There are two types of people in the world.
People who don’t have enough shoes
and people who…

There is one type of people in the world.
People who don’t have enough shoes.

The poorest people dream
of one pair of shoes-
a right and a left,
a pride to possess.
The not-so-poor-people dream
of two pair of shoes –
one pair for casual,
one pair for dress.

The not-so-poor-
but-not-so-rich people dream
of four pair of shoes-
one black and one brown,
one to walk and one for play.
The not-rich-but-better-off-
than-the-not-poor people dream
of multiple matching shoes-
one for each outfit,
a new pair each day.

The richest people dream
of endless lots of shoes-
two for every outfit
winter, spring, summer and fall,
some that match their pets
and some match nothing at all.

Yes, there is one kind of people in the world.
The kind who love shoes,
and that makes us the same
black, white, yellow or blue.
So, let’s love all people,
people with shoes.
And give shoes to the shoeless
so they can be loved, too.

I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.

Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.

I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.

I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.

(We were called the HUGI TWINS - pronounced hoogie - we still are :-))

We were joined at the mustaches
Of chocolate milk
And giggles
Daring preschool to challenge us
On the ****** journey
Of out-of-mommy's-sight.  

I sat next to him
Immediately taken
By his first words
"What's YOUR name?"
Like he had one he had to share
But knew it wasn't polite
To just blurt it out.
In those three words
He owned me
Whether he wanted to
Or not.  

We authored world conquering agendas
On short chairs
And nap mats
Giving away all our secrets
In shouting whispers of confidentiality
(Consistently amazed
Of our teacher's Prophetic thwarts).  

Batman and Robin plagarized us
For we were unity
Inseperable
Born to co-dependency
Birthed to this bond
Which we wore like an arrogant badge
Making jealous
All the other 5 year olds.  

Inside the doors
Of lower education
We were royalty.
In the outer world
We were famous explorers
Almost too famous
Passing on the one adventure
That caved in
On three of our friend's lives.  

The alley was the highway to everything -
The playground
The market
And Russell's house.
Russell was older
Cool
And our friend.
He made us important
Until we "matured"
And became the new cool.
Southside
That's how we ride
(ok, bike...).  

But then it happened  

My crime-fighting cohort
Was taken captive
By menacing parents
And forced to move
Across town.  

I would cry as he pulled away.  

Small towns
And single high schools
Demand one fact -
There will be a reunion.  

In the same marble halls
Which echo with the footsteps
Of our fathers
The dynamic duo reignite.  

Our chariot was legend
As the Hugimobile
In Starsky and Hutch red and white
Became our calling card.
Filled with flying manes
Obscure sports paraphenalia
And healthy egos
The Show was on the road.  

The residue of living was co-owned
In the trenches
His closet was mine
My closet was his.
Everything was communal -
Ideas
Girlfriends
Jobs.
We got our nickname
Buckin' hay
And selling family bibles
Door to door
Stopping with each victory
To generate business for DQ
One cherry coke and cone
At a time.  

But those are things -
Granted
Good things
But things nonetheless.

He is more
Than good things.
He is the anchor
Of faithfulness.
He wields forgiveness
Like a shield.
When others cut and run
He picks me up
Not only from enemy hurts
But from hurts that I have caused
On my own.  

Without reward
He has eaten the burnt goods
Of my friendship
And smiled.
He introduced me to humility
For which I can never repay.
We are forever friends
Because he is forever benevolent.
And when I In these years
Find that tender boy
Fallen
He looks at me and says
"What's YOUR name?"
Strengthening I in my spirit
I reply "Hugi Twin"
Then remember I am something
Because of that unmerited favor.

FLASHLIGHT

If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.

I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
(Orange
His favorite color,
Knives
His collection.)

This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.

The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
World.
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Before
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.

Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Devon.
Underneath the leaking tub -
Devon.
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Devon.
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
Involuntarily
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.

Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.

Selah.

(You are the brightest one, my son.)

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love
                    ...or angst.

                                For the twenty seventh time today
                                            I read of a love
                                         "unlike any other".

You know the one -
                  butterflies
                  goosebumps
    ­              can't breathe
                  best friend
                  life partner kind of love.

YES, YOU KNOW THE ONE!
Most of us do.
I've had seven myself.

                                But that's the power of love.
                               (Not the Huey Lewis meets
                                Celine Dion kind of love.)
                                    The reality twisting
                                   emotionally blinding
                                        omen erasing
                                         kind of love.

Where sixty percent of lovers
who were one hundred percent sure
they were different than everyone else
found some of the others
at the "Whoops I did it again" Prom
and started over
at the new, less improved dance
trying to forget the previous ones.

                         Some of them will have the courage
                                    (or loss of memory)
                          to say how unique it is........again.

It makes one man weep, and another man sing.
And inevitably,
                 the third man will write about it.
                 Much to our unoriginal,
                 bad after-taste,
                 and at the very best "Isn't that sweet",
                chagrin.

Sentimental geysers
of sincerest and irrepressible corn,
temper your naivety
and ponder your muse of passion
before you unveil puppy love
in the face of those who have bravely ridden the Rottweiler of amore'...
                                                    and­ even been bitten by it
                                                              ­          once or twice.

Consider your thoughts on love.

Then reconsider your angst about its failings
.

               How dare you have dread
                    if you haven't yet removed twenty five calendars
                         from the wall!?

