Collected, raked to piles
Browned leaves, each a memory
Of a summer's sun-drenched day.
Now even most pious prayer
Unable to revive once emerald glory.

Birds that danced and sung among
The shady canopy
Have moved on, and I wonder
If they still remember
These leaves they once claimed.

Or have fresh foliage, warmer days
Resplendent sweet fruits to savor
Washed them clean again  
To bear from here no more mark
Than a season's passing?

Left to rest where it has fallen
The mass will choke the grass beneath.
So, having paused to recall past splendor,
Bent back resumes Autumn's labor  -
Collect and rake to piles.

Lacy steel over black water -
A boy once wondered
If it was a way over
Or a step closer
To soul-lulling sleeping

A launch to lose
Wrenching torments within
A rain-swelled flow of
Dark currents to wash
When other remedies had failed

But warm water laughed
She rushed through open skin
Easing weeping wounds
And, leaving scars for tomorrows,
Returned the repaired to surface

To see the dim haze of street lights
And maybe the moon in fog again,
To fight to find a handhold
Up over the steep bank
Soggy shoes spoke
All the way
Home

I still stand here,
though terrified of falling.
slight breezes amplify,
becoming gusts to the mind;
slight sways to tumults,
upsets threatening demise.
remembering advice
of sage and wise -
never look down
when perched up so high.
pretenders will lie,
saying heart beats speed,
pounding in ear, but fear
homes in there.
it slows, knows
every pulse, a potential push
like butterfly tempest
to certain death
waiting below.
fingers freeze, unable to let go
anything steady
'till eyes fix to blue sky above.
precarious positions
feel a lot like love.

The wolf's gnawing at my liver -
Doesn't hurt yet, really.
Every now and then he pauses
To look at me,
Cool, blue eyes,
We two.
He's hungry;
I'm tired.
Better than eating chocolate
By the fire at night -
Sweetness dulls the teeth,
I'm told,
And warmth only slows us.
Better off cold
Here in snow drifts,
With draughts of vinegar
And brine to keep minds sharp.
Soon, I'll nourish a tree,
Feed its roots.
He'll *** on me.

it's a wonderful day
to run away
watch codes echo
in window glass,
flashes in flecks of sunlight
as clouds and trees pass,
the encrypted secrets
only stars will ever know

dust lies still
at the edge of the road
where once we traced our names,
awaiting wind to blow,
erase us,
cover old shoes
we’d left behind

The flesh may still be fine...
One must just pare bruised
And bad spots away,
As a razor once excised mine.
A blurred mind mused
At the slowness of life
When it oozed,
Crimson's contrast
On pale skin,
Like paint
Escaped my palette,
Or red roses on canvas,
Mute shouts of color
Wasted in slick puddles
On the floor.
Red too soon fades sepia;
Wounds become scars,
Their hardness protects,
Forever reminds.
Though grown timid
Of assaults from steel,
Old psyche still yields
To lancet's probing,
Words released fall,
Now as drops to paper.

This finger still remembers
The path it once traced
Upon that brow
Memories of a face
Long ago stifled,
The dead body
Buried deep
Yet years' muck,
Accumulated debts
And life's debris
Washed away in a dream
I forgot to forget
When morning's light
Seeped through the blind
A mind now haunted by
The lovely ghost
Of the face I see in a photo
The smile, sweet smelling hair, now
As vivid as the day we first
Danced

I have a strange dream
seen in oddest of nights -
the one where I'm bouncing
on an old grist stone
that is spinning awfully fast.
with every push of hands to get free,
gravity pulls me back down
and I'm erasing.
first fingers and toes -
we could live without those -
but then it's elbows and knees

I eventually give up all hope of escape
and actually enjoy the ride for a bit
but opening mouth to say "ahhhh,"
I'm flung loose by centrifugal force,
and in epiphany, realize that
teeth had been griping the axle.
I could have been freed so much sooner
if only I'd let go first.
of course, by then not much was left
a mere twenty five pounds of finely marbled roast,
head still attached, but quite useless

frankincense smoldered in censers
when priests dressed in lacy
white wedding gowns
patted me down with fresh linen and silk.
the head they hacked off and discarded,
the gray not much used
but useless as transplant
and salesman refused it on trade-in.
they anointed dead flesh
in scents of rare oils
and spices imported from India,
solemnly transporting the meat to a pit
built just in front of the altar.

