of bones will celebrate
the arrival of its newest citizen.

it's a *****,
an *******,
an enemy,
a nightmare -
but only if i am.
what if i tried being nicer?

sometimes,
you just need an old friend,
someone who knew you when,
with whom you can sit down
and share a cup of coffee,
and talk about the blessings of life,
and the pains, too.
no expectations,
no need to impress -
just a cup of coffee and conversation,
two old friends
listening to one another.

there is no pain
like knowing what is coming,
feeling the crushing weight
of something i can do nothing about
no matter how hard i try.
it's exhausting.
it makes me want to dig deep inside myself and go there to hide,
refusing to deal with the world, with this life,
and all the people in it any longer.
i can't help them,
i can't stop them.
but i feel everything they do,
before they do.
especially their pain.

here we are - gathered today,
bearing witness to a new path
and a brand new way,
when love that's old has become love that's new.
smiling faces all around,
friends and family and good times
all abound,
when we said "i forever love you."

something old and something new,
something borrowed and something blue,
festive days and sacred nights,
dinners by candlelight,
when love was young
and still in bloom.

here we are - signing names,
looking back upon the memories we made,
love was new and has become love that's old.
angry words are all we hear,
thoughts of doubt, regret, and most of all -fear,
when we said, "i'm sorry.  goodbye."

what was blossoming
when it was young,
now is faded and undone.
lonely nights, days are cold,
when something new became something old.

the mind goes,
rambling on with thoughts unbidden,
coming at me like a freight train,
unstoppable
until a phrase, a word, a sound
brings me back to the sane quiet that centers me.
it's a voice,
strong and pure,
but simple,
not commanding, but gently reminding me
that there is love in this world,
there is beauty,
and there is purpose.

it's tuesday again,
and the clouds are rolling in,
and the boss wants his paperwork,
and the cat left a hairball on my pillow,
and the car's making a funny noise,
and the gas bill is due,
and the trash has to go out,
and my friend cancelled our appointment,
and i want to go on a date or something,
and i didn't get to finish my coffee,
and my ankle hurts,
and today just ***** because there are
a million things wrong with it
and only a few of them are my fault
but i have to deal with them anyway
and why can't i just relax
and get through this day,
go home and have a drink
and sit on the porch watching when the rain finally hits -
and then i see her,
and i know that what she's going through
is so much worse than these petty things,
and she smiles through it.
so i smile, too.
on a tuesday,
as the clouds are rolling in.

i am unfinished,
unpolished marble,
my surface raw and marked by tools,
but i am strong,
standing tall,
unashamed of what i am,
of what i am becoming,
growing each day in ways i could never before see,
a new part of me coming alive,
until i am ready to leap from the block itself,
to walk where i will,
a breathing monument to the spirit of art,
confident and strong,
kind and gentle, too -
the expression of humanity in all its forms.
i may be unfinished and unpolished,
but i am still a work of art.

pale blue spring skies
hold sway over a quiet arena,
where later thousands will be gathered
to watch the spectacle -
heroes both made and broken
in contest with one another.
we've come so far,
but not far at all.
we're just a more modern Rome.

do you see the homeless man,
huddled in a corner where the parking lot
abuts the brickwork,
and the thin cardboard below
does what it can to keep the chill away
from his bones?
he was once proud and able,
they trained him to think,
to fight and survive,
to walk into the oncoming storm
and meet it with equal fury,
a machine gun in one hand
and kevlar protecting him.
a soldier, he was,
now sitting alone and forgotten,
avoided by most
because he smells of dirt and ****,
and businessmen cross the street
just so they won't have to look him in the eye.
they all say "we should do something about that"
but they don't mean it,
until the homeless man comes begging at their stoop,
and they threaten to call the cops on him
so he doesn't drive away business.
if they looked in his eyes,
would they see his nobility,
his pride in that he stood,
with his brothers and sisters in arms,
for a way of life now denied him?
or would he hide that from them,
and leave quietly to return to his parking lot corner,
and sit on the thin cardboard,
letting the chill seep into his bones?

he stares at me,
silently appraising my every feature,
critical glances along the lines of my body,
looking at every angle,
seeking the nuances of me,
giving me the once-over,
like i am a piece of meat
and he looks for the best cut
at the butcher's shop.
his gaze travels over me,
and i watch his eyes,
staring back at me,
boring into my very being,
until at last i am forced to look away
from the man in the mirror.

movement is slow,
deliberate action,
practiced until perfected,
then practiced more,
the slow forging of the mind and body into -
into what?
A weapon,
a tool,
a method,
a philosophy?
Why not all of them at once?
Memorizing the steps,
the sequence,
aligning each and every moment with precision,
there is no room for failure.
Failure is the difference between kings and gods.