It is a whiny *** of irony that reeks of 13 year old experience, hairless underarm machismo,
blatant high school drama posing as relevance, and that left over bottle of your dad's
cologne or favorite aunt's vanilla container you knew wouldn't be missed,
while you stained the olfactory neighborhood three blocks at a time.

                                                     The genuinity of youthful angst
                                 holds the credibility of a hairpiece
                                                       ­             on a televangelist.

         This anxious cloak of writhing distress
must be earned as a veteran,
                                    where only the scars of war
get a Purple Heart.
                You can't just say you have it.

Angst is rewarded to
the single mom who lost her job
     and has four children to feed,
and to the man who has to figure out
     how to hide the diaper
     he never thought he'd have to wear,
and to the parent who holds a dying child,
and the senior citizen who can't remember
     where they live,
and the solitary soul who truly has no one.......
     no one to call
     in the darkest moments of their life.

The "poor me", single pimple, concert's sold out, boyfriend #17 *****, inconvenient day
is wanting in qualifications, and we are irritated to hear your blathering interpretation of it.
We will hear you when your words come with bandages.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love...
                     because it has been done
                  and no one has ever gotten it right...
or angst
               ...because I am unworthy of the reward.

I think I will just write about
what other people shouldn't write about.
There is no end in this.

6:30 am
The chippy irritation from my bedside table
forces an unconscious groan.
Starting from my curled toes
swelling
in tidal wave tremors
to my twitching torso.
Manifesting in indiscriminate slapping of
lamps
reading material
and finally
the clock…
 
If I were honest in my disdain
I wouldn't turn on the lights
nor spend a minute
looking for acceptable clothes
to appease civilization

…But I do.
 
People expect to see Me today, wrapped
in preconceived ideologies.
Some societal, some induced.
Portions I have enabled - even propagated
with detailed grooming rituals,
ongoing hair color treatments,
and anti-aging skin
regiments.

Which is a lie

Because I still see it… everyone does.
Minimizing at best.
But "anti"?
Not.
 
I aquiese to the
expectations.
Because this
carefully crafted,
death defying carcus
is the only thing
Most of them will ever know...

The painted
coiffed
decorated
Me
and my persona,
coated in Teflon,
sculpted to situations,
an everyday
chameleon
who will never let one title
stick to the
hot rock climate
I call life.
 
It has been said
you are who you are
when no one is
watching.
But my village watches.
 
Through most of this life,
in and out of my glass house,
I am
in my universe
a spectator sport
with expectant fans.
Where the others hope
the receiver makes the catch,
the singer hits the high note,
the magician disappears…

And I enter.
Stage right.
With my highlighted spiky hair
in perfect
chaotic
order.
 
(I let go for a very short season.
The silence about it
spoke of the
disapproval.
Yawn.

So what?
I was grieving.
I got better and gave in
to recycling...

Hi honey, I'm home...with old Me.)
 
The "real" crowd touts
transparency
as a measuring stick of
unfettered character.
While border-free openness
and lack of secrets
may only make one a bad confidante…
not a great person.
 
The diversity of Me is
untainted by opinion.
Purity needs no approval, nor apology.
I am intentionally
loud and quiet,
public and private
seen and unseen
understood… and not.
No lesser
or greater.
Equally
Me.
I am all that you see.
Which, by the way,
is the better part of
Me.
 
They drive by daily.
Casting stares
on the angular structures
in the city.
Never doubting
viability.
Even though there were plans,
predestination,
packaging,
posturing.
Yet a man... a man
with these four p's
is branded of
superficiality,
rigidity,
dishonesty.
 
People...
Ignorance is bliss
but you are WAY too happy
criticizing contingency
while mocking
less than
perfect
charisma.

Disgusting.

So lost
in your lack of personal
direction
that you prefer
everyone else
burn their maps…
I have seen my map.
I have planned the route.
I have chosen the vehicle.
The person I want you
to see is who
I am.
Because that is all you will
ever know.
And I like him
or I wouldn't be him.
 
Don't ask for my transparency.
You couldn't deal with
the guts of
it all.
That's okay too - you shouldn't have to.
We all are who we are
in the moment our lives
intersect.
Some murderers are loving fathers.
Both are true.
 
So be sure of this
one thing.
I do my hair for
me.

I'm glad that you like it.

Ex's

I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.

They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.

Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.

But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.

Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.

L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.

D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.

N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.

J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.

L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.

I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.

She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.

Versus - Movement I

I love her
But she is bigger than my endurance

She is the poster child of Discontentment
Whose sorrowfully diseased heart
Must secretly wear inconvenient braces
To hold up her chronically heavy burdens.
She is sad there in the picture
Standing with the forced smile
Beside the unconquerable walls
Of photo opportunities
and no-win situations.
We wallow in the awwwwws
Of her childlike innocence
Draped in tattered dreams
Built somewhere between lack of resolve
And incompetence.

The unreal expectations from her youth
Haunt her like reoccurring nightmares
Coming again to chase her off the cliff
Or tangle her in the struggle
Of powerless punches
From which she awakens
Sweat-drenched
And weeping.

She asks for answers
But only hears questions
Try as she might
She cannot find a positive meal
In Hope's kitchen
If it were administered intravenously
By the arch angel Michael.
She fears good news
Worse than bad news
For everything after a good report
Can only go downhill.