Young boys wearing dresses
took turns at the spit
making mean faces,
but only when no one was looking,
their tobacco juice joining
my fat drips spattered on coals.
finally I was done cooking,
three hours of basting,
and arranged with bruised fruit
on a huge silver platter with handles
that my wife rented just for the occasion.
steam shimmered over din
of all my friends, who were seated,
and family, too, dressed for a luau
in bright floral prints and grass skirts.
After a short blessing, they dug in.

When feeding was done,
dripping chins wiped from curtains
hung loose from the ceiling,
all seated agreed
the meal had been tasty,
though meat a bit gristly and greasy,
especially slices cut close to the edges.
a fat policeman called them to order
and somehow I read from a speech
by chance I had prepared in advance,
like a letter or even a poem,
in which I contritely confessed
I'd always wished to have been more,
but meal finished, and dishes clearing
at least now I'd always be with them.

Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door

through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee  
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea

hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore

was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma

hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition


sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again

then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee

Honeysuckle infused those summer nights
Painfully sweet perfume that dulled thoughts
Like narcotic-fueled fantasies
Replacing will with complaisance
While children plucked the soft posies
Eagerly ******* their sweetness like free candies

All season long tendrils encircled and wound
Around each bush in a push from ground,
Thieves stealing away life-giving sun
Choking old life from the garden
Unnoticed, leaf by leaf perishing, dropping
'Til shrub and tree stood each a lifeless scaffold

ink flows dull, now, on paper,
a tin tongue reciting
marks made leaden, and clouds threaten
to end dappled light here

even air breathed seems heavier,
breezes lost sweet scents
on descent from heaven,
bearing stale traces of  madness

things once destined to dance -
words, fluttering butterfly wings,
bodies of impossible fantasy -
stilled in trite fairy tale trances

awaiting touch some angel's lips,
fragrance wished from heaven sent
to reanimate brittle, nacred hearts,
like magic kisses of a princess.

life has always depended
for its existence on airs unseen;
souls' dance their passionate dreams,
only in waking finding reality ended.

furious cravings found birth
among songs sung by a siren -
I do, still, that distant voice search,
Imagining rare music was mine

In Memory of a Good Man

He walked the path he knew so well
To the garden he kept
Which was were they found him
On cold ground in
Winter.

They thought he likely slipped and fell,
Curled up tightly and slept
Snug in blankets of snow.
Where else to go
To dream

Of rich soil, a man's hands once strong
That could coax new life from
A yard of glass shards, bricks
Growing God's gifts
To share.

Or concrete towers only drawn
Those hands that once built them
Spinning the webs of steel
That made dreams real
Shelter.

Smiling face that may still know me,
We'll just sit together
While I'll hear your stories
In memories -
No words.

Silently gaze and nod slowly,
Stare at one another.
Tired eyes tell where you've been
My dear sweet friend...
In dreams.

warm air crept over ice last night as we slept
arriving to offend morning with doubt
comforting, I think, the frigid sear that reminded once of life

because this restless fog obscures thought
and has made the world smaller, duller
I've begun to wonder, now, where the living hide

there’s a familiar ghost, that man half blind,
wandering creaking boards inside
hoping to find joys in his shoe box of blurred photographs,

researching meaning among reams
of precious handwritten notes and shopping lists,
their chapters stacked in magazine racks and bookshelves

opening the hapless, broken-winged jewelry box
remembered crisply wrapped in ribbons, love and flowered paper once,
to finger its claspless necklaces, orphaned earrings and half smiles


her old clothes are freshly laundered,
the favored sweater with holes, neatly folded
stored in the bottom drawer to savor forever


will we all live, neat, finally quiet
in boxes someday, just like this?
he chose to robe her in that special dress, but kept its matching scarf...



I glimpsed him in her mirror as he paced
and wait for mist to pass

storm clouds frighten the horses
because they're  bigger than houses,
and the wild beasts know
men are only visitors here,
like animals and wild oats
that grow from sand dunes.

even the spit of land rooted in
is temporary,
awaiting the next storm
that blows through -
grains will come loose,
attracted to one another
by weakest of forces;
permanence just an illusion
created by maps that men
pretend to read.

angry water can boil earth
in swirling pools of froth.
men aim to tame them -
the horses and the water -
fenced in by thin pickets
and wishes thinner yet -
the waves never notice;
scared beasts know this,
but men never learn.

