Cold plasters blast on bare skin, feeling their way along,
Finding the difference in write and wrong and right, can
All lay forth with terrible meaning, across words type on the pages
So well, each checked for spelling each checked for use
Each used in disregard of the meaning, or the thinking, of it all
As it lays there, being so resplendent in its throw and touch.
Feel it words, each one losing shape before the last one, each
one taking the grasp of the situation at hand
Making it all look and smell and be so very wrong.
Sleeves too long, then too short, or paper thin in their
Covering, making the rain of the tile feel wet as down
From a droning pillow, all pasted about that face
And its mouth, and soul.

With pleasure comes the grasp of Time's remarkable hands,
As they surround us with their touch and feeling and warmth,
Grasp us in their skin, wrinkled and old, some broken and tender
To those of us that have a feeling on the inside. They are cold and broken
To the ones whose souls have already served their time, and have died
Alive, to be something no one wants, no one needs, no one will have.

Music. Listening as my feet are on the pavement,
Avoiding small rocks, and cracks in the street
Trying to see past the cars, and the wind, and the
Leaves that line the walk, with music in my ears
Playing the songs, no my songs, one by one, as I walk.

The wind is extra cool, no its cold, across my face, and
This sweatshirt, and sweatpants cut out some of the
Coolness, as they sing in my head, beautiful songs
Some of them classic in tone, others classic for being
The rest in their own flush way, music to walk too today.

Air beats in from the lake, bringing goose-flesh to the neck
While upward steps, both long and challenging, beat down
The legs, and muscles made by this beating have strengthened
And even though no one cares to look, the legs have grown
Strenuous in their tender job of carrying this body along.

But the music, the anthems of song, the generous feelings
The women who take everything from man and make him cry
The bottle, the drive, the choices, all add up, and the singers
Each one driving the sympathies of days past, and of nights spent late
In the way only they can, no it must be could; for they all now are gone.

I would not see it become so sad,
or feel it all run into a mire of rejection,
nor could I admit disappointment,
lost in this feeling of being, around so
many people, and being so completely alone.

It is there
      all those things
           they said would come
                  have entered and found us,
                         hovering here waiting on them,
                                seeing them for the first time, in here
                                      making the rest of it seem so simple, so
                                              mislaid, so finding of the feeling wrong.

Watch out carefully for those you see around you, and keep it there,
to feel as though the ones who look and see are generally not looking
or seeing, but rather, that is their blank look. The ones that seem to
be looking away, keeping down their glances, always tucking
that chin softly down, and looking at the table, they are not the ones
you should be worried about either.

For they are looking their ways from the aspect that no one sees their look,
no one sees them. If you are being careful, watching the people around, looking
at their faces, and eyes, and seeing them be there, together with you.

Then, and only then, will you notice the bearded man; the gray beard
with the gray, half haired head, the balding man, that seems not to pay attention,
who seems to be outside the circle, without looking around himself
caught up in his own distractions, feeling the inside of his mind.

His age spots bring forth knowledge and intellect, that grabs one
and makes them completely whole within, then that is the one,
that is the person, the feeling, the driven one, you must watch out for
because,  before you know it, he'll have you, in his mind.

Sitting in the Irish home of the man
I had traveled about a fourth the world to see,
Eating the dinner that had been prepared, by his Irish wife, at their table.
Eating, just the three of us, together in their Irish home, with the Irish grass
Growing outside. Their Irish son, just home from being abroad for over a year, came in
Said hello, told me welcome in coming, told stories of his time in Africa,
And Australia, telling it in tones a little less loud than normal,
His mother and father
And me, at the table, drinking Irish whisky, and Italian wine.

Tiredness took the son, and left us there alone,
Left me there alone, to listen
As the father spoke, in tones so gentle, and feeling quiet, as he told the stories
Of racing cars, and travels to Africa, and Egypt and Israel, and the boats he took
Across. There was food on them, beautiful produce laid out, fresh fruit, and breads
Salmon, bagels, fresh tea, cakes, and everything good on that buffet.
Till that second day, when the buffet was laid out exactly as the day before, and the
Third, and the fourth, and the boat lay in for supplies somewhere in the Middle East,
He managed a crossing to the shore, off the boat, away from the buffet.

