Most moments in our lives pass unnoticed, without remark or consciousness.
Then, there are those that mean something, or that we choose to mean something,
   that become a placeholder for our lives, to add meaning, understanding, passage
    a demarcation that bestows significance
My daughter graduated, under rainy skies and cool breezes.
The white tents in the grass flapped empty and lonely like a cancelled wedding
We sat in a loud gymnasium rather than in the grass quad surrounded by trees
I was there with a thousand other proud parents;
I circled her name in the program.  I waited for the moment when it was to be called; being    
   slightly afraid I'd miss it
And I whistled and yelled, but I don't think quite enough.  I didn't seem to mark the moment.
It was a moment, and I knew it, expected it, wanted it to be.
   so badly.  
Bittersweet.  I like that word, it explains life so well.
I like the idea of bittersweet and I wanted to have it envelope me that day.
I tried to hold on to it.   Like a good dream that comes too late in the morning and wont be prolonged quite far enough
I wanted to hold on, to understand what it meant.  I knew it meant so much,
   or, at least, I wanted it too.
I held on to understand what this meant to her.
I held on to remember my own graduation and the dream I then only fainty realized I had just experienced in my four years of college
I held on because I know her next steps take her further away.
I held on to feel what she felt in the mixture of joy, relief, sadness, confusion;
   all that goes with parting from friends who alone know the exerience you shared.
I held on to make sense of my life.  Making sense of moments makes them meaningful.  
I want life to be meaningful
I wish I would have written something that evening.  In the full emotion of the day.
I thought about it.
And now, like that dream, it is fading into morning light.  I can't remember all that was, or seemed to be, profound and important as I watched my daughter those two days.  
I want it to mean something enduring, symbolic and permanent.  
I want my life to be important, to reflect a famous quote from someone, to be in granite.  
Not so everyone will know it mattered, just so that I will.

I cleaned out an old drawer
of odds and ends.
    paperclips and the door to a battery case on some remote
    an orange candle stub, from Halloween I think
    batteries and four flashlights, though only one worked
    and parts of things I'm sure made sense to keep at the time
          I have no idea what they are now

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of things forgotten
      my daughter's picture in a setting unknown
      a letter of gratitude from a friend, for what?
      a postcard from Barcelona
      graduation announcements for a friend's child
           I don't think I sent a gift

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of memories and my past
     a ticket stub from an evening with Isabel
     a newspaper clipping of my son in scouts
     old mother's day cards from the kids
     New York City subway map from October 2001
         Memories of adventure and affection

I cleaned out an old drawer
  and sorted, discarded and remembered
     batteries went together in a small box
     old fortune cookie notes in the trash
    memories dusted off and replaced
        out of the drawer and back into my heart

My life has cabinet drawers
   stuffed with junk and trash mixed with treasures and tools
I think I'll clean my cabinet more often
     To organize things that I've needed
         like my mom and dads enduring affection
         kind and playful  friends'
     Throw away useless things
          like anger, resentment, and regret
          to make room for treasures
    And to be reminded of what has been
         a real childhood of play and discovery
         magical children  and the wonder of them
         my beloved's steadfast love and respect
I cleaned out an old drawer
        and found some peace.

Amidst a day cloaked in grey and cold
Like it was dressed in the angry, divisive garments of the world.
I saw a thing of beauty.
Shed tears in my heart and rejoiced in the quiet.
It unfolded before me holding hands with my friend.
The beauty and power that lie deep in the depths of us.
That come forth when we see truth.
With threatening ideas and analog notions;
     honor, faith, sacrifice, commitment.

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder?
So if I don't see it, it must not be beautiful.
If I don't believe it, it must not be true?
I saw a thing of beauty,
     whether you did or not
          whether you can or not
                Make a mockery if you wish
The fear of grace,
     the weariness of believing,          
          the soul worn out from abuse,
                or neglect or excess
To see a beautiful thing and turn it into fools gold
  When pure gold is too bright for eyes that have grown accustomed to the darkness.

I saw a thing of beauty,
I don't want to own it,
I just want to share it.
We will see this beauty and  be afraid together.

From my first cry
Mother's embrace, father's joyful face
Medicine says its for air
But for me it was for joy
I already knew I was blessed

A place really home
Tonka toys, Christmas joys
Where my heart stayed
And summer lingered
I grew up loved and blessed

Created two measures
Bug and kitten, we're smitten
Depths, heights, tears, joys
Holding on, letting go
Sacred duty, honor and blessing

And 28 years loved
Best friends, make amends
She gets me
I get her
True love, my blessing

There is no equity
My share, is unfair
There's no accounting
For beauty or love
Or all my blessings.

