A man wants to make his mark on the world
to leave something of himself that will endure.
It is the human thing to do.

For some it is children
for some a book
a dare-devil act
or other feat
that will interrupt the routines
of a father, mother, farmer, pipefitter, or pastor
make them pause and notice
for a moment
or even learn a thing or two.

But I wonder if these small interruptions
in the lives of other mortals
are worth
the sweat, angst, hours, gut wrenching
and immense energy of a life.

The sage’s magenta petals fall in the heat of the afternoon
and no man, woman or child notices
but bees lit there and ****** a little life
from the blossoms’ hearts.

Maybe I should be content to bloom
for a few days in summer
then fall away
to the earth
the love
from whence I came.

This is not just an ordinary day
like yesterday or the day before
this day I’ll open a door
to a garden alive in dark clay
hummingbirds searching for paradise
in a heat wave scorching and dry
honeybees saying goodbye
mothers in a war made of sacrifice

No ordinary day this one
I’ll find a way out of sadness
through an hour of madness
out of moments undone
taking thirty minutes for my lover
where we touch our toes
take a risk to expose
mistakes we were loathe to uncover.

We will create this present day
halfway out of old into something new and bold.

It’s just too late
foes on the verge of a trounce
fate is surely defeat.
Is there one more ounce
of hope, of effort
one more cup of fire in the whole
to eek out a victory?

It’s too late
to turn back now
you’re too far gone
your past hangs on your ankles
like rusty chains
the ruts in your road too deep
to swerve
to curve
off and out onto smooth.

Besides, you’re too old,
too set in your ways
to change now.
It’s too late baby
It’s too late.
When you were two
it happened to you
the stage was set
too bad my boy.

But I take a deep breath
look up
smile at my supposed fate
determined…
now is my moment
to step into brilliance.

Alb blowing casually dancing
enveloping feet glad he ignited
joyous kind loving musical noise
overthrowing Puritanical quagmires
ravaging searchers trying undertaking
valuable xercises yielding zeal.

White Opulence

Days in the desolate plains
of my steady gray moods
have sprawled and engulfed
what I once called
and now barely remember
exuberance.

But walking along suburban alleys
I glance to my left and there it is –
amid brownish green leaves
shimmering with the clouded sun
are muscular white flourishes
which ****** me
back to my Louisiana childhood
and a neighborhood paradise
of blooming trees.

I walk over, bend down,
inhale and feel a near drug-induced high
by the alluring, inviting, tempting
fragrance of a magnolia blossom.

My father said,
My dear son I love you very much.

I wept,
surprised by his affection
in the midst of my daily afflictions.
This outpouring
overflowed into my heart
and spilled out with tears.

I need to plug into your symphony
listen for the strains of your heart
pull myself apart from my tense doing
slow down, dive deeper, below the surface,
then ride the ripples to the distant shore
of your gentle, loving soul.

I fall into your grace, head first
my head the ship of my flaws
should be first to dive into your depths.
My thoughts I throw to you
my feelings I immerse in the peace
of your dark mystery.

May your beauty tip the scales
between action and trust,
between what I must do
and the great bolt of energy
I must receive from your cosmic love
to do it.

I know I must do my part in this great partnership
but I am smart enough to get
that my victory
hinges on your radiant compassion.

I sink into this sweet moment
not of lightning and hail
but soft unveiled convection warmth
of the south
in early afternoon
of winter.
I find my center
here in time
more precious than rubies or sparkling of diamonds
what a crime
presumption
I will persist
in it
this gift
this present
time.

I am holey,
not holy.
At best an imperfect vessel
bearing light and darkness
sometimes winning
but real good at sinning.

I wonder whether
the best I can do
is hope for a rendezvous
to touch and suffer together
in a place we linger where
we breathe common air
fresh and vital and bracing.
Maybe I’ll always be racing
from the desert
into your arms
to exchange our passion
to abide,
me all holey
and you a mountain stream
flowing with melted snow,
me trying to capture
some of that clear water
that will leak slow
back into the flow.
But there we will be
us in good and bad weather
but in love and together.

