I was known for an
operatic clear of throat;
a Flemish tenor.

I always give that
fickle ***** Life one more chance,
for I love her so.

Deep within
the source of
the last dry
agonizing tear
I knew beyond
all protests
to the contrary
that you would
tire of me
long before
I tired
of
you.

My eyes aching with
dryness; crawling soul seeks an
oasis of tears.

I watch, bemused and slightly envious
at the conflagrations and confrontations
of fiery talents one third my age.
The heat, even electronically once removed
is still enough to make me break a sweat
as I strategically place another log
on my banked fire, lean back, and smile.

I live now in a small garage
at times still half again too big.
It's not your style, a bit unkempt;
perhaps a bit too much like me.

Clean dishes jumbled by the sink,
not neatly stacked and filed away.
The desk astrewn with books and bills;
clothes all ****-heaped by the bed.

Makes sense, for I'm the one who left
to you the well-maintained facade
of stockade fence and painted trim
which most would call a happy home.

I left you ten thousand things,
careful not to take too much; but
find myself amazed by all
that moved in which I did not pack.

The touch of legs upon my lap
I found while sitting on the couch.
Your smile was wrapped in Sunday's Times
and wedged in with the bowls and cups.

Your hair blows up against my arm
as I drive with the window down,
and hear you sound asleep beside
me as the droning motor runs.

When our paths crossed tonight, we spoke
a moment, went our separate ways.
Walking past the shut-down shops,
I thought of how we fell apart

and everything that came with me
that I took pains not to include
and smiled to myself, wondering
what I had left for you to find.

Every artist wants
to be admired, adored; so
few of us worthy.

Cannonball!!!*
Diving from the tattered rope
into the writer's pool,
drenching any nearby poets
with a tsunami of images.
Remembering the sheer joy
of finding such a swimming hole,
and grabbing the chance
again and again
to drop fearlessly
into soul's center.
Today,
a toe tests gingerly
familiar water,
as hands open
the poet's chest
with cold-blooded intent
and wrap themselves
gently about
a muse's heart
and
begin...
to squeeze...
to pulse...
in time...

Spirit, please, in time.

as time tumbles by
eroding its rocky bed
of eternity
in the shallows
we create
pools of stillness
capturing handfuls
to refresh us

on cold January mornings
the pools ice-olate
into frozen moments
we sculpt into memories
until the reality
of springtime
puddles them
drip by drop
back into the current

Most of my tries to
be funny end up being
self-defecating.

i dream of you most perfect girl
intelligent and patient eyes
with legs caressable as clay
world-weary and naive in turns
sharp of tongue yet never lies
nor turns a starving heart away

most perfect girl in dreams you'd be
so strong and joyful to submit
your nature suits duality
enjoys your wicked, smiles your wit

one whose soul outshines the sun
and darker than obsidian
i pray to be when i am done
one most unworthy perfect man

Old man, patient, steady,
one foot
               then the next.
What the caustic teens call
the "senility shuffle"
because their
boundless, finite energy
cannot conceive
that the gentle grip of death
enfolds his heart,
and he is running
as fast as he can,

breathlessly

once around the block.

If I could reach your heaven with my language born in hell;
profound profanity to give to try and touch your soul.
Without intent to damp your light with darkness I know well,
come feel my leaden love that needs your hand to turn to gold.
Your laughter kindles comfort greater than these lines should tell
or I'll slip and whisper three small words too strong for you to hear.
So let your light and love shine in my solitary cell
that I perpetuate to keep from deafening your ears.
The highest virtue I could give from hunger I can't quell
distorts into a vice too base for you to comprehend.
To stave off soul's starvation: crumbs of thought on which I dwell;
the haunting consolation of your voice calling me friend.
Alone - with words alone expressing what I could dispel
if I could reach your heaven with my language born in hell.

I find a heart that sings eternal song,
inspiring dance from sore and stumbling feet:
a beacon which has never steered me wrong.

In days I felt that life strung me along
a greater Spirit surely found it meet
I'd find a heart that sings eternal song.

How fortunate to have a faithful throng
of friends whose voices never lie or cheat;
a beacon which has never steered me wrong.

Music leads and leaves a path so strong
my soul is stirred to marching to its beat.
I find a heart that sings eternal song.

Inspiration strikes me like a gong,
the ringing out which time cannot defeat;
a beacon which has never steered me wrong.

The fresh, green spring of life returns among
your words by turns so rough, so true, so sweet.
I find a heart that sings eternal song;
a beacon which has never steered me wrong.