More wine, around the table, his wife glowing and seeming to be more than happy,
My hands feeling like they were laced with lead, the drink finding its way in, and he
Being from Ireland, told the story, how the King of Ireland, way, way back in time
Lived there, on his property, rallied his troops there, and told them all, he was to conquer
Those from the North.  His voice in a mere whisper now, the clock making its rocking
Click, much louder than he spoke, and his Irish blood  through his veins, he told
Of the Kings’ run, through the shallow part of the lake, around the enemy, which
He conquered handily, and kept southern Ireland clear and fresh, and forever separate.
These last words, came in barely a whisper, all of us leaned in, all of us, in Ireland.

Roads seem narrow, but so are the cars,
Sitting on the wrong side, feeling like the whole world is coming toward me
Feeling at a total loss for helping, or seeing,
The best thing is to watch, and look, and see.
The day is crisp and feeling a little green, and different greens show
And over a hundred greens are there, on the side of that hill,
Above the green waters of the lake, each one soft, and bright,
Covered up moments ago by the mornings fog, as the boats
Lay within their moorings, each a white color, with a bit of the green,
And the trees seem delighted as the sun makes its way out,
The water lapping at the shore, kissing it in little motions
Seeing the bottom, with its growth of green,  looking back.

Can you watch, can you see?
Everything you ask for is there,
It is just a little bit of stuff,
Reach out and grab it.
No, there is not anything in your way
Just your own self, and your own pride, busting away
At your resolve, making it all feel like little pieces of nothing
That came together and make something big, bigger than
What you have looked for, but still, just vapors in the sun,
A little bit of gaseous quality to those things that stop
You from finding things, that it would take, to make  you
Happy.
Then again, no, you wouldn't be happy.  You would simply
Have more, and then,
You would be you.  All over.
Again.

I
Cannot
See the number
As it waits for me
To come its merry way
Counting down the footsteps
As it says "come on, come on, and
Find your way down my face to where
You'll find the worst and best of me all in
One" and I hear it say it, but I cannot see it
For no matter what it says I am alone on the point
This pointed arrow, searching for the day time
Searching for the night time and it races
Quickly away, leaving its voice in the
Air, all the while covering it face
Making the feeling bad and
Creating the night again
While trying to find
The number so
When it goes
So must
I.

There was
A man who
Peered through
His glasses
And saw
The
Light
Around him
Grow, and grow
And it all became
Larger, and soon he
Felt his life had gotten
Out of hand and there was
So little he could do and he
Thought, maybe if
I could bring this
Light down then
It might work
Out that I
Could
Bring
Myself
Down
And be
As little
As my foot.

Faith,
Through all,
Means much
More than
Being buried
Alone.

A Poem
Ten words
In length;
How do I
Say…

It
Cannot
Be
By itself,
It must
Be done
Together.

The long branches hang down so softly,
From the great tree that surrounds us,
With many branches, yet unfolding, softly
Like a curtain, in the wind, that never closes
All the way, nor opens to the sides of the stage,
Leaving dark those places that seem rare and alone.
The hidden people look and watch from silent slumber
Their feelings gone and their faces blank,
As they watch the happenings there,
They see the tree as it grows firmly down and strongly upward,
Until the branches rest among the clouds,
And the grass grows deeper and darker
As the clouds fill the sunlit sky;
Making the vision soft and raining
And the branches fall downward, and loop their gazers
And the tree grows and stands tall
As the stage door closes...
The actor walks out of the scene,
The tree stands alone upon the stage
Its roots growing deeply, breaking the boards
It waves a gentle wave
As the wind finds it,
It becomes itself,
Slow.

You can see the sky is soft and blue
And the sun rises slowly, bringing up
The wispiness of clouds, just passing through
You hear a bird singing, its call a gesture
Of food, of shelter, of a limb softer,
A slight wind blows through the trees,
And you know the morning is here, again.
You’ve felt this love, this sterling feeling
This huge and wonderful crush, as day breaks
Your there, and your son makes noises,
And writings, and finds a way to incidentally touch
Your heart, with news; of his son, or his wife, or his day.
Your daughter is there as well, in the morning, awake
Because she wants too, because she does not, and
Her husband is on her mind, and you are, together
On the thoughts of both of them once more.
The morning breaks, beautiful this time, no rain,
No cold, no winds of damage, as you breathe.

You’ve Been Gone
There falls a feeling of being lost,
When one is lost without the pieces
When there are few, no, fewer than few
Who understand, or pretend to understand
Or who can understand, the selfless feelings
That permeates my soul, and my mind, and makes me
Lost; alone, feeling left behind here
In this feeling of those getting larger
And spreading their wings across more deserts
Finding the sun as it calls, the clouds as they swarm
The raw, passionate, beauty of it all
Leaving me to feel and find that which I have felt
Fought for, and so wanted to come true
Wondering the loneliness of it all
Bring me back
Here.