It's prime time...
Let us now
Lower heads and bow,
Sing hymns to the responsive
Drive train of the latest model,
Ignore a "fasten seat belt" chime
Get on with real business,
Speeding mountain curves
In seats of Corinthian leather
(Professional driver
On closed course)
Of course the fine print
Didn't make it
To the big picture,
Seven twenty P HD
How repulsive!
To lay wreaths, handmade signs
Bows and teddy bears
In loving memory of the lost
As if it really matters
That a pizza delivery man,
Loving father of two,
His Corolla ripped to tatters,
Sacrificed a life to bring pie
In a half hour or less.

life lost new words
like old eyes bereft of light
and work of thought
comes at painful price
a man's mind dreams old air, faces stars
and remembers real flesh, lips, love;
the lightness of falling leaves

and knows their memories
of a watery day in spring,
when past beauty used red steel
to hide a child shared with rain,
his face unseen, body gray
under waves kept closed to wonder

sky, loose at the fine ends
of dark death’s skin
has seen years, the trees
now sleeping peacefully
relieved of the burden they’d borne
embracing the coursing winter winds
where a son might live as breath-thoughts,
the little cloud of wild hope passing
giving purpose to the heavens

Bill played piano down by the bar,
moldy old show tunes
gray-haired folks listened to,
in youth they'd played over...and over.
He once told me he was terminal,
diagnosed with months left,
and had just one request
of his own to be met
before accepting eternal rest -
peace in the kiss
of a handsome young man
who's powder blue eyes
might make him feel young again.
I thought he would weep,
and heart aching, obliged,
gratified by the smile,
sweet joy it seemed to bring him...
'till Sarah stuffed a dollar
in the tumbler of tips
he kept perched on the edge
of the piano he played -
he'd won their wager
he could get the
straight kid to kiss him.
Sarah cooked in the kitchen
and I always wondered
what sort of mother
named her son -
Sarah Vaughn -
then heard the sparrow sing
on the radio, laughing
because the one I knew
squawked like a crow
and dressed
in wigs and woman's clothes
when work was finally done.
The coincidence seemed
a delicious, karmic prank,
payment for some past-life indiscretion.
Michael studied flamboyance,
raised to high art in sweeps of his hand,
head tossed back, as if to keep pace
with legs was annoyance.
Adolescent innocence ended
when I realized the only other
guy employed there
who was straight like me -
was really a she -
chest wrapped real tight.

I just needed to make a call
Check in with the office
**** pay phones never work
Stealing all my money
On dangerous street corners
Where wary faces
Suspiciously eye me
Before yielding some space
To another intruder

And I have to watch them too
Watch my back
My eyes to the side
That must be why
I didn't notice
Only wondered what made the
Plastic so sticky
Pressed up against my ear
A nosebleed sick smell

Those brown red spatters of
Ketchup a kid squirted
More there and there and
Down on the ground
A congealing pond
More ketchup, I'm standing in it
Then I realize it's not ketchup
And I'm retching like I'll *****
Tell the office I gotta hang up

Tight chest begins refusing
Sin's air it will not breath in
I'm loosing fast
The mask
The street face I put on
Clenched jaw, tight lips
Drowning man claws to surface
For the safety of composure

The faces, they're still watching
They knew what I do now
My grimy hand disgusts me
Like a rotten stinking fish
And I don't want to put it
Back into my pocket
To find that ****** car key
But they own this corner,
I just needed to make a call

I’m lying on a beach, sun-punched subconscious
not too hot as a briny breeze still blows ashore,
but warm and melted onto the ground
like candle wax spilled over

nearby recumbent girls, unmoving as statues,
**** Aphrodites raised of sand and sea foam
splay across loose opened chitons
unfurling scents of oils and lotions,
awaiting their animation from kisses of salt mist
or ocean tide come in too close

they’d vanish by next glance
lost in minutes or hours passed
the impressions they’d left filled with glistening sparkles,
constellations of miniature stars fusing
then extinguishing by pairs to gray flatness

ascendant on gulls' laughter, wind-stretched,
entangled among broken waves
in an endless silk scarf god once made
but left behind in his dream at dawn
when light then carved each grain its shape -
this beach for me to sleep on

The Lawncrest Acres State Hospital for the Incurably Poetic -
I think dear Granddad, the good doctor,
once practiced there as a clinician
(and as patient once, too)
his writing otherwise confined in public eyes
to those horribly dry tomes whose titles began
"On the practice of..."
whereupon he may have gone
on to expound the virtues of religion in psychiatry
as measured in cross sectional study
or harsh parenting as inherent to induction of pathology
But at home he would write
the sweetest poems to us
on birthdays or just because...
he never wrote one for me, oversight I'm sure,
as I roamed the floor
in his house, same as all the others.
So maybe that's why I secretly try
to be a poet like he was.