The slugger swept the bases
his swift run for home past third  
blew away the dusty traces
his teammates had stirred.

She precisely whisked flour
with oil, eggs, and spice
but played til such a late hour
she had to mix it twice.

The coach signaled a sacrifice fly
but he wanted to slam it
not a martyr kind of guy
so he hit a homer ******!

You might want to make dough
but you’d have to prove the matter
to get your fund and asset to grow
don’t forget you’re mixing a human batter.

My heart keeps floating east
to the place of my birth
along the brown rushing waters
of the awesome Mississippi
the vast Atchafalaya basin
where the boys  
of fishermen and hunters
become men.
Oaks drip with moss
cypress trees grow out of swamps
and exude a mystic charm
that pierces your mood
and captures your fancy.
La Nouvelle-Orleans
born in centuries past
gateway to a new life
for my forefathers
who crossed oceans from France
made families for the generations
and planted their culture
amidst the rich foliage
and damp environs
of this magnificent mysterious place.
Yes, I yearn to cross the Sabine
make my way to Breaux Bridge
and other Evangeline towns
eat crawfish etoufee
by the Bayou Teche
speak my Texanized accent
to my Cajun cousins
who tell their stories
with a hint of French
and laugh in a universal language.
Soon I hope to make the trek
to quinch the yearning of my heart
hug my cousins
breathe the poem of my life
and the moist fragrant Louisiana air.

Her mind seemed red as an apple
she looked at me squint-eyed
as if I were a dark ugly shade of blue
when I spoke ideas
on the other side of her veil.
I could tell the veil had divided us,
me now a continent away.
Later a sadness washed over me
thinking of her departure.

Then I thought of her kind heart.

Both of our hearts pump life
into the most distant cells,
to our ***** toes and grimy fingers
fingers we must poke into stink and rot
poked with love
beyond our comforts.

So next time we meet
I will remember her heart.

I am present when the field beyond the windows
is still shrouded in darkness
my dream awakened me early in fear and panic
but here with candle flickering in the red glass
this tranquil space breathes into me
unties the tension.

A soft reverie has me back at the lake
casting my line out just as the sky whispers
hello to the guy full of hope for that first tug.
That rocky peninsula becomes a sacred space
as first light awakens the birds
and the air is full of mystery.

The first soft gray light of day
creeps in from the east
not even a glow
just barely enough
to see the clouds stretching over me
but I know a love
that is the dawn in my darkness.

Yesterday on an otherwise blue-sky day
a massive bank of cumulus clouds
spanned the southern horizon
great puffs of cotton piling up, surging, rising higher and higher
their moist life irrepressibly breeding before us
they were the most beautiful thing I saw that day
except the brown eyes of my lover
who gently held my right hand
on our trek into the country.

When someone fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders
any hold on me
the blessed result is a kind of peace -

maybe a pause before I approach the cliff
but in that small moment a glimmer of grace
enough to save me

a space to crawl a few layers deeper
to find what lies beneath,
a slender root, a fertile bit of soil

a mystery on the desert plain
that nurtures a tender shoot
to take me into a hazy future

Freedom to die
to the hell within me
to the surface me
that pretends control
to the hidden pain that gobbles my light

These little deaths free me
to embrace the little boy within
the creative self
the beautiful alive soul
the pure core
that sustains us all.  

When Some One, anyone, fears not my freedom
opens their grip and surrenders…

Oh how sweet it is to be in your presence
to have our minds intertwined
if only for a few minutes.

This love making refreshes my spirit,
lifts me from the windup mechanics
of my daily waking up moments.

Watching the smoke from the candle’s end
rising, twirling, twisting
in the final gray waltz of its life
was a moment of joy.