Worthy and stalwart sojourner,
Bright as the sun and carried forth by devotion to the journey
Disguised as a common school bus that has been modestly adorned.
An uncommon gilding that comes from the art of love,
which you bear with equanimity
The coach to my beloved passengers
You are their protector and steadfast friend
Continuing your created purpose,
delivering precious cargo to a world of discovery
Who needs but small adoration, and motor oil
Your dignity marching joyfully down a solitary highway
drawing crowds of admirers and the curious
yet, allowing  a shade tree mechanic to crawl beneath your shield and examine your private parts
Because you are dedicated to their wander lust
Indeed you stealthily stoke their zeal,
which can become muted in suburban safety and network news
Quietly, almost in secret, you stand patiently waiting
Beckoning with your bright colors that recount memories of past exploration
Teal and orange that recall the beautiful sunrise over the pacific,
Brick red and black, the unexpected festival with bright lights in the midnight sky
El toro and the sparkling castille showering down on squealing brown skinned boys and girls
Solitary beaches where paradise was yours, theirs alone
You call them to a quest renewed.
Calling my beloved parents.
Urging them out again.  Reassuring them that the risk is far outweighed by the memories
And when they are but a fraction on their way,
your gentle words, disguised in the hum of the engine, whisper
"away, away, let us see what we shall see"
Stirring their youth and vigor, laying to rest their doubts.
Believing it is their own voice, they grow confident.
With eyes cast ahead in anticipation of another adventure.

You save them,
And then they save you.
Worthy motto not for Puppy Mill Rescue alone.
I find,
That loves economy is thus:
     I give more and want for less
     I forgive more and feel grace
     I am more vulnerable, and I am stronger
     I judge less, and I experience more joy
     I act more upon the needs of others, and dwell less upon my pain
     I proclaim to know less, and feel wiser
Love is not like  the mystery of the universe,
Though it be as vast and glorious and terrifying,
Love is not a parlor trick to be known only by a few.
Love is not hard,
     though our lost and wasted wandering may make it seem so
Love is more like  Cosette, our rescued puppy
     of nine years in a cage
  Who we saved
     and now,
          She is saving us..

In shadowed light
Through filtered lens
I saw a glimpse
of fathers end.

Of daughters rise
Emerging glory
Stepping boldly
Into her own story

Not yet written
But past a draft
A lovley story,
Fore and aft

Only in audience
I watched her depart
Finding her own way
Directing her own  heart

A nostalgic sadness
For ego's caress
Not letting go
Of old address

But applaud I did
And ever will do
To honor what's past
And embrace what's  new

Her story's my story
If lesser role
Tis the way of things
To salve the old

I saw a glimpse
Of her hopes and dreams
Laid bare to all
Yet to all esteem

And now 'tis me
Who will find my place
With joyful heart
For her embrace

Under cozy cover,
Windows frosted opaque.
Only for my lover,
I venture out to coffee make.

But alas in bed I tarried,
For this poetic diversion.
She asked "did the man i married
have  a bohemian conversion?"

"What happened to my capitalist?
Defender of the cave.
So engaged in literary bliss,
T'is an odd way to behave."

"Sing-songing your words,
In verse and clever rhyme.
Like delicate spice and subtle herbs.
Or the sages throughout thyme

But I warn thee, be not delayed,
My coffee for to make.
For those vows we once relayed,
Covered-not this grave mistake!

In mid-verse to pause I must,
This poetic treasure trove.  
And with greatest haste, raise dust,
For coffee* and for love.


*Technically for cappuccino, but still for love

the crisp, clean, do-over didn't take long to foul
This is not so new after all
I'm not much different
so why should this be?

And the money's already spent
So that isn't new either
the guilt is  familiar, the blame, harsh
the fool standing in the corner behind the closet door
with the full-length mirror
laughing and crying

Fresh starts have become stale
and pathetic
how many of these do I pretend to get anyway?
I'm "on to" myself and usually I'm the last to know

I guess it came faster this time.
the blemishes, weaknesses, the charade
Better act quick
And find a fresh start.