Sadly, Kiddo, that's what's called life.
There really aren't fresh starts for day-to-day strife
just different street names to remember
(or not, as as the old ones, I find, are usually much better)

Bills, work or chores are always the same
Laundry, dishes, mopping the floors,
the phone, electric or price for gas -
don't care where you live
or that you're dragging your ***

The rent or a mortgage, unpaid, are no different;
tires, brand new or
used from the dump "down'a way,"
all intend to go flat in a week, regardless
(it's in the fine print if you read it ... I did once)

groceries cost more than you'd planned at the start,
but kids will eat food and have those "growth spurts,"
too soon outgrowing
new shoes that you'd bought them
  
When you boil it all down, we must do what is needed -
mostly for them, the brats we are raising;
it's the love of a parent: unbidden, unasked
  
I just close my two eyes before coffee on waking
(or sometimes just the one that sees that I'm walking)
and hope I'll make it to work in the morning

expect to come home in time to cook dinner,
collapse on the couch for a much-needed breather
remembering my bed is a-waayy up the stairs
where, sometimes, I make it before
the snores take me

Repeat.

It's prime time...
Let us now
Lower heads and bow,
Sing hymns to the responsive
Drive train of the latest model,
Ignore a "fasten seat belt" chime
Get on with real business,
Speeding mountain curves
In seats of Corinthian leather
(Professional driver
On closed course)
Of course the fine print
Didn't make it
To the big picture
How repulsive!
To lay wreaths, handmade signs
In loving memory of the lost
As if it really matters
That a pizza delivery man,
Loving father of two,
His Corolla ripped to tatters,
Sacrificed a life to bring pie
In a half hour or less.

Heaven's breath coalesced,
Mist forming ever larger silver
Pearls, learned their dances
From angels, whom they kissed
As they fell,
New gifts blessed
Of earth,
Moisture on mountains
At first.
Drops joined one another,
Rivulets fine as newborn locks
Gracing ancient rocks
Absorbing wisdom,
As they traced their faces,
Becoming a stream
Which grew, finding voices
That could laugh and make songs.
Finally a force,
Bursting forth from heights
Increased, and curious,
Embraced new land, meandered
Spreading compassion
To thirsty soil,
Beasts of burden and human;
Sharing with all souls,
Bearing, then nurturing life.
She formed slow pools
For children to play in,
Made a valley of green.
But all journeys which begin,
Must also find end.
So a stream, once rocking
Her shallow bed
Had aged,
Slow, yet ever deep.
Trees wept over her,
Hoping they might stop flow,
Slow time to stare forever
Into their reflections
In the peaceful surface -
Given only gentle kisses,
And soft goodbyes.
River gliding onward,
Called to new purpose.
Used and tired body
Committed finally to ocean.

I learned the hard way
Hurricane's eye is just a lull
The other half yet to make its day
But having long ignored the call

And there, in place, with no escape
Pulled covers neigh, made peace
With force then scouring the cape
Feeding fears and doubts to its beast

Finally finding sleep, sweet rest
Accepting bed rocking, wind's howls
Awakened when morning's sun rose to bless
That battered, still standing house

Oh what glory brings new days!
White sea from foam still full
Boiling excitement in each new wave!
Folly survived, a new man, more humble

Autumn's hedges weep blood again, the eternal mystery of red leaves confounding reason, protecting and surrounding us either in gentle beauty or concealed sorrows we never knew.  Theories of our own existences are proved certainties only by the imprecision of tears as we've lived.  Rage the year. The dead season, still, nears; we too, should paint it anew in bold color and embrace it without fear.

Shall we through this tall grass run, children
heed the urgency of crickets this early morning,
outrun meandering trodden trails we'd make?

or await to pack our baskets
with late summer peaches picked
after sun shakes dew from waning leaves of her laden tree

life is measured in those quick steps
the insects said,
scattering ashes of the dead never teaches them to fly

much as we might try, but we might yet
they know winter's shadow always too soon arrives,
an uninvited guest in this meadow

Here it rests,
Splayed over lawn
Like a drunk old man
Finally lost legs and fallen.

