Since my mother died
I have lost both
my clothes
and skin.

Every gust of feeling
blows straight into
my torn paper heart,
makes my bones
rattle.

Friends, your beautiful poems
like huge looming waves
threaten now
to overwhelm,
crush
sink
my tiny boat,
so frail
so fraught
so mortal.

I read
and bail
for all I am worth
beset by the image
of the gypsy moth
airborne
in that last instant
before the fire
consumes it
utterly.

I met June in my December.
Her touch thawed me:
all my flowers bloomed,
birds sang, full-throated,
frozen streams flowed anew,
Bubbling and chuckling.

Into my gated garden
we strolled,
hand in hand
beneath the cherry blossoms,
heads close,
sharing one scented breath.

On the apex
of the arched bridge
over the pond
we kissed, lingering
white blossoms
cascaded on our hair.

Pausing,
we gazed down
at the jeweled carp
gliding beneath the surface,
seeing only one rippled reflection,
not mine.

Whatever this body does,
wherever this mind may roam,
my heart will always sing one song, Lord,
"You alone are my home."

Beloved One, my soul's delight,
my life, my joy, my all,
I'll listen for your silent voice,
and I'll answer to your call.
I'll listen for your silent voice,
and I'll answer to your call.

I make a steady effort
to keep reducing my life.
I've unraveled it's tapestry
into a skein of loose threads.
I'm down to the last one,
it's getting thinner.

I used to have
a wife, a business,
a family, a community,
but that's all gone now:
the marriage was a lie,
the business was killing me,
the community was a cult.

So I cut it all away.
Now all I have left is
a few old friends,
a fistful of poems,
my old guitar,
this big truck I live and work in,
and a couple of kids whom I love.

Not much of a legacy
for a lifetime.
But I take satisfaction in this:
there are no lies in it.

I'm nobody's jailer,
I'm nobody's prisoner.

I make an honest living,
take comfort where I can,
love my kids with all that's in me.

I keep heading down the road,
one step ahead of the reaper.
So far, so good.

Thank you, my friend--
little by little,
waves of time wash the wound:
worn driftwood,
broken shells,
a distant foghorn.  
I follow meandering footprints
disappearing in the sand--  
Suddenly, a glorious sunrise,
bright as her laughter.

Desolation all but slew me.
I feel as insubstantial
as a ghost in the dark
just outside life's window
looking in at the warmth
of a world
that will never again
be mine.  
That you see me
gives me hope--
perhaps I may yet again
know life,
love, even
joy.

Where is Spring?
These barren, bony branches
pluck the sun
from my sky.

I mocked depression--
now
it mocks me:
endless gray skies
pour rain,
rain,
rain.

Go ahead, rain!
Tear the blossoms
from the trees,
bury their color
in the mud,
wash them
away,
away,
away.

I don't care anymore--
My eyes are turning gray.