The question is not when we meet our end,
but how, and how does not mean what you think.
Should it be fought, or welcomed as a friend?
To that I say, live to the very brink
however you have lived to now.  Each one
who walks though shadowed days finds their own pace;
some stride, some cringe, some stumble, others run.
What each can handle is what each will face.
If talking seems to help, then speak.  Or you
might soldier on, clad in your armored will.
No one can tell another what to do,
just what they've done, for better or for ill.
The path, if smooth or bumpy, is your own
and should you choose, you need not walk alone.

fossilized, my brain
bridging eternity itself
searched for two
working     synapses
(if i had another brain cell,
it'd be lonely)
failing that, it had
to find a spark
to jump the gap(no
problem there, son...
just find the third rail
and grab on)

I know what I do not know
when my woman holds me,
tells me she loves me, not
for what I can no longer give,
but for the man I've been and am.
She knows I do not know
how to love the way she can
and does, and still loves me
the only way she knows.
Aware of just how small is
the seed of trust I sow,
she waters, shelters,
coaxes the thin weak sprout
and begs me not to fear her.
She did not take the name
of an aging, broken man,
but holds it as proudly
as she holds my hand
while walking at my side.
I know that I do not know
how she knows what she knows
and still can love as deeply
as only she knows how.

Each day is a gift;
some days send me off in search
of the return desk.

I think that I have never known
A hashtag lovely as a poem.

I love my gun.
I love my gun.
You can drink and chase your women
Till the morning sun,
But Lordy,
how I love my gun.

From the time I get to work
My blood begins to boil,
When I think of gettin' home
To rub her down with oil.
With her **** against my shoulder
Lookin' down her sights,
I could hold her in my arms
And keep her close all night.
Well, my trigger-finger's itchin'
for a little fun...
Lordy how I love my gun.

what does a survivor do
upon the re-entry into life?

My heart beats quiet
tonight, a peaceful moment;
it's stopped stuttering.

I want these words to match your being;
strength for strength, grace for grace
(that you might see my eyes are seeing
more than hands can merely trace).

I want these words to plunge the deepest
pools of reason in your eyes
(the open secret that you keep as
shallow men see summer skies).

I want these words to touch your spirit
(not to capture or to hold,
but share it, cherish and be near it)
as I'd touch your hair of gold.

I want these words to match your being
(honest as your arms' embrace).
My spirit, body, mind agreeing -
beauty in your soul and face.

Walking the tight wire, 
the fine line between what is 
and what never was.

A living poet writes for those not born,
for those who wake, and live as if they're dead
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.

A pat of praise upon a loaf of scorn's
what constitutes a rebel's daily bread.
A living poet writes for those not born.

An elegy to comfort those who mourn,
to weep the sadness they have left unshed
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.

To lovers, unrequited and forlorn
whose stillborn passion never left their heads,
a living poet writes for those not born.

A few rare people, worldly, wise and shorn
of most pretense, will grasp what's being said
and those, who resurrect themselves each morn,

will reach for pen and paper, and adorn
us all with sacred words, keep spirit fed.
A living poet writes for those not born
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.

He was a simple man of simple words,
or high-school girl with broken heart who thought
they had a message, or a call, or not.
Arriving with a sense of the absurd,
a bittersweet purview on life and love,
together with a gift for nuanced phrase,
appreciating how the language plays
upon the mind and tongue, they rise above
the well-worn similes, the tired cliches
for days, perhaps for weeks.  Then comes the time
when human ugliness shows up to flay
the budding poet.  The evidence of crimes
committed: smoky circles, nameless gray
reminders of whose gifts they took away.

I can't see myself as a whole without going just a trifle mad.

A candle burns for all of you today;
marshalls its unflinching flame, braces
for the quick sharp blast of sudden breath
as the dark inhales a strand of smoke.

I know the darkness but I am no prince,
just another faceless futile serf
scratching out a meager sustenance
from the barren, stony soil of conscience.

The field lay fallow far too long a time
and weedy evil sprouted, flourished, nourished
by the rocks which trip me, send me sprawling
on the ground where you once grew as flowers,

wild with color, scent - a spot of peace
planted with no purpose but to please.
Each of you would bloom in your own time,
bringing me to roll and thrash on you;

trampling blossoms, stomping on your stems
and walking off elated by perfume,
unthinking of the crushed and damaged leaves
and unconcerned to cultivate your growth.