Held fast through tempests
Long before I was born,
Sworn timeless -
Grandness embracing our sky,

Now crumpled, helpless
Across fence, on grass.
Numberless the seasons birds'
Nests were welcomed -
Summers alive with tapping
As woodpeckers hammered
Their homes in its branches,
Leaving as young were
Done with its shelter.

In Autumn, I once watched
A squirrel scamper a limb,
Disappearing, somehow, within.
Their secret's now obvious
As I can see the trunk was
Eaten hollow and empty.

The poor dumb giant
Spoke only when breezes
Animated leaves in evening,
Never given voice of its own
To decry those insults,
Feeding sweet fruit, instead,
To those creatures that ate
Of the strength held within.

Vibrant green life in spring
Was a veneer too thin,
As in living a lie
Finally admitted in sighs
Of the wind.

Does magic pixie dust spring from Jimi's eyes
as we roll in microdot dreams,
shades lost,
counting blades of grass
as they wave to us
when heaven sighs
watching smart pebbles line
in formation like magic
marching to a psychedelic Sousa band
we can't quite hear
but know must be playing somewhere
'cause they, the pea stones,
keep amazing time -
'till meanness finds us on the ground
afraid the Sun has grown too hot
though we know it would not
play at night.

I started a poem to ease the grief
Of my mother's passing,
But couldn't get it right,
So quit for awhile.
Some things just are.
Pompous words didn't fill
The voids or voice loss.
I flew to, cavalry to rally
The Life in balance,
Grasping at wisps,
Woven hopes of sky
When she knew her purpose
Will of steel, and tired still
Of the battle
And I surrendered.
Don't know if I'll ever forget her smile
From the hospital bed
When last we said
"Good night, sleep tight...
Don't let the bed bugs bite"
Just like when I was a child
Tucked in for the night
And I remember my tears
When I turned out the light,
Said "Goodbye,
Be sweet, Mom."

I AM a monster.
The boy dropped
At my feet
My first thought -
"Could have been me
Who got popped"
I am a monster,
Left him there
At the foot of the stair
Out the side door
To the car before
Cops blocked the drive
I am a monster
Never asked why
Or did he survive
Kept it all in
And smiled at dinner
"More mashed, dear?"
I am the monster
Who lived life in lies
Thinks of his own
Perfect, lovely son
Hides away and cries
It could have been him

I find that chromium-vanadium steel,
while holding glimmer and shine
through much abuse,
is harder to hone
to that razor-like edge
that truly makes chopping a breeze
(watch the fingers, please),
merely mangling fine fruits
and tomatoes, instead.
(just tilt your head, thus)
It's a tool best left
for whacking at meat,
as its heft and its strength
make short work of bone;
more cleaver than scalpel,
if truth will be said.
I've always preferred
the high-carbon alloys,
though now out of fashion
in today's haute cuisine.
While rusting and blackening with age -
not the type you'd put on display -
the blades stay as keen
as the day they were minted,
and wipe down nicely on sleeves.

Spring brought this burst of life
Its colors now unseen at night
Blossoms, now shadows
Play symphonies of fragrance
That recall the morning
Robbing the moment with musing
Of beauty known earlier
When light danced here

The mind, for a moment, lost aim
Fooled by exciting air
To expect a return of day
Safely brought to reality
By an orange glow,
Inhaled curls of dulling smoke
Night has work to do
Still more tomorrow...

When night came to end this day
The heat of noon's sun
Still warmed the stoop,
Squeals of children at play
Silenced before blue glowing tube.
A mind's check list of chores done

Recalled the nagging ones left
While a moth dancing in the light
Cast a shadow on the wall
A display that would cost his life
Still, braved heat with dogged will
'Till overcome, dropped from sight

Burned in another flame
Thoughts of love long away
Days dancing a lone waltz
Man and moth flit the same
Now sit and await the stars
When night comes to end this day

Sweet nothings,
Our pillow talk...
All my names
Poured in
An open ear,
More hot tar
Pounded down
With open fist
For emphasis
Suggesting that a
Pencil may just fit
To keep it there,
Or tickle that part
Of my brain
That keeps me sane.
Today I lost my eyes,
Tonight no hearing -
Always thought it nicest
To die in sleep.

