Once there was this
woman that I could talk about
writing and
poetry with.
We talked about Emily and Bukowski,
and many others.
We were poets in our own right.
We shared tears and laughter,
like a joint among friends.
Once, we sang our daughter to sleep.
It was beautiful and sublime.
But, the brutal dawn destroyed that
glorious night.

She farted a lot, but I fell
in love with her anyway,
and her son too.
We even cooked together.
It was magnificent,
although she got a little bossy in
the kitchen.
I can still smell the coriander
and garlic and taste the salt on
the back of her neck.

I picked her wildflowers, and
ate well from her garden- all slippery and divine.
She had these pastel soft blue eyes,
like something out of a Degas painting.
She could be as mean as Humpty Dumpty,
all cracked and broken, yoke flowing everywhere.
And I couldn't fix her. And I certainly
couldn't put myself back together again.

And then one autumn, I turned around,
and she was gone. A wall went up.
Occasionally I could see her through the
holes in the bricks. But I knew that
I would never touch her again;
hold her, kiss her.
It made me feel sad and lonely.
But I keep her real close in my heart.
And some days that gets me by.
And other times, it's like she was
never there at all just a tender dream.

I want to escape the memory of her;
overdose on artichokes and avocados,
drowned in a sea of ****** Marys,
or run away to far-off lands,
like Montana or Idaho.
But, I'm afraid I'd still see her there,
in the Snake River or the wide open sky.

Can you measure
the love hidden
in the sacred hallows
of our hearts ?

Did you consider the
strength
it would consume
to take it down
and tear it all apart ?

Was it worth
the time it took
gathering the fruit
from the seeds
of shame
you've planted ?

And the harvest of dust
amidst the chaff
was it all for nothing
that you took
for granted ?

Who can measure the
spirit of love
Or direct the purpose
of its cause ?

Or likewise
cast it to the dogs
like the pearls
before the swine
or so they say it was

Who can counsel
the wisdom
found stamped
on the face of all our hearts ?

Who then can destroy
or resurrect
the images
and all of its parts ?

This too will sink I know
Like the others before
This too will go
Behind shut door.

Once a place of rejoice
Where I poured my heart
Leaving is now the only choice
And make a new start.

My work is my blood of toil
Come at a high cost
Digging deep into the soil
What I grew is all lost.

I leave this holiness with pain
Will miss all you gave
Leaving the circling dots to reign
And send old poems to grave.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

Baseless wilting Lilly
I've left too long in the sun
I will search for your blooms
All summer long

And on peaks of sunny glade
Find many a flowers of color
But leave to lay the blooms
For yet another

Faded sinking, silly
The madness of the world
Can we not find the beauty
In the tragic unsnarled

Baseless wilting Lilly
I have searched all the wrong
I have scoured the hills
And the streams gentle song

It keeps me ever running
But maybe just for one more day
Why hide what you can't deny
And not speak of what is needed to say

Baseless wilting Lilly
I've left too long in the sun
I will search for your blooms
All my life long

I do not seek the darkness,
the low road, the negative
thoughts and deeds, the
follies of my fellow human
beings have no place with me.
What is truth and what is not,
opinionated talking heads
spewing and spreading doom
and gloom like peanut butter
on fresh white bread.
I prefer some strawberry jam
on my PBJs and feel-good
smiles afterwards. Not heart
burn and an upset stomach.

Every morning at the crack of dawn
I roll over twice and slam the alarm
I've heard it said, if you snooze you lose
Well, what else can a poor boy do

Rub tight the sleep from out of my eyes
Then don my socks one at a time
Pull out the luggage from under the bed
Then proceed to pack my emotional bags

How or where could I ever go
Without all this baggage I drag in tow
First one out is self-doubt
Far too many times to count

I timidly place it along the side
Easy Peasy for me when I need to find
Criticism goes in next
I like to share when I'm out of my head

It goes well with all my self-doubt
Save some for me, I could use it right now
I try and bury fear deep, yet still within reach
You never know when you'll be afraid to succeed

I could fill my bag to the hilt with guilt
But I've other issues to sadly pack still
I double stack shame with piles of regret
It's not like they both have never met

I also carry along a ragged backpack
For all the past relationships I've ever had
The reasoning is plain to see
It's like a monkey on my back that keeps clawing at me

With my bags now packed I head for the door
To see if I can collect anything more
Though there's not a lot of room that is left
I can cram tight in my emotional bags

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.