Her monsters are born
In the cauldron
Of pessimism
Anger
And spiritual arsenic
Untainted by reality
Which would only serve
To dilute the strength of her desperation.
Her demons are immortal
Terrifying beyond explanation
Larger than stability
The kind that makes Chuck Norris
Weep in his pillow.

Each and every torment
Is finely crafted
uniquely turned
Without one grain of truth
Immaculately conceived in failure,
Regimented rehearsal,
And late night confections.

I don't know whether to pity her
Encourage her
Scream at her
or
Leave her.
(Don't even think it.
I will not hear the criticism
For saying the thing
You were to afraid to speak out loud.)

I ask her
Why the promise of her life
Must be cruelly beaten
Into crippling impossibilities.
She pauses for inventory
Behind the foggy
Salt showered lashes
Of her imaginary world
And professes,
"I cannot stop it...
I cannot stop thinking."

I love her
But I cannot walk
Through the valley of death
With her.
Nobility with wisdom
does not call
For two souls to die
From empathy.
No, even more than two
For we are not detached.
Legacy has children.
Others always die with you
In the draft of your wake.
Someone must live.
So I shall be the one
In the midst of the hopeless watch
So that my light
Pushes back her darkness
And those that are mine
Will see clearly
The path of overcoming.


Versus- Movement II

I long for sunshine
                                You seek the rain
I turn from the labor
                                You welcome pain
I choose the easy
                                You have to strain
I walk in logic
                               You might be insane

I live for laughter
                                You die to cry
I am the summer
                                You're winter skies
I'm mocha latte
                                You're green tea chai
I want attention
                                You don't know why.

I have few boundaries
                                You follow rules
I think I'm funny
                                You think I'm a fool
I go with the flow
                                You're stuck like a mule
I love the next fad
                                You are old school.

I watch expressions
                                You watch the time
I think on the lovely
                                You dwell on the slime
I trek over problems
                                Yours are a climb
I am the free verse
                                You need to rhyme

I shout my dreams
                                Yours are unspoken
I prize strong words
                                Yours are a token
I'm alive in my spirit
                                You need to be woken
My glass is half full
                                Yours is all broken

I'm the road less traveled
                                Your path is well worn
I grasp for renewal
                                Your doubts are reborn
I hate that I love you
                                You love that I'm torn
I'm lost in my freedom
                                You're found in the scorn

(regarding the death of my son)

I fear very little
but the one thing I DO fear
is forgetting the sound of his voice.  

It was 70 year-old husky
by the age of 14.
The manifestation was a quartet bass
tucked neatly in the body
of a fray-headed sparrow.
If you closed your eyes
the lumberjack you imagined
would be tickled to see
the tiny powder keg
that actually stood before you.
Inside the resonance was a warm huckster laugh,
half good ole boy,
half saint,
half comforter.
He was fifty percent more real
than anyone I knew.
On the good days his chuckling possessed him
to the point of breathlessness.
His joy-tears are the Rembrandts of our memories
never to be tarnished by any pity demons.
But on the bad days his laughter trailed away
into a pugilistic cough.
It's the one thing I fear I will always remember.
Yet when he spoke the sincerity was so ominous
that any inaccuracies seemed irrelevant.
Love was the spine of his vocabulary.
There were no meaningless words.
Regardless of the lettering
they all had the root meaning
of clemency.
He spouted new beginnings
and hope
regardless of past mistakes of failures.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
for I fear that I have already forgotten my own.  

Today it speaks only of him being gone.
Reliquishing are the days
that were full of him.  
I submit to songs that were his
and find myself tethered to unmerited heaviness.
No matter how loud I scream
the present rains on me
and my voice is lost
in the sickness of the storm.
I cannot turn it off.
I press my radio presets
to chase away the Rascal Flatt residue in my head
and land on a Christian station.
**** it.
The only thing he loved more than Rascal Flatts
was Jesus.
Me too. But not today.
I just want to stop crying.  

It's the magician's multi-colored scarves
tied corner to corner
in a endless tug of futility and frustration.
The more I want the prank to stop
the more irritating the infinite parade of colors becomes.
I pull again and again hoping the next scarf,
the next involuntary sorrow,
will be the last one.
I open my mouth in concious agenda
to change directions
and speak of the blessings I have
in my other children
only to find his name tied to the last name
which was his as well
just in another color.
I cannot stop speaking of him
no matter how hard I try.
And I wonder if my kids know
that I know
they're suffering in his shadow
and I can't fix it.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
as I am forgetting mine
and terrified that I may be muting theirs as well.

That grin
enviably free of worry
should be an advertisement
for the way things ought to be.

Effusive innocence
casts itself from a
twenty year old snapshot
like juice from a fatted orange
pierced by a thumb
spitting jealous longing
on people who wear pants
giving anything in trade to
erase what they know
about growing up
to sit next to a
gleamy eyed kid
making **** prints in the earth
proudly touting a ***** nose and
Sedona sand on his Underoos.

Must we ever leave there
the paradise of naivete'
devoid of threat
absent of concern
universe of
daddy-can-whip-anyone?

Enemies do not exist
because we have not yet
learned hate.
Joy is first instinct
until we grow into fear.
The world is fig leafs and beauty
before a cynical serpent
has his way with us.