I was grateful for its small life,  
for its beautiful final breath
an artist’s farewell leaving
of its finite tapered brilliance
that leaned my soul
to the pulsing sojourn of the universe.

Oh what a journey it took with me
as I reached into the animated depths
of my self
for the short pausing pilgrimage
of this composing.

I thought religion was it.
A gnarly piece of wood
always trying to fit,
I ran and ran as far as I could
took the road east then west
to find the one that was best
jumped in with both feet
since daddy always said
do what you do
work and sweat til complete.
My problem was I couldn’t stick
to this branch
whittle til nice and slick
that other branch looked too good
so I took it -
my piece of wood!
But it wasn’t
so I quit
to search again.
I had to seek
and find something new
risky steeper deeper
and true.

I just had a moment
when I felt the great beyond
thanking me.
What a joy!

Don’t wait
til it’s too late
take time to love now
don’t put it off til somehow
or sometime I will find the time
to spend a moment with you, to speak
to listen with great attention and reflect
on what you say to find your soul and connect
with it if just for a moment a moment of eternity…

The music of the day
plays silently in my psyche
and without realizing it -
on my better days I bring it alive -
a bright piccolo of a smile or kindness.
On my shadow days
it is the bass fiddle in a minor key
begun from depths of pride
played in the lower register,
the bow slowly sliding hubris
across the thick strings.

I have a friend who lives alone
and practices
with daily determination
the ritual of making her bed.
When I visit I make a point of walking to her bedroom
for a viewing of her work of art.

I’ve often thought:
if I practice this practice
it might give me some semblance
of order in a globe wracked with crisis.

But my mussed and unmade bed
is a marque or warning
don’t expect the normal, aligned,
or well-wrapped story
in this house.

If you have something to live for
the transition between this life and the next
(if there is a next)
will be painted in hues of joy.

Why do I trip and fall into shame so easily?
I wonder if there is something in me that says:
“Feel ashamed and you will be better.”
But focusing on my limitations and failures
shouldn’t be such a regular habit.
They say that there’s two kinds of shame:
healthy and toxic.
But both of them feel sucky.
It’s healthy to realize I’m not God
and to accept my limitations
Toxic is staying stuck
in that hopelessly defective thought.
This stuckness has a thick cloud of darkness
surrounding it – gripping me.
I guess what people call faith is knowing
there’s always light outside and inside me
if I but look for it
believe in it.

My mind is plowed with deep furrows
a thousand canals
through which hapless fantasy
rushes with such ease.
But on occasion
when I least expect it
the realms rain upon that soil
sprout seedlings
that glisten and giggle
turn this way and that
wild and tender
and full of life.

Just to be here now
nowhere else but here
is a feat for me
in my erratic mind
but now it’s just you and nobody else
no beauty queen
with voluptuous ******* and sparkling eyes
just you in your magnificence
I melt away my I-ness
and fall into your love alone.

He swooped down landed atop the jutting eave
surveyed our yard for mice and other prey
and I prayed he wouldn’t leave.
He did not fly away
but up to the elm
keenly searching his realm.

His magnificence took my breath
I a privileged audience
no less than watching Macbeth
or listening to Ravel.

His breast a mottled gray and white
vigilant eyes and lethal raptor beak
his wings perfectly formed for agile flight.

I wondered if our species was perfectly made
and if so for what kind of flying:
gliding into an emerald glade
or lying there to get lost in cloudy skies
or like the hawk look and leap and rise?

The fields still shake off winter’s brown
swaths of green sprigs swirling there
draped with clouds hanging down
last night’s storms still fresh in air
hills layered in emerald trees
ah! the appearance of life delights
its pleasance felt in degrees
pealed off in moments slice by slice.

Standing alone you spring to life,
then the warmth explodes you
covering every inch of your arms and bodice
adorned in your full flowering dress.

But as I swiftly breeze by you on my way
and only take a glance
at you among the others of your nature
you blend in your emerald maturity.