Come and find me, in the morning,
While the gentleness of an angry day,
Hides among the colder inner workings,
And steals the sunshine from the clouds
Up there, before the bird flies,
Before the worm sticks his head up,
And the grass is still wrapped in the night before.
Come and find me, please, oh please,
Lay your head down on my chest,
And play your silly game of tempted fire,
Let me hold you there in my arms,
Put your face so close to mine, each breath
Like the day; could-have-been an also-ran,
And keep your fingers soft, full, grace-like and your hair
Lying all crooked on your head, on your face, curling
Over and lying down against the skin, that touches
Me, and holds me closer still,
While you play your game, and talk your talk,
And the windows open up, and the grass finds its head,
Each posture, each movement, each time
You fill the grace, and feel the feeling straight from me
As you keep your heart, your dangling ready heart,
So closely held.

Hold me still.  Keep me focused.*
Yes Love, Yes.
I can feel it.
Yes Love, yes.  I am here.
Today.  Keep it in.  Hold it.
Yes Love, I know it, I know because you’ve told me.
Keeping the words soft.  Keeping it easy.
Yes Dear, I know the badness is here, yes Love.
Keep me close to her, keep me close.
Yes Love, it is your face, your heart, your hands.
Gritting my teeth, but holding on, hold on.
Yes Love, I see you there, hurting, Love, that physical hurt.
Hanging, hanging, hanging, keeping it here.
Yes Dear, I would make it better if I could.
The feeling a tear, brush aside, feel it going.
Yes Love I will hold you, maybe not, I am right here.
The very skin of my neck hurts, the very hairs hurt.
Yes Dear Sweet Love, I can get you a glass of water, a towel…
My face and neck are red, and hurting, my chest is hurting.
Yes Dear I heard you talking, Yes, Love, it hurts, I know, because you have said.
Nothing in experience, all in survival.
Yes Love, close your eyes, and sleep now Love.
Hanging, tears will not fall here, not now, not for her.
Sleep now Love.

God, who can tell me the difference? as if
I even care about the difference, I know because I feel
The difference, I can feel it, life is so real
Because what difference, does it all matter…?  What? What can
Be the reason for a difference, when there can’t be any difference
In me. It is there, I mean, I can see it, smell it,
The Doctors told me it is there, and now I cannot see the difference
In whether or not, I **** well take it, smoke it, drink it,
Hell at the difference!  I will not be any different except happy, except
Sliding down the path of feeling good, even though for a short time,
Even though for anytime, what difference is there anyway, does it, will it all make?

   (an easy feeling of sliding, so downward, so fast, falls on me, falls
   like the head of a pin, looks up and sees me, as it feels so **** good
   with just a glimpse of lakeshore looking backward, over my shoulder
   as I sit here. no television. the sound blaring. and it is off. and the window
   is down, and I am riding. in the car that is not there. better off.  the distance
   looks crowded, and feels so pretty and nice. and life is mine and there are things
   that make me look. this way.  then that. and make it all blow the dust off
   and leave. me here. crying and feeling your arms. while your gone. and feeling
   her arms wrapped around me, and knowing that she will likely *****.
   and moan and gripe, but who cares because now it is gone,.and an extra two
   on top of two. and that makes four, god it makes four. makes four. makes four…)

     *   Who can tell what sleep I have had, nothing no more than a minutes sleep
         Is why my hair looks the way it does, and make-up is not made up and
         The sleepy feeling grabbed me strong and put these jeans upon my body
         And they are mine, they fit, I swear, and the sweater fits too, it is not his it is mine
         Besides, I feel like hell and death have run together and have clouded me,
        And taken away my judgment, and left me here alone, can you see me?
      I know it, I know it, it makes sense as dogs make sense to lying in the grass
    And birds make sense playing in the limbs, and as I make sense, making sense
   Of the feelings that are lost to me now, and please, please, please, I do not
   Need the sitter, or someone watching me, or watching me die, please
  I just need something, a little thing, a little more, just a little more.

Lost in plain sight,
He felt the weight of the world
Upon his shoulders there,
The weight of untold fate
And of knowing barely enough to survive,
Of making his way so carefully
Of marching slowly in time with the beat,
It was there, but it was gone,
It seemed real, it seemed like vapor,
It was everything he had hoped it would be
But now it was lost, lost in plain sight
To where he could not see.