at the corner of the old red barn,
on old pile of rocks,
taken from the garden every spring.
we'd walk behind, waiting for his big boots
to kick them up,
and pick them up in the white buckets that hurt my hand.
we added them to the pile,
they looked the same as the other rocks
encased in concrete that made the foundation.
the barn is gone, i think,
and the pile with it now,
but as i tilled the soil today for the first time,
my big shoes kicked up the stones,
and i began a new pile of rocks.

it sounds simple: to sit.
to remove the weight from one's legs,
and relax the body,
and enjoy the simple act of doing nothing
but sitting.
no phones,
no music,
no voices,
no books,
no activities.
just me and a bench in a park -
time to think,
time to reflect,
watch the people going by,
observe the birds flitting about,
see life unfold,
and understand -
what it means to sit.

it's there a moment and gone again-
it may never come back around,
or it could be there again in a moment's notice.
i never know,
and have always been caught unaware.
such is the life of chasing dreams,
one after the next,
all with their hopes of a beautiful life,
and when you've chased and chased for so long,
you forget that you weren't born for this -
you were made not to chase the dreams,
but to catch them.
and you're not sure you know how to do that,
but you try anyway.
and you get some help along the way,
and you fail,
but you try again.
and again.
and again.
until your dreams get tired of running from you.

ideas,
rambling about,
a story, a play,
a novel, an essay,
rants and poems alike,
climbing over each other,
an eternal game of
"King of the Mountain"
for which one gets worked on next,
while the others sleep
in separate bedrooms of
this house that has no doors.
nothing escapes,
but lives here forever,
within the walls of a cluttered mind,
a hoarder's paradise of thoughts and expressions,
just waiting to be emptied,
let loose,
explode upon an unsuspecting world
that may or may not be ready for it.

I got an email from you today,
it has been years,
I thought I would never hear from you again
after what happened.
There was nothing in the message,
just an empty page,
and I was glad.
You followed up with a second -
said you were deleting and accidentally hit "send,"
and something about an intense conversation.
I could have opened the door,
responded, let you back in -
but you damage me when that happens -
and I cannot allow it again, ever.
It's not healthy for me.
It never was.

on my commute there is a building.
facade worn and *****,
the brick needs to be replaced in places,
repointed in others,
but it's solid.

they've been working on it for months, now,
and today i finally saw
that they've been working from the inside out,
and now it's time to open the building,
and let the hard work be seen.

as i went by,
i was awed by the care they took,
to preserve the old brick that needs repointing,
because the outside is worth keeping -
when the work within shines forth,
augmenting the past,
renovating the future.

i wonder if the old bicycle
tied outside,
rusted rims sitting on flat cracked rubber,
knows its owner is never coming back.
but it waits,
a silent vigil being kept
until it's loved again,
and both rider and machine are freed.

finding new music to dance to,
new themes to explore,
new sounds to begin my day,
and lead me into the quiet nights,
where i can lose myself
in rhythm and melody,
reach into a part of my soul and rip it out,
feeling the pleasure and the pain of it,
all through a new song
by a new artist -
new music that soothes the old me,
and helps me find my rebirth.

each little thing
goes up in flames
small things that don't matter,
but for the fact they've been held onto
for far too long.
each one
a small reclamation
of myself,
purging the old things,
making way for what is new and vibrant.

it was magic,
anticipation hung in the air
with every moment,
a wonderment consumed my child-mind
and turned chaos into perfect order
as i dreamed about the morning of christmas.

it's cold, now,
and i hate the garish colors and flashing lights,
the constant demands upon time and money,
and the persistence of those around me that we should all "be happy,"
as though acting happy is an instantaneous cure-all.
they should say, "i don't want to deal with **** - so shut up."
and go back to pretending everything is good.

empty today,
unable to focus on the daily things,
because the world hurts so much.
I can usually hide from this pain,
but this -
this wanton destruction of life -
it will scar,
and i will never be rid of it.

but if i could be rid of it,
would i be able to take action,
or lulled back into my cave of complacency?

there is something to
picking up my father's old guitar
and feeling it fit perfectly in my hands,
responding to my touch
the way it once did for him,
and playing chords to a song everyone knows,
but having it turn out somehow different,
my style and voice,
mingling with the echo of my father's,
to take someone else's words and music
and give them a new life.

