Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.

The under shell of
the tortoise looked
like a sunset.
Blasts of color:
orange, maroon, burnt sienna.
I caught them in
the garden at
sunrise, eating a
tomato or chewing into
a head of lettuce.
They always looked so
serious.

I was just a
sunburnt boy, with
cutoff jeans and a
straw hat.
I caught toads too.
But when they peed on me,
I let them go.
I loved that land.
Ponds and streams,
fishing and climbing trees.
oh,
sweet, green
youth.

My days had gone by more quickly than a weaver’s shuttle,
And they came to an end without hope.
     - Until I looked back at the tapestry that had been woven.

now i remember that you saw the night

properly

while here we wondered, got lost in our

head

looked up and found the morning had

come pink again

scattered light in particular places

the other in shade

Storm herald, you are; cold wind so urgent.
The frigid gust that tenses skin and straightens hair.

You woke me.
You broke me.

Broke like the first hard rain on dry, cracked soil.
Lazy petrichor, pervasive and benevolent.

You’re in me.
You’re on me.

On me like the heavy heat of a sticky summer night.
The damp air perspiring in the absence of the sun.

You quelled me.
You held me.

Held me like a moment ere the fall.
Beyond the edge where only canyon walls await.

You caught me.
You’re not me.

Not me when I break like so many promises-
On the tongues of those who meant well.

You heal me.
You see me.

See me like the dappled sun through leaves-
That strain to keep their grip upon the branches.

You fought me.
You taught me.

Taught me like the goal was absolution-
Where the judges held the glass.

You feel me.
You hear me.

Hear me like the pleas of fated ghosts-
Intent on salvaging eternity.

You own me.
You’ve shown me.

Shown me radiance on windows-
Warmth that melts the morning frost, unbidden.

The wind has stopped
blowing
A leaf settles slowly
on quicksand
and does not sink
The wind has
stopped howling in
the canyons
but the fires
burn on
and you
dare not
walk across
the quicksand
to put them
out.
       ljm