It is not until winter
when you reveal yourself,
naked for us to bask
in all the tributaries of your inner world
and I discover your complex truth,
the heart of your loneliness and abandon,
where you have surrendered
your stunning appearance
and reach up and out beyond your earthly roots
for a life beyond seasons.

it is a cold day
the heater soaks the space
but how difficult it is
to feel the warmth without words

I embrace you in all your goodness.
I embrace your spirit, the breath of freshness.
I embrace you the creative force in the universe and in me.
I embrace you in all your humanity that I love,
in my humanity I love.
I am waking up to you in my day dreams
where figments of you
sneak into my psyche.
If I but take a moment to laze, to relax
and give the slightest effort
to place myself in your presence
you creep up into me
and even in a shallow breath you enliven my lungs.
You are here in the slow cool breath of winter,
hardly seen in the young tallow trees
whose hearts are just barely moved
but even in what cannot be called a flutter
they shrug the change of the seasons
as if to say to you:
we are here, ready to be transformed.

Across the alley
in the early light
you catch my eye first
you in the million white flowers
popping out of every branch
surging forth from each small tributary of your body.

You are the irrepressible life
that lay dormant
in your winter of contemplation
waiting there patiently through icy foggy days
earth cloaked in pregnant waiting clouds.

You are the tree of life this morning
beckoning me from my sleepy sluggish body
to join the chorus of your rejoicing
pricking the hidden hallelujah
coursing in the sea of cells
still alive and urging me
to union with you.

And so here I am
eyes wide open in the quiet dawning
of this small moment of eternity
imbibing your white glory
taking a tiny leap
into the cosmos awake in you
in this early day
of spring.

When I spend time with you
the investment pays dividends
deposited in my soul
and like a big bowl of cereal in late morning
satisfies my hunger and thirst.

Your listening, whispers
sparkling eyes
arrest my heart
and take it prisoner.

I am yours.

I can’t find my left glove
we have to go back to Lost Lake
to search.
Glove found on the ground
where they gathered leaves of red and gold
oh-ing and ah-ing
in awe of a bold autumn.

Where are my keys?
Frantically we look
Sis finds them between the seat and console
dropped when buckling my seatbelt.

Where are my new leather gloves
iPhone flashlight out to see in the deepening shadows.
They are on the floor right behind my feet.

We laugh at our aging ineptitude
happy we are together
finding mutual aid and humor
at Lost Lake.

Why do I not take time like now
when my muse has awakened
tingling, pinging, bubbling in my chest
like helium in a translucent balloon
loosed from its mooring
flying in the wind?

Cut your stress and tension in half
do something to get a good laugh
it’s too easy to let duties and tasks
rob us of joy
reach inside and find that little boy
or little girl and let her wiggle
till she erupts with a giggle
leave the adult back home
get out and roam
and roll in the grass
run with abandon
if only in your mind
there’ll be lots of time
to get back to the grind
take off a few hours or a day
and let yourself lurch into play.

Silence silence nothing
at this moment of now
this nothing is not nothing,
but a delicate challenge
to a mind used to saturation in noise
goals busyness
purpose.

What do I fear here in this now
what phantom do I imagine
lurking in the darkness
basking in this brightness?

Rumi urged jumping into the boiling sea of passion
and grief would run from you.
I have been in that sea.
Swimming in those waters
caught up in the currents
keeping my head above water
there was no time for grief.

Now, still, there is passion
but more like a vat of rich soup
about to boil.

The tentacles of loss
reach out to wrap themselves
about my wrists and ankles.
Age, a slow moving barge,
moves up on me
but my arms and legs splash,
and determined,
I inhale a rich tide of inspiration
from courageous friends.
I breathe love
in poems, whispers and music
and battle the sinking.

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

Here in the high weeds of violins and flutes
is where I find you
when I pause
and breathe
and listen.