lives touch,
for some, it's all too brief,
a small spark that ignites and burns too hot
and runs out of fuel.
for some, it's slowly,
a building passion and fire that sustains,
and demands to be fed -
but offers constancy and warmth.
and on those rare occasions, it's both -
a liquid flame that gets into you,
warms from within,
and demands to be expressed between two souls,
fated to meet and spark together.

i hear a cello,
softly playing a soothing note,
long and sustained
in the pre-dawn darkness.
a slow crescendo,
and the note changes from lull to urgency
as a clarinet joins in,
followed by the violin in descant,
solo notes filling the chord,
one by one,
the orchestra joins,
as with the sun it builds to furious rate,
then all at once dropping off,
and the cello sings alone
as the sunlight breaks over the hilltops
and says its good morning to me.

the demon lies in the abyss,
gaping maw open and silent,
heady breath that draws you to it
like the sweet perfumes of a long-forgotten moment.
you stand on the edge and look down,
you can't see the devil,
only the inky dark of the chasm.
and then it winks at you,
sees you, knows you by name,
and calls you to it.
some follow the call, some escape.
of those who follow, i know nothing,
but i escaped with cruel knowledge,
that the demon knows me,
and is lurking at the bottom of every abyss,
and i cannot be rid of it.
i can only stand firm on the surface,
and wink back into the darkness,
and walk away again.

a notecard in a book,
bearing two words that bring to the fore
countless desires and longings,
secrets i tell no one,
not even in my prayers.

a simple phrase that reminds me
of a truth i learned long ago
and rarely allow myself to indulge -
i am allowed to dream.

possible wishes,
probable dreams,
attainable hopes,
life lived.

your words cut so deep,
tearing at me,
wounding to the core,
testing who i am
and the man i want to be,
testing the boundaries
of what is right and what is easy,
not sure of what I will do.

i know i'll be fine.
i've been here before,
and i'm stronger than i was,
worth more to me than i was ever told,
and i know this can't defeat me.

i'll heal from your words,
i'll heal from your cuts,
i'll heal from the gunshot,
i'll heal.

somehow, i will.

ten words.  
nine are wasteful encumberances;
one will do.
"enough."

the feeling of an old tool,
***** handle smooth from use,
numbers worn off  the sweep,
and i cannot call it by name,
other than to say "my favorite"
because it has more use
and has become an extension of my soul.

i love the smell
of a cool crisp morning,
when the rains have fallen
and the cracks in the pavement
are still wet,
and the trees
wave silently in the gentle breeze,
as the birds flit among the branches.

scene 1:
he enters down left,
looking confident and in charge,
sits down at bar stool up center,
orders a coke,
he is waiting,
sitting where he can see the door.
he sips his drink and concentrates,
fixes his posture,
shoulders back, gut ****** in,
checking his phone to look at the time.
she walks in down left,
looking around,
it's clear they've exchanged photos,
she smiles as their eyes meet,
crosses to up center.

begin.

the sea was angry-
rolling waves that crashed on the shore,
threatening to take me under,
tossing me about with no effort,
eroding the sand beneath my feet
as i attempted to stand against the oncoming water,
so that all i could do was ride the crest
as it bore me closer to the shore.

and yet, it was safe,
the undertow and riptide were as nothing
to the onslaught of white-tipped waves,
pushing me closer to the land,
so that the treacherous parts of the water
could not take me -
a dangerous protector that could choose
to play with me or destroy me,
and i was powerless to do anything
but ride the waves and trust in the angry sea.

nothing but squawking,
deafening madness
of unchangeable ideas.
unceasing,
resistant to all efforts to silence
a past that no longer serves the present,
and cannot serve the future.
why can't they see and grow?
they drone on,
a greek chorus of inane rants
about things that have been overtaken
by the endless march onward.
and i am forced to listen to the magpies.

what does a house become
if left unattended?
en empty shell,
darkened inside,
a place where emptiness takes root
and grows,
slowly destroying
the hopes and dreams of the builder
from the inside.
black windows look out
as dead eyes of a corpse
stare at the abyss,
unmoving,
uncaring.
it is a house without a soul.

it was dark, once,
cloudy and rain-drenched,
cold and lonely in my world.

then there you were.

food was tasteless,
it held no joy to me,
i forgot how to smile.

then there was you.

there was nothing but a hollow shell,
a marionette,
a pantomime of life.