"It's going to be snowing"
I hate it when your doomsday predictions are right.
But now that you are, I wish you were here.
And in the dark with a sharp wind I'm blinded
and driving home, alone.
When I flip on the high beams, it looks like hyperdrive kicked in and we made the jump to light speed.
But there is no "we" and I'm alone, going home, at thirty-five
Which feels a little risky.
If you were here, you.'d tell me to slow down... So annoyingly.
But, at least it would be your voice
With 20 degrees in my vision field, the world may just as well have evaporated.
And driving home without you, it feels like it too.
If I was a hound, I'd smell my way through this night.
like infrared for my nose.
But all I smell is the half eaten banana and the cheap pine car scent
hanging from the rear view mirror like its some thing anyone would want to look at
Why did you put that there?  
Why do I make these trips alone, without you?
My hands are sweaty. I can tell I'm gripping the wheel too tight.  
I'm tense and losing perspective of the road, my speed,
the snow flakes on the windshield start to command my attention.  
I'm looking only 18 inches in front of me.
I need to relax - pretend like I'm drunk so if I wreck, I may not get hurt as much
I wish you were here.  Your fear would ground me.
Instead, my fear imperils me.
We're that way.
Better together, in a snowy night, on a lonely road.
Heading home.
.

He undertook
  Such a jolly folly
To search for his heart's twin

O'er plain, and peak
   Never sparing daring
Mad quest he did begin

He careless spent
  All his funny money
For he spared no expense

Heard of a man
   said to uncover lovers
Without a recompense

"He's only known
   as the Giant Bryant"
For there were none bigger

So off he went
  For how dare-he tarry
With the greatest vigor

Within one moon
  He did righted sighted
The giant's stone castle

And cautious stepped
  Midst the towers flowers
For he was quite facile

With guarded prose
  Lest he adverse converse
Relayed his quest of years

And though none be
  A more mighter blighter
Tall Bryant shed six tears

"Your search for love"
    Reflects gallant talent
And will surely quench thirst

In yonder vale
  In a deeping sleeping
A daughter who's born first
    
A true love's heart
   And hair flaxen waxen
Braids tressed with a blue fleur

She longs for love
    To keep-her deeper
Hope steels her to endure

It was just so
  For he found-her sounder
In the vale with fields green

Her braided hair
   In breeze saving waving
With the suns golden sheen

As he held her
  In their blissing kissing
Knew he'd ne'er search again

For in her eyes
   Shown a growing knowing
Reflecting his hearts twin

The sound of conversation from another room
   muffled soft by walls and doors.
   voices
   of comfort and security,
Childhood memories of my mother and father
Up late with dear friends
as indiscernible words and conversation and laughter became
a comforting lullaby
For I was down the hall in bed with my cowboy sheets and brown blanket  
Their voices, a mighty oath of safety and protection
against the monsters that hide at night in the closets and dark corners of children's rooms
Children who get to make believe their monsters
I got to make believe my monsters
And they were no match for my fathers laughter or my mothers offer for more coffee.

And I think of you out there
Who did not make believe your monsters.
For whom the voices reaching bedtime ears were coarse and menacing, angry and cursing,
  And sounds that children should not hear
unfamiliar words, but their meaning unmistakable.
Mothers crying and fathers yelling, strange men threatening
At tender age, the familiar smell of alcohol  portending danger
You need not make believe your monster
For the roaring, and snarling, all too real
     was just outside your bedroom.
     having consumed  mommy and daddy already, it was coming for you
And perhaps, still does

My understanding of things, important things, has left me.
It doesn't make sense, to make sense of this
How can it be, how can this follow a plan?
There is no plan, no divine decree or meant to be.
There is no reason, not for this, not for this.
Can we ask, or dare we, who hurts more, who hurts most
It doesn't matter.  Heartbreak has no calculus
Apparently hurt, fear, isolation, loneliness, desperation, anger, and retribution don't either
I wonder if that's the the lethal parade,
and what's missing?
Abuse, neglect, weakness, genetics, propensities... Or just evil
Evil makes it simpler.  Evil makes sense.
I need someone to blame, i want someone to blame,
because I'm angry...
And I want to make sense of it
No wait,
I'm sad and heartbroken and bewildered,
     at the senselessness.
This just won't make sense.
But, I will awake tomorrow, my life, my wife and son and daughter, in tact.
What's left then,
     when there's no moral,
          no lesson,
               no purpose to it?
Just to love and mourn and feel, and cry...  For a while
It's hard to know, when there is no sense.