Storms still fly inside,
Dark nights haunt
Alight only in
October's looming moon.
Promises, expectations
Longings -
Long ago
The lies
Became my lives
Made real
By masks worn to hide
The holes left behind
What should have been.
Buoyed in desperate, pathetic
Hopes that some ethereal strand
Still exists to connect
Like timeless stars we see at night
Can forever link
One to a lover
Despite distance.
If you'd just look up,
See what I see, too
We could be one
Again, then.

Ogres once hid behind rocks in the garden
Guarding grass and blossoms
From those who'd defile them.
Evil done from innocent oaks
Wrapped tight in jute ropes,
Those shows for the children
Who stared wild, wide
At white sheets and men dancing
Some curing like hams, hanging from branches.
We thought saints from distance had stopped it -
Carnage in leaves after parades
****** of hate in the streets.
Old stories torched, sealed lips
Evidence lost or forgotten.
Devils unmasked and converted,
Now singing hymns in pews
At white churches on Sunday,
Burning Jesus in secret at night in the forest,
Just trees and stars to bear witness
Their worship of wizards and spiders,
Prancing through ashes like white knights astride
Their grand, imagined white horses.
Saints, grown bored of the chore they started,
Taught men new words to pretend
They'd never offend - at least not in public -
As smoke still corrupts lungs of the children,
Playing old games with new rules they've been given.

autumn had been only imagined
lurking in small cracks between days,
paving heaved from fat roots underneath;
its arrival seemed improbable
in summer's heat

vernal green leaves grew only deeper
in generous sun,
promising some future harvest of fruit
far off distant, but sweet,
certainly, when it would come

cool, now, faded mornings break;
the pursuing season
sheds desires wizened,
of pages yellow-brown and finger-worn,
already memorized
as if being is cast aside in a child’s game
of loves me or loves me not,
youth’s clothing otherwise unneeded

they were, maybe, sins of greed
befallen all new living things
seeking moments owed but soon forgotten;
the scent of pink spring blossoms,
or how the peaches blushed in bunches
before we ate lustily from supple branches

how soon this winter comes
a tree’s hard woody bark will bare to needs,
extend dark arms, spindly, old
to splay against a field of gray
declaring stark existence to a callous sky
that stings with wind and cold

i love stumbling upon advice from wizened sages,
who'd 'semble the tao of writing decent poetry
into a clever, lengthy monologue

read years earlier (just a few), it might save me
a hundred odd embarrassments
that, today, bear my name

like the time my kid balled his fists up
'cause i said so
but got knocked down, again, by the playground bully

not a Quakerly thing to do...
i'm still learning, too
(maybe i didn't teach the right stance?)

or perhaps we learn more by our failures;
my little boy's muscular, a confident wrestler, now...
gets along with everybody - go figure

and he writes pretty good poetry  -
all by himself.

My first lines dropped to draw up buckets
Of the sludge flooded to mind
Thus unfettered, to be normal again,
A sin only temporary.
But as time passes,
Thoughts emptied,
I find the well continues to fill
And the water, still black
Quite complementary

restless, the echoes have flown
beneath a poem's mortal remains;
like desperate ecstasy dancing loose,
their words feast on familiar nightmares

passing tongues painting ecstasy
on the mirrors I fear,
forging storms of **** mermaids and pearls,
or short-haired girls who charged the sky
for a time blossoming orange or lime,
shunning rhymes but still...
sang syllables as heartbeats,
swaying like ripe summer wheat
in time with a young life's breezes

none of which could have been real
a singular eye peering back
from a black and white, whiskey blind
... not mine...
his, the mind of a stranger who stole a name
and tomorrow more the same,
soon forgotten, but by then sober

I fear too much of life
Has been spent living in our
Mismatched silverware drawer.
While knives are always fine,
Never noticing much
What they might cut
Because they haven't sharp eyes;
So accustomed to close quarters,
They just lay there, as
Blind soldiers in wait of orders.
But I'm wary when they
Come out to speak,
Seeking blood, too often it seems.
Nicer when it's just
Butter must be spread
To warm toast instead.
Forks carry their own dangers.
In time, tines disentangled
From secret stainless dustups
That go on in the tray
While attention's drawn away
Can be wielded like daggers,
Impaling olives - or fingers -
That happen to fall in the way.
So painful, though rarely fatal
For those with shots up to date.
It's the others need worrying over;
Sad spoons that never nestle
As they did when they were new.
Uncomfortable now with one another,
Like wishes kissing cold lips,
Smooth hips never swaying to music
As they must have done once before,
Arranged in deranged patterns
In plastic compartments.
I'd rather take them all out,
Line them along the kitchen floor
For lessons in ballet or the samba.
I might learn to dance, again, too.
Sometimes, I wish we could eat with
The still-perfect gold set
We save for those who don't live here;
Drink fine wine every day from those
Dusty gilded glasses
Stocked in the corner cabinet.
It might feel more real then,
If they eventually get here...
We'd be prince and princess
Everyday, then, wouldn't we?