An undeserved damnation of indifference
damped your fragrance, dried your colors bright
and left your stalks to rustle in the wind
which whistles, cold and steady through my life.

Day by day I **** and dig up stones,
sow my seeds, pray for grace and rain
and light a candle every Sunday morn
with cursed darkness weighting every stride.

An online poet
rails about encroachment of
social media.

Cancer no more a
battle than life; work, eat, sleep,
wake.  Another day.

I tried to write a villanelle
The words come easier
when they're pretty,
form and meter
can be salves.
There is no relief
when writing
of family,
the three-sided dagger
leaves a wound
that must be packed
and never closes.

I tried to write a villanelle,
to package the truth
with enough honey
to make the bitter-roots
palatable;
it wouldn't go down easy,
wouldn't come out either.

This poem a finger
on the back
of my throat
to purge
to flush
to rinse my mouth
from the acid
regurgitated

walk over jagged
unrocks of sidewalk
sinewed hand of
shattered being
in suited business
grasping 
gaspingly
at precipice of curb
desperate
for purchase
leverage back
into living
slithering slowly
d o 
      w
          n
into survival
noone sees
the agony
crawling upright
on both
patent leather
feet

My problems reduced
to lengthened days, shortened breath,
what to feed grandkids.

The soil supporting growth
has long since been rinsed
down a muddy arroyo
to some alluvial plain,
someone else's loam,
ripe for seeding.
Roots were exposed,
gnarled fingers aching
for firm grasp,
finding air
and just enough wishes
to remain suspended
in place but not in time.
A place to stand under,
and understand
the stand of trees
nourished now only
by memories
of warmth and moisture,
the gentle showers
of tears and praise,
the embraces
of worms and earth.

a tendril of tenderness
creeps up the fortress wall
undoing slowly years
crevasse by crevasse
rooted between rocks
lifting hungry leaves
toward a fecund feeding sun
strength in patience
striking no heavy blows
crumbling barriers
with subversive
embracing
love

I will grasp the will to write,
To search my finite vision's span
And find some words for our delight.

Using energy to fight
My body's battles, when I can
I will grasp the will to write.

Shining darkness into light,
Spirit raises up a man
To find some words for our delight.

Simple structure's levered might
Rebuilds a level place to stand.
I will grasp the will to write.

Poems don't bring all things aright,
Just perspective and a plan
To find some words for our delight.

My search for beauty, glowing bright
Will not be taken from these hands.
I will grasp the will to write
And find some words for our delight.

The mind will deceive.
It will read the exub-
erant writings of youth
as if still steeped neck-deep
in the turmoil of lust,
while the still-breathing dust
of its mortal remains
casts its gaze through the tears

from the distance of years

to be the first person,
singular
to write of
one's experience,
the essence of
life's own blood,
the pulse of people
coursing through
the constricted byways
of coronary cities,
the exclusive cancer
of cliques
voracious, feeding
on those around them,
to observe
humanity
with a certifiable,
clinical detachment
without use
of the interminable,
insufferable
first person
singular.

In bed unspringing
hot syncopated rhythms;
now you're wailin', man!

Your sigh roars in my ear as your shudder under my hands rocks my core.

when a young Ghost
is more substantial
than an old man,
the living must accede
to the un-dead child

it's been said
that testosterone
is the driving force
behind male creativity

so as one is less able
to get a bone
one is less able
to write a poem?

Independence Day -
Americans unaware
of what they're given.

A special day; have
a drink on me, if you can.
I've had enough, thanks.

Your poems leave
a trace of a breath
stirring hairs
on the back of my neck,
a shifting of weight,
quiet, implacable
creak of springs,
footsteps,

a pause

footsteps
a door closing.

Two blocks down the street,
just around the corner from joy,
someone put in a new sidewalk.
At one corner, a heart, an arrow,
two sets of initials, bound
in concrete and eternal hope.

I walk by, and feel the arrow shift,
your initials etched deep into my heart.
I'm pouring a thick layer of time over them,
waiting in stone-stoic patience
for the cure of these wet words
into just another piece of work.

To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet

Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.

She plays her games
on her tablet
in the living room
with the TV on
for noise;
he sits quiet
tapping at his keyboard
in the spare room.
She's put a load
of laundry
in the dryer;
he has pizza dough
rising in the oven.
Warm uncharged atmosphere
of peace aerates
the real estate in between.
Its fertile soil
allows the grandchildren
to set roots
undisturbed
by domestic drama
and tween-age traumas.