Now, there's you.

and it will take me some time yet
to get used to you -
to accept that which I thought I would never see again.
but I know I'll do it -
because now, there's you.

a body lies there,
real enough -but it doesn't represent the man
who changed a thousand lives
with his smile and love.
a man i never met,
but through the effect he had on others,
and they still receive me as family.
what does one say
to a grieving widow and her children?
what does one do when listening
to her crying as her great love lies
in the casket?
Nothing.
There is nothing to do
but join in the grief,
relive stories,
keep the memory alive
of a man i never met.

some mornings
i see the sweeper-man,
doing his job quietly,
picking up the dirt the rains left behind.
and i am reminded of the simple truth:
there is a nobility in working,
in doing a task that must be done
but no one wants to do.
nobody says, 'thank-you' to him,
nobody stops to consider how the path they use
has been cleared by a man simply doing his job,
but he continues on,
sweeping away the dirt the rains left behind.

i know why you do it -
the back-and-forth,
the maybe-maybe-not daily ritual of
non-committal niceties
and incongruent  actions
that keep everyone on the edge -
it's a control,
a way of dealing with the world
so you can face another day,
so you can look in the mirror and feel good about yourself,
and know there's something that depends on you,
and your upside-inside-down-out life
has a moment of peace in it that you can understand.
And that's fine -
you need to function that way,
to play the puppeteer.
But I do not dance that way.

this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
it's growing, it's changing,
there are bumps,
there are cuts and scrapes,
there are bruises,
there are hurts,
there are times when I'm slow to understand,
there are times when I'm faster than you,
there are hugs,
there are kisses,
there are passionate nights,
there are distant ones, too,
there are fights,
there are make-ups,
there is longing,
there is forgiveness,
there is loss,
there is gain.
there are a lot of things that go into this me-you thing,
but this me-you thing works.
i don't know how, but it does.
i like it.

i like to listen to the rain
on a day i have nothing to do,
and let the sound of each droplet on the window glass
water my naked soul as it would the ground,
refreshing and new,
life springing again from within me
from the gentle coaxing of the rain
as it falls so willingly to the soil.

watching the lovers,
the streetlights casting silhouettes against the concrete
while my mind and heart stray to another time,
another place where that was us,
finding in the other a passion deep and longing,
a thirst, need, and hunger to sample the unknown,
to revel in the timelessness of an embrace,
where clocks don't matter and
the rest of the world can vanish with a single electrifying touch.
i remember when we could experience that thrill,
before we took each other for granted,
and learned to hide what we were feeling under polite nods and grins.
it was pure, then,
uncomplicated, and driven by nothing other than the moment;
a silhouette there for a moment and gone when the lights go out.

i hear the music of the early morning,
a forest waking with the summer sun
and the scent of hemlock and dew
that i recall from my childhood.
this sacred place,
marked by Time itself, and yet, timeless,
fills my spirit with the awe of ages past,
and native peoples in whose footsteps i now tread.
the face of the rock remembers them,
and as i reach out to touch it,
i am met with a glimpse into what the Earth has seen,
and how she mourns for simpler times,
when all heard the same music,
and danced together in the hot summer morning.

they told me to go,
to visit the land by the sea,
and take my troubles with me - I asked "why?"
and they just shook their heads.

i went my own way,
and left my troubles behind me,
littering the places of my life with
junk i did not understand,
while they shunned me.

even so, i went on,
my trials left a wake behind me,
people, places, things i cast aside  as i went,
friendless and lost in the world,
and i saw their pity-filled eyes,
but they would not speak to me.

at long last, my path led me to the sea,
its force and power unmistakable,
for it had not past nor future,
it simply was.
and it beckoned to me.

i retraced my steps, picking up my castoffs,
back to where i started,
and they winked at me,
knowing smiles playing on their lips.

i took my troubles to the sea,
and threw them in,
myself along with them,
and at last i understood,
for the sea claimed all my troubles,
and washed me clean.

i came out of the water, and they were all there,
laughing and smiling,
and i was one of them again,
made new by the relentless wild forgiveness of the sea.

some might say it was tragic,
others, a miracle,
but i died once,
a long time ago.
my spirit was crushed in the avalanche-
an all-consuming nothingness
that shut out the light,
squandered my existence,
and extinguished the passion inside me.
i didn't stay that way,
rising again,
a new resilience found,
a decision to press onward,
furthering myself,
testing myself,
pushing my limits of understanding.
that is what death will do for you-
it will show you how to live again.

there are times
when i sit and stare
at the paper
or the screen
both blank as my mind,
and wonder if there
is anything worthwhile
to be written.

sometimes, the blankness stares back,
asking when i will have the courage
to write upon it.

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimes in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

the message was clear and to the point:
it's like watching an excellent magician -
i actually do not want to know HOW you did it.  
But the end result is stunning, and the magic makes it so.

I am magic.