In the marshes
where plant life
saves coastal cities
we who think we are stuck
with nowhere to go
should take root in these shallow waters
of the great ocean.
It is there where
we live most of our lives after all.

Can I still be astonished
or have I become so inured to the darkness
and fallibility in others
that I expect nothing more?
It does not surprise me if
     the wealthy ignore the poor
     fundamentalists hate nonbelievers
     I eat too much
     men abuse women
     I forget to stroke my wife’s hair
     political fervor stifles compassion
     I reject needed correction.

But I am astonished by
     nurses and doctors who care for people who abuse them
     the tenderness of a mother who loves her malformed baby
     when I’m forgiven by someone I’ve hurt bad
     childbirth
     politicians who compromise for the greater good
     a firefighter who runs into a burning building
     when my apology is gracefully accepted by a victim of my folly.

Astonishment can
     give me hope
     lift me from depression
     bring a smile in the midst of my sadness
     prove my humanity.

It is good to be at peace with myself
even with all the scars and baggage.
Today I know I rest safely in the arms of life
like a baby with its mother
whose love is unconditional.

Whatever others might say
about people like me
I am content to just be,
confident on my path
with my choices and beliefs.
This what it is like to simply
be free.

I am here away in the dark.
Outside the winter trees
sway their million two hundred twenty five
artistic fingers
against the twilight sky
beckoning me to leave these shadows
and just for a moment
feel the black life coursing slowly
through their bodies.

They dance so quietly
no one but I
notices their intricate
artistry waving goodbye
to the daylight where throngs
of my species  made their
tiny marks upon the history
of humankind
in these northern environs
lost in the minutia
of us who scarcely
notice the human tragedy
of a suffering Gaza.

I confess
more and more
I seem to be enjoying less and less.

You are an ocean of love
I float and drift on your surface
but under your sparkling skin
teems an ineffable life
another world mostly unseen,
selfless, unsung, and undeserved.

But here I am not even skin deep.
Am I afraid
of drowning in your depth
of being overwhelmed
in my modest capacities?

Oh my love
even if I see only what you reveal
to the sighted
I saturate myself in your splendid shallows
and await those precious interludes
of your deeper touch.

I followed her into the field across the street,
our parents inside gossiping,
she sat down in the high dry hay
and that was the very first day
of a special innocent discovery
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I can still remember the aroma of that hay.
When I was tramping through a field
thirty years later
I felt strangely excited and alive
I knew not why.
And today I recalled that day
I followed her across the street
to sit in the hay.

At the table next to us a Middle Eastern twenty-something
teaches English to a young Asian woman
so attentive and kind is he.

Closer to the entrance in a small open space
in this tightly appointed place
a young man is doing deep knee bends
arms facing forward
the earnest look on his face almost makes me believe
he cares not about the glances at his gym-making exercise.

At another table three Asian youngsters
sit with smart phones in hand
only occasionally sharing their reactions with each other
so relaxed each being in another world in close proximity.

An older disheveled bearded man
rolling his household-packed luggage behind him
resolutely makes for the counter to place his order
of espresso and scone.

A couple obviously enamored
lean forward
their eyes dancing
a tango in French.

My eavesdropping self
wishes I were a polyglot
to travel internationally right here
in this 24 hour friendly school of culture
nestled on a busy corner
in this city of spectacular beauty.

In these first days of fall
the trees prepare for their journey into winter
summer’s green
yellowing.

Honey bees buzz the sage
enter its majestic green body
through the sweet portal
of its magenta blossoms
for one last deep drink
of nectar.

My winter approaches
may I imitate my brother bees
maximize what sweetness
there is in my small world
and pollenize
where I can.

My erratic heart
won’t allow
a warm, steamy, delicious cup of coffee
nor a refreshing potion of gin
the sensuous dissolving of a bite of cheesecake
in my mouth seems a distant memory
all these minor losses
accrue into a long slow goodbye.