Large and unburdened
these hands show my true weakness--
spread across silken sheets
and the gentle touch will feel
as if desert sands were
wedged between the threading--
those threads do not breath as easy
as these hands of mine do.

They look and feel
as privileged as my ghostly appearance
would lead the World to believe--
even watermelons harden in the sun,
but these hands of mine
are closer to being ballet dancers
except they've never
had to learn to dance.  

They've never had to be successful
and I've been led to believe
failure was optional--
that with each attempt the World
will give me a do-over.  

Sometimes or maybe always
people eventually run out
of opportunity,
and instead they are left
with

...better luck next time.

I try not to worry
her
So much that sometimes
I answer
I’m fine
before
Hello
when she calls
because I know to her
I’m still more bone than
skin
I’m an empty bottle of
pills
One breath away from non
existence
A blood stain she scrubbed
with her tears
I’ve already worried years
off of her life
while trying to end
my own
So when she phones to
to check on me
I’ll always be fine
no matter what is
going on in my life
and sometimes before
Hello

They are the audience,
You are their puppet.

Attached by ropes hanging above where a stage is lit,
Lights bright, shining right at you,

...from the day you were born.

They were all directors,
-all of them? -yes all of them.
How could there be more than one you may ask?

I guess that's the mystery,
Can't seem to please them all,
But this stage showcases all,
the bad, the good, your actions,

Now you tell me,
where you have no place to hide,
How does a puppet escape a stage and auditorium full
of directors,

Why live in misery?

Pull in the sheets,
trim the tiller,
shifting to the other rail,
light airs prevail, the
sails they luff.

Seeking the wind,
Cat's paws to Starboard
Hard-a-lee tacking to Port,
the breeze she comes,
boom shifts, helm heels
over, sails crack and fill.
Reef in the Jib, slack off the main.
She digs in, laying her rail
into the water, riding on the
seas thin knifes edge again,
the keel rises, steadies her passage.
We fly!

Ah, fair winds, sailors delight,
pleasant sailing, safe harbor ahead.
No greater joy than to sail and muck
about in boats on blue water.

Freedom achieved, intensely felt.

You are the viola,
And I am your bow,
You are the mountains,
And I am your snow.
I am the song-sheet,
And you are my tune,
I am the night sky,
And you are my moon.

You are my true love,
The love of my life,
My best friend, my lover,
My soul mate, my wife.

Coming from nowhere
Going the same
The tracks in front
Pointing to
Tracks behind
The wind on the lake
Reminding
That I am still a guest
The snow on the ice
An invitation
Begging acceptance
New Hampshire Winters
Are white
In my memory
And frozen in their
Clarity
Even whiter
Dawns
Out of the stillness
A Moose crashes
Through the snow
Never acknowledging
My presence
His majesty
Confirming everything
That unfound I’ve lost
His spirit cries out
And with quiet respect
I follow him across
The frozen lake
Leaving tracks of memory
One final time
—never to be seen again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)