A father begs his son
"STAY THERE! STAY THERE!"
Protection is lost
outside the frame.
There's no recourse
for growing up.

Poetry
stands us on the overlook of the forest
and makes us see the ladybug
in the shade
of an indistinguishable tree.  

Poetry
takes time for the janitor
no one has ever spoken to.  

Poetry
gives voice to the frightened child
and the bird who forgot how to sing.  

Poetry
smells like the garbage in the apartment
of a 5-day drunk
letting us wonder
whether it is his heart or his mind that is broken.  

Poetry
turns a pacifist into a powerhouse.  

Poetry
wraps words into presents
becoming gifts of love
and breaths of life
in our common humanity.  

Poetry
makes us sticky on the floor of a movie house
or bad caramel apple decisions,
and unfortunate one-night rendezvous.  

Poetry
puts portals at impenetrable walls.  

Poetry
brings salvation to the Atheist,
hell to the saint,
equality to both.  

Poetry
makes room for love
regardless how redundant
or naive.  

Poetry
bleeds on our behalf
that we might die a thousand deaths
and live to die again.  

Poetry
makes the forgotten glaring,
the trivial a celebrity,
and illuminates the streets as a marquee
for what had once been insignificant.  

Poetry is a spotlight.
Everything is a star.

Whittlers
and
old fishermen

lie

as recreation,
personalizing wooden benches
beneath
dirt-soiled overalls

just outside Johnson's

Five and Dime.
Stories piggy-back
legends birthing holy folklore -
religious fables told with bowed heads
in reverence to tall tales.

On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday

multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as

WEEKEND.

Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops

in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.

Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags

drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons

passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty

without score cards.

Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements

including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian

compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.

Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part

by Macy's.

Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least

of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match

are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.

Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,

Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights

Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.

Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted

or unwanted.

In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods

pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed

the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.

If I should die on Christmas Day
wrap me in ribbons and sing me away
be merry and thankful and have a soiree
If I should die on Christmas Day.

If I should leave on Christmas Eve
invite all my friends and help them believe
that sorrow is fruitless and love is reprieve
If I should leave on Christmas Eve.

If I should pass on yuletide high
drink hot apple wassail and pass out the pie
share stories of soul bonds and laugh till you cry
If I should pass on yuletide high

If I should set my spirit free
let Christmas on earth rejoice for me
make crazy, bright baubles and trim the large tree
If I should set my spirit free

If I should on that day depart
give purposeful gifts of love and of art
for Christmas will shine from my heavenly heart
If I should on that day depart

If I should die on Christmas Day
thank God that He chose to take me that way
the ending is perfect in script and cliche'
If I should die on Christmas Day

Dead summer skin falls from the yielding trees
The bitter wind makes a bitter me
Grumbling inner man regretting
Ungrateful thanks in sweating
Longing for lighter clothes
I blow my chafed nose
People scamper
Teeth clamper
My fun
Done

Here's a small verse
For my Dwarf pal, Porter.
It couldn't be much shorter.

She walks the rails

Infinite steel beams
dwindle to absence
long down the horizon
between soot-painted trees,
into open skies,
and the desire to go wherever it ends...
or doesn’t (mercifully).

She walks the rails

Begging to God,
or Madonna,
or the unrecognizable critter
severed on the tracks,
that the scabs of her bad decisions
stay in the past...
as she rips them off
in a gallop to get away.

She runs the rails

In terror,
that whatever has haunted her
will catch up.
For anything ahead
no matter how unidentifiable
is better than
the hell that clearly is.

She screams down the rails

Attempting to scare
fear into submission,
attenuating the volume
to beat back
the throng
of demonic voices telling her
she cannot break free.

She stops on the rails

Her eyes recoil through a blur
and sees the vision.
Puffy lips dripping of sorrow
curl toward heaven in a blubbering smile
involuntarily she laughs
unrestrained
audacious...
and stretches out her arms
to greet the angel of light.

She stains the rails....

Pounding a bottle of ketchup...
Removing a Jenga log...
Clutching your first standard car...
Attempting the perfect shave...
Pouring motor oil without a funnel...
Befriending a cub...
Cologne...
Taking in strangers...
Measuring hot sauce...
Picking your nose...
Mixing cocktails...
Eating grocery samples at Sam's on Saturday...
Choosing a ski *****...
Explaining goodbye to a blameless lover.

Among 
the buckets
and mops
a man pushes aside  

a sponge hoping to find
anything without a sharp
mildewed stink.
Somewhere he’s hidden
a meaning,
and his soul.
He’s sure.

Before the pails
filled with dank
green
liquid,
before the loss,
before diapers and rent
he dreamt 

of a midwest girl, 

five acres of bluegrass 

kissing the feet of a cabin, 

a horse named Scotch, 

and a secret escape 

near a creek 

where he could fish
...or not.

But today is not about
a childhood dream
never discovered after
hide and seek.
Today, like most days,
he fades into the structure 

with his monochromatic 

gray uniform 

and attitude. 

Children running, 

passing him,
taking him in as inventory.

Desks,
chairs,
chalk boards,
water fountains,
the half man in gray.
If not for bending over 

to pick up 

the page-puckered 

third grade reader, 

his eyes would have never been seen 

or a thank you uttered.