The castle walls are feeling thick and formidable,
This window seems blank, as night begins to fall,
And the fires of those outside burns in the still darkness,
The moth, flies, flutters by, inside then out,
As it feels a piece of the moment, fading away,
Knowing that in its reclusive movement, it will find its way
Awash, with knowing  much, trying to find its way back,
Outside, to the fresh air, where stagnation hasn't set
Where the feeling is still fresh, where the night moves.

My kids are gone from home and friends
have left as well. It is all
too big. I'm forced
to start in a little patch.
If I had my way...
But each life needs love
it cannot use.
Yes, it is me.
It's the invisible me who won't forget
and who, you hold, without touching.

If I could I would take you
under the limbs of trees
and tell you. I would take
your hands in both of mine,
below the sticks and hills
where moss clings
to the curve of rocks. Part of us
would not fail. As light
moves through the sun through water. Though water
is carefree. Waves crash. From those,
the last drop of misty morning, contains
enough life to populate a world. The world
shivers – listen to it. Your voice
is a stream spilling into the sea, or nighttime
rushing into a black-lit sky. Like coming home alone,
the house is cold. Who is there but someone, you once knew
and were not expecting
but were hoping to see again. And you can have wine
and cake left from the party.
In the most unexpected places,
you wait. Within a few years
we won't remember the pact: to confess
nothing, not to lean
over the edge of formation.

I woke this morning, a little after five;
Thinking and wondering and worrying
And wanting you to be alive
And well, and seeing the new breeze
On the the air, as it brings thoughts
Of forgiveness, and keeping the heart straight,
With feelings that seem old-in-days, and young
In spirit, calm in giving, yet firm in forever.
Your heart is big, my eyes weak with need for sleep,
All the while, wanting so desperately, the best
For you.

The weather seemed better from the day before
While the sun was backed by low clouds,
And the wind was getting a brisk touch,
The cold on the fringe, the snap of a finger,
The feeling could all be turned round,
The snow, piling the roadways
Feeling it not far from here,
With November upon us (November can you believe?)
And Christmas, that 'time of the year'
Each date, each principal, each feeling of time
Passes quick and full and blows by like the breeze
With a smile for the things you can do,
A happy feeling for the things you will do
A snag, but a feeling of 'I tried' with the things you cannot do,
All this, all these, all of it wells inside you and feels
Like the rush of the wind on a blustery day
With a feeling that somewhere, home, you know it's there
One can feel, your words, your skin, your heart
And can feel it with a smile,
Can feel it with a warmth, and a protective arm
Can wrap around you, and in the silence,
You know, it is there.

The lights through the windows
Seems brighter in their way,
In bringing forth the daytime
And feeling it on its way.
A walk through the cemetery
Seems to find its peace, as stone and marble
Form the days own face,
Like marks at the surface, each stone states ahead,
The eastern sun rising, making the day
Turn and find one pausing,
But to keep the tortured soul abreast
Life's dreams stay floating, and we
Rise and make life grand.

Embers burn with red reminders, of heat not yet gone,
With browns and blacks and whites falling from the yellowed mass,
Crooked lines soaring upward, waiting to be broken,
Brought down again in breaking easy falls.
The noise is pretty, a kind of whistle, with cracks and peeling
Sounds, wrapped around the wood, the limbs, the listener
All in one, with the darkness outside growing blacker
And the stillness becoming more and more still,
With eyes locked firmly on the light
Of the simple fire,
Going out.

It is a startling thing
To find the reality in the mood,
To see the nearness in the attitude,
All of this like a dyers pen, writing softly on the soul,
Feeling the damp cloth beneath, feeling the warmth
Of the body,
As it finds itself,
With each stroke, and turn, and guided groove
Of the pen,
Which rests so gently against
The cloth,
Brushing it, touching it, making the feel of it
So soft, so gentle, with a touch of roughness
That makes it real.

The soft touch of morning
Rises to meet the late breaking day
Covered up and clouded, and looking lonely.
Dark birds and their shadows fly low, and South, in a hurry,
Sounds are loud and crack the mornings air, with their breaking,
And ice pops  and water wheezes beneath the shallow pools,
With air moving quietly up and out,
And winters grass riffles, with the cold air moving in and around,
And the seed of this morning, that shall become the plant of the day,
Can see the sun, and feel its' warmth, even in the cold.