More than a smile, or a kindly glance
More than a greeting or a shot at romance,
More than a gesture of good will or assist
More than my eyes  whose gaze you resist

You'll not be a part of this dull human race
Or notice the anonymous, child's face
So what that they seek a human touch
You're not interested, or at least not much

More than this extended hand
More than the beauty of the land
More than the senses waiting to reveal
More  than the heart wants to appeal

It must be important for such sacrifices
To decide that yourself alone suffices
Surely engaged in some lofty unknown
Absorbed, sustained in your own "cell" phone

Death, at arms length
Made to fit in my hand so sweetly
The black steel grip
feels like I mean something
The slave for my anger
A powerful blame
A home for my victimhood
An outlet for my pain
at muzzle velocity
I don't even have to touch them
I can simply squeeze - just lightly
To **** them
All of them
Even the ones I don't know
They're collateral damage of my hatred
My anger is big enough for anyone to die for
Even myself
And this piece, will be my release
At 30 lives in a clip, I'll release so much
It will be over so fast. BAM!
They won't even know what hit them.
Neither will I

It's knocking.
Inviting me to come in.
Not demanding.  That won't happen till later.
Right now, we're all on best behavior.
It's calling me,
The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words.
Painting a picture of possibility and promise.
Implausible pay, promotion and perks
Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan.
It's inviting me in,
And reminding me that this was my idea.
But to what, I am not as certain as I was.
Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid.
Are those tingles excitement or premonition?
Warning or inhibition?
It is calling me.
It 's calling me forward, or so it says.
I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times,  
amidst a fog or bright lights.
But I hear voices behind me too.  
Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy.
That's weird, but there's cheering too.
Oh, the blessings of being loved!
It sounds familiar.  Those voices have been quiet for some time.
Are they mine?
I think it's about time both choruses were heard again.
It's knocking.  I'm walking.
Headed for the door.

From 20,000 feet, the lines are straight.
the world is in neat patterns
with the white headlights heading in one direction
and the red tail lights, obediently traveling the other

dozens of creeks converge and streams merge
into the river whose meandering still makes sense
and the interstate crosses via white bridges in parallel lines
at a point most efficient to their final destination

From here, cities make sense too
I can spot a school by the football stadium
and the streets laid out in a grid
with an occasional flourish of gated suburbs

the earth is a patchwork
a quilt of work and technology
where dirt road meets gravel
meets asphalt meets concrete
all at ninety degree angles

mathmeticians must have had this vantage point
geometry was made for this
relationships weren't
relationships are messy and this is orderly

I think I like to fly
to make the world feel orderly and organized
for just a while
till I come down and navigate the airport
heading for home
and living with people

I planted flowers
  Fixed the floor
Worked for hours
  Painted the door
Re-grouted the tile
  Sowed some seeds
Rested a while
  Then pulled the weeds
Painted the halls
  The carpet is new
Washed the walls
  And baseboards too
Removed the clutter
  granite counters were bought
Replaced the gutter  
  'Cause the old ones were shot
I stand back and see
  the results of our work
mumbling softly, Gee
  You're a stupid ****
Shiny and new
  The house is a show
Prepared for a view
  By people we don't know
Our home's at it's best
  And everyone can tell it
So now we can rest
  And the realtor can sell it!

Paper cut.                            On a dry cracked finger
Bit my lip.                            That same spot over again
Jammed my toe.                 In the dark on the old iron chest
A boiling sip.                      Skin on the roof of my mouth peels away
Slammed my finger           The tailgate of my truck
Hit my head.                       On the corner of the open cabinet door
Sprained my ankle.            With a crunch that says "ER"
Bruised and bled.               inside the car on its back in the middle of nowhere
Shiver out loud.                  So cold, knowing its hours to dawn
Burned my back.                Bright red and translucent blisters
Tingling spine.                    In the dark, certain evil is there
Cough and hack.                 Needles stuck in my lungs
Curled in a ball.                   Because nothing matters
Long thin abrasions            Cowering  below his anger
Crackling cartilage              A powerful fist to my nose
Fevered equations.              Crazy dreams to sort out nonsense
Human condition,
Follows no law.
In everyday living,
Life can be raw.

But it's brutal when someone you trust is the perpetrator
.

It is not for me to know
Or for you either,
though your advice be well intended.
Our lives turn on the oddest moments.
   And for some, the meanest.
Who could have foreseen the path that unfolds before us?
   And that we pretend to take.
Only god, and then, only drunken.
I can will this to be providence or tragedy.
And with careful words, seem sage in either regard:
           "Distance makes the heart grow fonder"
            "Out of sight, out of mind"
Is truth so fickle?
Can it not be known, what this course holds?
not even after we've travelled it well and long?
But even this riddle too, I can choose my answer!
So I will choose it glorious, beautiful, wonderful!
For a fool will choose it lost, lonely, empty, ugly.
And both will be right. Or perhaps wrong.
But for that shred of hope and faith, mine will bring me closer to love
Closer to Truth. Yes, with a capital T.
And that is my journey towards god.