He is only spoken of
in children’s whispers.
The young ones
talk, with fabled tongues, 

of his home in the closet 

with a single 

pull-chain light and 

quickly hung 

supply store calendar 

still lingering 

on January.


Wedged between 

pink soap refills and 

puke litter 

are three tattered photos 

long neglected 

dusty with heartache.

Pigtails and freckles 

frame the eyes 

born matching his. 

Yellowed Kodak moments 

embrace memories departed

but longed for 

in a girl, now woman, 

disconnected and tortured.

A white-haired matriarch 

crayon outlined lips 

around an endless smile 

of fraggled teeth. 

She wears her love and life 

in experience lines 

like rings in a tree. 

He wears her name in a heart 

on the forearm tattoo 

he got an the first anniversary 

of her death.

The last, 
a boy 

strapping 

bat in hand 

trophy at his feet.
Tugging at 

the brace on his knee 

he remembers it more vividly 

than the photograph. 

What he cannot recall 

are the cheers and praise. 

The stench of the closet, like motor oil
and any pre-Monday night,
trumps it all.

He didn't choose today
but today has a way of reminding him
it’s here and stretching on
into forever.
What an icy gambler today is,
seeing our dreams and
calling our bluffs
until we’d simply
settle for “hello”.

My mother named me
                            for no good reason.

There was no fireman hero,
     no reknown global leader,
          nor an astronaut Stephen
          setting his foot on the moon.
It wasn't even her stylist whom she honored
as he kept her trusted secrets.

The roulette wheel of monikers
whirred uninterestedly past
Michael
David
John
Robert
Mark
Mitchell
Glen
(and thankfully) Carl
and surrendered its last click
     on the formal of Steve
                                     with a "ph".

                       It was haplessly indifferent
     in the way it came be.
                  A last grasp of titles
                                       as they pushed her out
                             the hospital doors.

I have a friend whose name
was never in question.
     He was a fifth,
                       as in William V.
The Ist was proud,
             so proud that he named the IInd.
     The IInd an heir,
                so he named the IIIrd.
            The IIIrd obliged,
                          and so the IVth.
                    The IVth weary from fighting
                                the previous I's
                                and hence, the V...
as in William V,
                          as in flavorless,
                          pomposity faded,
                          worn like a hand-me-down
                                    dress shirt through five generations
                                              bereft of shape and dignity and fit.

     He wished he had his own name -

                         I did.

     And I found my name
     free to be
     designed to the only son
     my mom ever had -
                                to be as grand or plain
                       as I constructed it to be.

This one-size-fits-me tag
                      Stephen Dane Roberson
                                  is the Ist
                                              and only.
     A name that I love
          because it is filled
               with all the stuff I put in it;
and that stuff is me...

a me I wanted to be when I grew up :-)

As bland as the snow-covered lawn
     I stare
wishing I were as resilient
                          as the scraggly blades of grass
                          refusing to hide their presence
                under the act of God.

     And I stare
                 because I cannot feel who I am today.

The withering bush
                         gives me no hope
                                                       nor
                   the single starving starling
                                             peck
                                             peck
                                             pecking
                                 at the hardened crust
                                      to find a meal.

     And I stare
                         at the absence of humanity
and uncourageous spirits
                                         who hide indoors
     resigned
                         to take this
                    cold, harsh beating
                      without a fight.

     And I stare
                  into a bank of whiteness
becoming blind
                                 with indescription
                                              and anger
     wishing we could build snowmen again.

     And I stare
          until this sheet of ice
                becomes the
                       blanket of false snowfalls
on the living room table
                            nestled artfully beneath
                 the Christmas village.

We construct happy winter cities
                       of Victorian memories that
                                                      we never had
             with pristine houses
             and carolers and sledders
             taken out of boxes
                              all perfect and smiling...

if only...
          if only...
                     if only... I could take him out of his box
and set him here....


     And I stare
                        at the absence of humanity...

praying
I will have the strength
                                      of a blade of grass.

he had a barbershop on Broadway.
it sat perfectly
midway between the river and
"the other side of town".
you passed George's
whether you wanted to or not,
but people wanted to.
he made them forget the mortgage
their ugly spouse
and tragedy.
he was half entertainer
half evangelist
which didn't leave much for barbering.
he chased away heartaches
like tufts of hair blown
across the green
and white tiled floor.
his guitar came out
more regularly than his clippers
and sermons were included
in the basic package.
you paid for the song and
the therapy,
the haircuts were free.

[Since the season has been a bit overwhelming for me, I wanted to share a children's poem from my earlier collections. Hope you enjoy this other side of my personality ;-)]

DIGGIN’

Doug dug a hole to China
And there upon the way
Another Doug was digging
To see the U.S.A.

Doug and Doug stopped digging
Then heard more digging sounds.
A shovel came protruding
And Dougie was inbound.

Dougie, Doug and Doug sat down,
And I’m not kidding you,
The dirt collapsed above them
And Doug the Fourth came through.

Eight more Dougs came digging,
A dozen Dougs in all.
It felt so overcrowded
They dug four mammoth walls.

Now, middle earth’s a party,
So if you dare the trek,
Come dancing down with diggers
At 12 Dougs Discotheque.


Steve Roberson

Last night I asked Mother Sky
to lay me down
under the stars.
She covered the long day
with her black/blue quilt
tucking away
my rapid heart.

