Someday when I'm aged
And my eyes are less bright,
My ears will hear
Only the voices of my past;
Memory will be
A series of doors opening
And closing
Randomly.

And I will seek out a guide,
The one who traveled with me
The longest,
My truest friend,
The one who,
Even when I was lost,
Was lost with me.

I know that one
Will be you;
Able to trace the map
Of our journey,
The all-important North
On the compass of my life.
When everyone is a stranger,
You will be
All that I remember.

My wife
Is a practical gift-giver;
Utility equals sentiment
Around the Christmas tree.

We have seen
"Fun" become
"Useful"
Over the years,
No less heartfelt,
Just longer lasting.

"You have so many colors"
She adds,
Extolling my flannel-bound
Manliness,
"This will match your beard,"
I hear as I see the package open
From Christmas tree green paper
To gray cloth.

Wistfulness replaces
Mounds of paper,
Toys have become
Socks and
Kitchen gadgets.
Time is the currency
Of love.

For Anne

We sit at the round table,
Locked in something
Less than mortal combat.

Cards, dice, pieces,
Not always my favorite
Pastime,
"A friendly game"
Not quite enough
To tease my
Mr. Hyde
From his slumber.

The stakes are low,
Bragging rights and
Family sarcasm.
You love the game
Yet feign to hate
The bite of loss.

We long for time,
Time with our children,
Our friends,
Time to hear laughter
And to sharpen our
Wooden swords
Against loneliness.

For R. W.

Winter has come;
Snow has fallen
Making the downhill
Treacherous

We drink coffee
And smile,
Remembering warmer days
Past
That gave life purpose
And Meaning,
Hope and grace
That visited
And taught us
To give in kind.

The melancholy
Of this shortest day
Moves across your face,
Starting with the
Pale blue
Of your once-summer
Eyes.

You stare ahead,
Through me,
Into a future
That ends here
But proceeds there,
A Kingdom
Where you are a knight
Of hope and grace
And where winter
Never comes.

I endure
the hot days of summer
Just to keep the thought
of those island winter breezes
Blowing in on us
Alive in my heart.

To sit on a sand-littered porch,
To lie on a hammock
with my books
pen and ink
Swept back and forth
by ocean breeze
And your voice
Singing Hymns
At our slightly
Out of tune
Piano.

The small, ragged man
Stood alone
Astride the shoulder
Of the onramp.
His bag of possessions seemed
Small and battered;
He looked into each passing car
With hopeless eyes,
Knowing that each driver
Has had any kindness to strangers
Trained out of them.
His sign read "travelling. Hungry. Homeless."
I wonder what signs he saw,
Hung around our necks or
Sticking to the side of the cars
He didn't have.
"too tired to help. In a hurry. You scare me-leave me alone."

Endowed with amazing powers
to understand the fate
of the average man--counting the hours
between too early and too late,
hoping to see the median
touch the mean.


Keeping expectations just so,
Not very high, not very low
so that everyone can be
a success,
with a middling of effort and
a shade of finesse
we can all wear the cape.


Bouncing from grade to grade
in exact planned order,
mostly white, though looking
South to the border
not for long, we raise
our 1.8 children and live
our 72.6 years (unless you graze
the upper end, you lucky dears)
and hope for just enough trouble
that life might bubble a bit,
but not boil.


We dream ourselves miraculous,
spectacular, well-read,
looking to marry better than
well, sometimes getting lucky,
Captains Whitebread, we all sail from
moderation to moderation
hoping to see better than average
without really trying
especially hard.


We move from Monday to Sunday,
some rising, some settling
to the comfortable middle,
fighting against
the attractive extremes
that spell our doom,
knowing that a little more,
a little less, is the key
to our success,
our mean,
our bliss.