settle, then, in serpentine
words once heard when
mixing roses and turpentine -
tales spun again in oils
flung on canvas sheets
always stretched too tight.
tonight a frail frame
might break
before colors make pictures.
It's only cheap pine
that holds it all together,
old bones with thin skin
you'd see through were
it not for the layers of
pigmented emulsions of
emotions trying to hide
the white, wordless,
grinning death waiting
underneath

In last eve's dream
We lay amid tall grass
Aside slow stream,
Share wine again
From one stemmed glass
Press lips, red stained
Ever avow our tomorrows.
But sun soon comes
Day demanding chores
Reverie must rest undone,
Mind mask its sorrows.
Pages once torn
And cast to wind
That new stories could form
Still flutter back in
To sweeten dark nights
Still real, my secrets

tongues learned new languages,
swirling around satin stanzas
tasting sweet nectar hidden within -
retracing trails in new words learned,
hoping to memorize
each glistening jewel of dew
lest it all be forgotten
among the petals

in moist breath,
shared prayers heard whispered
their shapes lost meaning -
old symbols like bodies of flesh,
only vessels of meaning -
when souls found meeting
all edges melted
existence reflected in eyes
of another

just a little bit o' asbestos
unwrapped from 'round the pipes,
yellow-green arsenic soap
in the bucket to make me clean
to eat... sump'n to munch on
like crunchy lead paint chips
and oh, how i love the smell o'
greasy diesel dip -
it reminds me of my last birthday
when we ate my smoggy cake
the kerosene ran dry that day
and smoked us to the street
our tummy aches that time forsake
'cause doctors cost real money.
but, hey, no choice in winter
- Obamacare or heat -
couldn't type his site with frostbit nubs,
no matter what the hype.
life ain't free,
so as fer me, i doctor fer myself
hell, in 50 years i've seen nothin' yet
some bourbon wouldn't fix.
but never in this tidy place we come to call our poverty
has ever lived the lovely stench
of crisp, green, perfect money.

i drove into one of those famous tunnels beneath the Chesapeake
under a freighter that lumbered in its foggy distance,
still off about half a mile
i thought the kids might get a kick out of this experience
but they were busy in the rear view mirror,
snared in silent worlds of mini screen devices i bought to see them smile
there's only static on the radio now, like no more bourbon left in the bottle
and you're so quiet
this is my life - the thrumming dented van within a sterile white tile fortress,
ears on verge of popping
i hear humming tires, the thumps of each heart beat
trapped inside, heterodyned

Face pressed against
Dimly lit glass,
The boy once glimpsed
Through and saw
The man.
Unkempt hair
Smooth chin,
Would one day
Hide behind
Gray beard,
Head still wild
Young child
Perched on a knee,
Perhaps.
The thought lingered
While time meandered,
And in my mirror
I see him again -
Plump cheeks,
Smooth-faced,
The child
Who played
With demons
Danced with angels
Kissed the lips of God.
Lost all his battles
Yet still stands
Not completely invalid.

February's
another month marked;
its ever requisite yellow roses
unceremoniously left for a morrow's snow's
cover of quiet over stone rows;
a foot path pocked
temporarily

It was new
That thing
I had to do,
Planned months.
Then, tears didn't come
To ease old memories.
Not for lack of loss
Nor sadness.
The deadness, maybe,
Made smiles and crying
Seem child's pursuits.
At dawn, sun was drawn
Over rippled sea
No warm glow -
Harsh white across water
Sand scattered
Bared legs stood
Heads bowed
Silence
It was new to us
When we took the stage
Knee-deep in waves
Man and box of ash
Too empty to explain
The life's work.
It didn't seem fair
But it was
Opened.
Winds calmly noted
To protect company's
Sensitivity
Of backlash
From what they
Once loved.
I was surprised,
The speed
Contents joined
Salty currents,
Not lingering a last look.
Finally released
My body shook,
Her child.