Brushing the unkempt hair
from my eyes
she warmed me
with deep sea breaths
and showed me how much
she loved me.
Her finger drew
a shooting star
as she measured
herself in a whisper,
"From here, my dear,
.........................to there."

Mother offered me
a drink from her ladled cup.
I chose the big one
with both hands
consuming every drop
until my lips finished
with a satisfied "Aaaaaaahhh".
I handed her the twinkling chalice
which she hung again
by the North Star.

I resigned my head
to the grassy pillow
my eyes lost in retreat.
"Will you sing to me?"
I asked sightlessly.
From the corners of Endless
she coaxed
soft soothing melodies,
while the Sandman
strummed willow trees
to her song.

Flipping tiny pages
She strolls to the table
Apologizing with her quiet eyes.

"Do you need a menu?"
Something on my face tells her
I seem sure of my decision.

There's a hole in her smile
That hangs down to her heart.
"I'll have the chicken fried steak."

I thought I really said, "What's wrong?"
Subserviently, yet sincerely, she is sweet,
Like it's been beaten into her.

"I'll have that right out to you"
Her invisible mental interpreter yelled,
"I wish I could tell you everything."

The order book closes.
Obligations disappear into an apron.
The kitchen draws her in like a space ship.

A hologram of her sadness remains.
Until her lingering spirit is torn by
A gray-hair parade displacing the haze.

Why did I sit next to the bathroom?
Incontinence breeds strange bedfellows,
And I'm feeling more pissy by the minute.

I question my choice of eateries
In demographics, and relevance.
But a 5.89 lunch special trumps pride.

My table in pre-gorge state
Holds electronic slates
And this rigid collection of organizing tools.

Moses' brother shuffles by.
"Is that one of them tablets?"
As I imagine him holding the original ones.

The waitress sidels in, balancing plates
With stuff covered in gravy,
A mis-shapen roll in a basket,

Her reconstructed grin
Not pasted on quite as straight
As the first approach.

The old man displays his yellow teeth
Waiting for her to dismiss herself.
So she does.

"How do ya like that thing," he says.
"It's my brain," I tort.
We fake laugh together.

White coffee cups appear like spring fungus
On every table near me
She is placing and replacing them all

...Again and again
Like she needs a reason
To be nearby.

Then she fills the jellies, and butter pats
Overflowing in make-do bowls heaping
Beyond full, tumbling as little avalanches.

She picks each packet as they fall
In a never-ending fruity fruitless failure
That frames the fabric of her fears.

Through the silhouette of
The antique man
Her hand trembles as she loses faith.

From his wrinkled mouth
Dusty words settled on my head,
"A guy just walked up and shot my son."

His skinny finger pointed like a gun.
"I know how you feel," I offered,
Recently lost my son, too."

His eyes turned from inward to outward.
Patted me on the shoulder.
"Bless you, boy."

"A parent should never see
Their child in a casket."
And he walked away.

I left a $5 tip on a $6 tab,
As if that would lessen her pain,
Or my empathy.

please read http://hellopoetry.com/poem/629931/in-the-beginning/
before you indulge in this :-) *

DAD'S DREAMS

The Sandman and I have an agreement:
     I will use his grains sparingly,
In return,
     He dispenses my prescription in
Nearly lethal doses.
Deep,
Extravagant,
Peaceful
Sleep
          Where only contented dreams live
                    In abbreviated hours
                    Too succinct
To allow anything unpleasant.

Wrinkled
Sheet-faced
Creases
          Trail skippingly through
                              ****** worlds
                              Utopian neighbors
                              Calorically absent banquets
Sharing property lines with
Idyllic, passionate women
                  Who peer over their
                   See-through fences
                   Teasing unbridled desire
          Of covering me in a favorite topping.

                                            (Dutifully,­ I double check
                                            Nocturnal filters
                                            To be sure I have prevented
Broadcasting of past names
To my present wife
                                  Half-dozing on the pillow
                                  Taken from my side of the bed.)

A mist sets then rises, a new act begins,
        Transporting near the river
        On the banks of my hometown.
         I am Tom Sawyer,
Lounging proudly with
My Huckleberry friends,
         Fishing line on my toe,
                                Bobber and stink bait
                                Mimicking ***** waves
                                On the Muddy Miss.

The string draws taut bending my stubby digit.
          It’s a big one hanging on
          Pulling so hard
          I'm driven from slumber.
There at my feet I can see I have
Reeled in the finest catch of my life.
                                          A blue eyed,
                                          Small mouth offspring
                                          With panting gills
                           Mumbling something about falling....

Then I remember,
        The only thing
        Better than my dreams
        Is waking to a son
                                 Who believes I am bigger
Than all of his.

Whatever doesn't **** you makes you stronger
unless it cripples you.

If you aren't looking
you will never see them
hidden in whitewashed caste systems
forced to conform
to federal papers
which fit in a folder
that fits in a file
of an emaciated white guy
who doesn't fit anywhere
checking the boxes and "disorders"
voted on by
a majority of uncaught criminals
who are protecting store front lifestyles
while the real merchandise of their lives
lays in the back storage room
with the rats of their conscience.
They judge sanity
setting rigid walls
and hanging permanent badges on
Salvador Dali dream catchers,
borderless thinkers,
and geniuses
of the things not yet discovered.
Just because the gifted can not
or will not
stop thinking,
they are detained for their
Difference.