It came upon us in a quiet still night
With stealthy calm and pure delight
Though familiar window a novel sight
For all that was dark is radiant light

treacherous, but soft and smooth
boisterous, kids in snowball feud
lustrous, a landscape dressed in ****
joyous, for a holiday mood

wonderful, these piles of snow
bountiful, or seems it so
youthful, away we go
mindful,  sledding hill we know

If only for a bit of time
The snow it makes the world sublime
Covers scars and dirt and grime
If only for a bit of time

I started writing poems years ago.
Someone said i even missed my calling,
which is kinda flattering but may also have meant i was pretty lame at my real job.
I get distracted by the Likes
Verse and vice,
Prose and price,
On the site.
Statistics and counting,
not lofty fodder for wit and imagination and love and bleeding.
But, I get distracted by the likes,
And I want them.
Natalie said they don't count twice.
Ooh, once I was even trending.  But I suspect that's a ploy to bait me.
Still, a time in the sun, even if just a coding device.
No real poet would find that proper.
Perhaps I'm just not a poet, or even poetic.
I suspect there's other evidence to indict me.
Please don't be too harsh, or worse, click away.
I want to write a verse that strikes a chord,
But I get stuck on just which ones to play.
Because I'm looking for the lightening bolt to turn yellow.
I have IRBD envy.  But not of verse but of what, or who follows.
For Likes.
I know thats lame and not what a real poet would do.
A poet of noble and lofty thoughts, of obtuse meaning and lyric wordsmithing.
With a cult-like following and others just trying to figure out what it means,
But they know the poets name, and that counts for something.
I'm impure and unworthy, or perhaps not talented
A poetic imposter, a fraud.
I've got the likes to prove that anyway,
If, that's what they prove.

It  felt,
     like a dream remembered,
a gift bestowed for no reason, save mine.
Conscious discovery yielding an oasis
     from tempest or doldrum.
     Without the energy or tension of a search
     No plan born from need or design
     No thoughtful execution of a magazine get-away
Luxurious coincidence, well cherished

Faithful lawn chair positioned for comforted discovery
     A bath of sunlight and blue, still skies
     Occupied birds singing faint chorus to joy and spring
     Not begging for attention or warning, lest they disturb.

A cool spot found beneath the sheets by my wandering toes
     When warmth has stayed too long and threatens to be wearisome
     Lounging in the arms of my beloved, just longer than expected
     The sweet kiss of familiar lips full and lingering

Chance audience to a little one's discovery
     When no one is watching, a glimpse
     the unfolding world of a child
     Echoing back to wonder and a reminder

The observed gait of a cat in  open grass
     Her movement and mechanics newly seen
     Exquisite design for her own purposes
     And a glimpse into a world that is not ours

Not demanding attention
     They pale my designs and grand efforts
     They embarrass the clumsy media
With the slow fall of a reddened leaf in autumn
     Dancing this way and that to find its place on earth
Inviting me to see

Sitting on the ottoman
That Ana made for me
Feeling early morning sun
With all my kitties three

Looking to my unknown friends
For their poetry and prose
Quietly just sitting here,
In this precious, rare repose.

These small moments gift themselves
For my  joy and reverie
An abundance there to fill my heart
Amid self calamity

Hurt, shoes and doubt, a cloak
A part of daily wear
But beneath the ***** garments
The joy of life is there

And so today I dress myself
In the peace of cotton white
cast off my stylized shoes and cloak
Button up this sunny light

And venture forth into the world
In no high fashion dressed
A humble and forgiving garb
Myself and others blessed

I always wanted to
  Marry, merry Mary.
  But knew not how to propose.

And so I went to fetch her flowers
  Rows of roses rose
  before me, presenting many choices but producing a tear.

My sorrow was broken by a
  Sheer, cheer, chear,
  my friends wishing my love to ignite

Be not discouraged, your love is a
  lite, light. Alighted
  by the tender flame your heart abates.

And Mary loves you, despite her long
  way and weighty wait
  She knows you're worth it and why

So put on your best suit and
  tie that Thai  tie  
  of azure that matches your eyes

That's Mary's favorite, said
  I, aye, eye
  And she's sure to say yes, yes, yes

  to such a fool in love