State Hospital No. 3
titles every page
framed in frayed edges
and unfrayed passion.
Lions of courage stand
with childlike joy
in traveling circuses
obliterating demons of oppression,
overwhelming reoccurring ECT...ECT...ECT.
An etcetera of living
beyond electroconvulsive therapy
where the spelling of ECTLECTRC is perfect
in its grammar and definition,
standing in banners atop
the wide-eyed portraited guardians
of institutionalism.

Glorious art shuddered on a curb,
lost and intended for *******...

Thank God, beauty beholders come
in all ages of eyes.
14 year olds also find treasure
in garbage piles
clutching dearly to the feeling
that greatness lies in colored pencils
dancing on unusual stationary.
Edward Deeds
comes of age
in the same moment
as the scavenging boy does
opening the binders
on their inter-joined journey
36 annuals after dislodging it
from a leftover ham and rye.

A voice is unmuted
merely by being seen.
Revelation is given
by turning on the light.
Art, music and knowledge is infinite
when boxes are destroyed,
ignorance rebuked,
and courage is embraced.

Let us dare to never be
just what we know.
Let us live to be
what we have never yet seen.

didn’t care about
the moon
       ‘til I saw her
lunar skin
       didn’t understand
her eyes
       ‘til I saw the stars
within
       didn’t treasure her
fair feet
       ‘til they touched
Orion’s belt
       didn’t know about
the night
       ‘til she lit up
all I felt.


#npmmoon

It started
in the corner of the dining room.
His favorite leather shoes set aside
to repair on a more convenient day.
He would get to it –
eventually.
In the meantime, both umbrellas
that bang and bump
in the floorboard of his litterbox car
made their way
there
next to the shoes.

Higgin’s yard sale had treasures.
A 16 lb. gold-glitter bowling ball,
a new set of silverware
(new to him)
and a VHS of Rocky III
which he always wanted to see
but would never see
hidden deeply in a
hoard of lethargy.

He goes to the Dollar Store
for soap and brandless chocolate,
returning with discount storage
boxes to organize the
growing meant-to’s in the corner.
But for now
he put them…
"uhhhh, there next to the other stuff".
Spring is almost here anyway.

Here.
Was.
Gone
just before the Summer, Fall, Winter
and the next Spring…
and 15 Springs after that.

One day he woke
on the body-worn sofa
entombed
by stacks of the Hays Daily News.
His cold, unhygienic feet
reminded him of the shoes
he could no longer see
buried ‘neath
piles of misshapen intentions
and a dead cat
staining scattered old calendars
all crossed off with
“How did I get here?”

I'm 53
until the umpire yells
PLAY BALL

I'm 53
until the new kid steps in
and tries to relieve me
from moving the piano

I'm 53
until 10 p.m.
when I look online to see
my kids have a party going on

I'm 53
until I'm at the stop light
next to a guy
with a bigger muffler
and crooked cocky hat

I'm 53
until the boys call
in need of a drummer

I'm 53
until someone mentions
ROAD TRIP

I'm 53
until the young guns
want to wrestle for
bragging rights

I'm 53
until they start a story with
"Remember the time..."

I'm 53
until the Red Hot Chili Peppers
walk onstage

I'm 53
until the college girls walk by
in their summer wear
my stomach
drawing into my chest
and my stroll revives swag
as the cute one turns to say
"Good morning, Sir.
Can I get that door for you?

I am 53.

In every scene

The music, whether real or imagined
Sustains our fears and joys
Suspending the resolution in the final act
The baton held high over the finale'
For the happiest ending ever.

Brightly robed seniors scatter
Freshly earned smiles in bunches
For the procession of post-matriculation
Crowned by grandious pomp
With too much circumstance.

The audience stands and applauds.
The curtain is drawn...
Wet-cheeked fans linger in the after-doubt
As parents try to decide what's for dinner
For the rest of their lives.

Returning to their dressing rooms,
The oily-faced stars of 13 seasons
****** backpacks from bedroom floors
While leaving ***** socks and intentions
Believing they will come home again -

But they never really do.

"Bye! I love you!"
Her perfect hair waves goodbye.
A tail of chiffon disappears
Into the halo of brilliant sunlight
Framing her departure.

Shuffling to the window
A voice whispers
"They are gone so fast."
Not the babies.
The years.

Leaves on the maple
Bow their heads in stillness
Wind closes his mouth in respect.
A moment of silence
For the absence of youth.

From the foring branch
The sparrow's eyes reflect my soul
Knowing there is no song for
Such a time as this.
Grieve, sparrow, grieve.

This seizing world surrenders
Reflecting on the change.
Our neighborhood street
Forbids its traffic.
The postcard goes quiet....

      ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A chattering skateboard
Awakens the air
With a mother's touch
Urging the breeze to rise again.
Blow, Wind, blow.

I don't know everything
                                                       unless you ask my wife
                                                       and my daughter
                                         then they will tell you
                                                             ­                  I think I do.

                                  But I never made such a claim.

            Like today,
                               a poem stumbled onto me
                               and dropped a
                                                             "zeitgeist"
                                                    i­nto my finite word bag.

                   Can't say as if
                                            I ever met the man
                               but I discovered him
                                                             ­ and his ancestry
                                                  via
  ­                               the world wide interweb.

           There I found
                                        the zeitgeist of my being
                                                           ­              is both learning
and learn-ed.

                                   Learning
                                                  becaus­e I just did.

Learn-ed
               because I'm pretty good
                                             at Words With Friends.

                                     If all things were equal
                                                          a­nd every soul existed in
              a seven tile universe
                                                 I would be somebody!

                                                      ­Yet
                                              among poets
                        I am plain
                                           with no visceral reactions
                        because that's eight letters.

     However, of this one thing I am sure,
                                     if you trip
                                     and drop a basket
                                     full of blocks
                                     which fall to the letters
                                                    U
          ­                           E
                                                             R
                                           S
                                                       O
                                               I
                                    S
                         ­                            I will turn it into
                                                            ­                   a SERIOUS poem
                                                   (worth 59 points TW and the bingo).

wrapped in the cocoon
of my surname
he ripped at
the silk string walls of liberation
since before he knew
he was a butterfly

working against the confines
rejecting barriers
silently in the dark
he persists fervently
as the wind is unaware

and the world

casual lepidopterists
taking for granted
his dangling from
a rough branch
in the family tree

this larvae
is not unlike other larvae
except for the heart
hanging
exposed in the air
in life
in earnest
in waiting
in not waiting

I wanted him to be
a worm longer than
I would dare admit
because he needed me
still slow and common
but less than I needed the security
of restriction and
my definitions

he pushed
as God intended
pressing beauty out of struggle
flying
against the turbulence of my fear
flying
with the inspiration
that I told him he could do anything
hoping he wouldn't be
quite so eager to do it

but, god, it is glorious
rising above the world
neon hues announcing promotion
on regally scalloped wings -
a banner in the sky
for the coming of age

I dreamt of heights
in secret thoughts
occasionally rebuilding
invisible wrappings around his soul
longing that he would eclipse
my reach

but in the reaching
he would always touch his wing
to mine
just to remind me
that he is never gone forever
but just to color the world
better than it could have been
without him

Strike me with your love.
                                 Destroy my desire to


run.

Page 8? One word?
F. Scott Fitzgerald puts fruit in his lyrics.
I could never stop at one.
I bit into "soppiness" and
it squirted in a way
to make a fatted grape jealous.
I peeled the skin of "Swinburnian"
and it juiced the air
with an argument between God and hell.
I plucked The Tree
in This Side of Paradise and pulled down
a "Celtic" apple shared by a mother
a Bishop and a Monsignor.
"Thirsty" spoke
but did not leave us hungry.
And his basket was so sweet
that Carmen Miranda could
wear his words.

I came to Barnes Noble
to feel like a writer,
believing that my proximity to books
would anoint me
kinda in the way
hugging a good-smelling friend
makes you a part of them
if only for a while.
I'll take that...
smelling like a great wordsmith
If just for the time
I rub against them.

                                 So I sit in the museum of
                                 colorful covers
                                 and barcodes
                                 channeling Billy Collins
                                 or Susan Wheeler
                                 (maybe Dr. Suess)
                                 glowing with empowerment,
                                 while my ostentatious
                                 and somewhat snooty tablet
                                 stands arrogantly atop
                                 this cafe table
                                 in parallel unity
                                 with the Caramel Macchiato,
                                 because poets know
                                 Starbucks is Popeye's spinach
                                 for authors.

                                                                                   Then clumsy fingers
                                                                                   pound out
                                                                                   keyboard percussion
                                                                                   swelling into
                                                                                   a privilege of honor
                                                                                   that God would
                                                                                   love us enough
                                                                                   to give us words,

                                                                                   and people,

                                                                                   who will sustain us
                                                                                   in their admiration,
                                                                                   right or wrong.
Where the meager difference between
walking among giants or peasants
will only be known
after we are long gone.
                                              We write
                                                     not so that we are known
                                                            in this moment,
                                                                   but that we will be
                                                                          criticized by the future.

I pray I am hated more than you all
a thousand years from now.

You chase me with a word
like a bratty brother
chases a little sister
with a cricket
holding the legs of intimidation
near my ear
taunting
as you have done
many times before -
sometimes with a cricket of inferiority
or a cricket of slavery
but always a cricket of judgement.
You portend to have the power
to put it on me
until the tear in my eye
becomes enough....  

My teeth gnash
wrapping around the finger that dangled
the last cricket of taunting,     
a pest of manipulation,
held with your insect-filled arrogance    
and I chew defiantly
masticating your ability
to ever chase me again.
Choose it now
swallow or spit
it's irrelevant -
your threats are dead.

Everyone is on the wrong side of history

                                  eventually....

     You and all your voices

                                                            are no different.

                 Consensus is no more truth than

                  a glut of elephants constitutes

                            a good circus.

If I must, I will be

                      Elijah

                                   regardless what a hundred screaming

                                   culture-turners have to say.

Does the robin have a Monday
Where he can’t get out of bed?
Does he wake with one eye open,
Feathers tussled on his head?
Does he curse the tardy sunrise
As his wings begin to squirm?
Do you think he really gives a crap
If he gets the early worm?
Do you think his wife starts chirping
‘Bout the raven guy next door?
Do you think he’s tired of hearing
How she wished that he’d do more?
Do you think he longs for younger days
When life was much less stressed?
Don’t you think he’d give a million grubs
To stay sleeping in his nest?