When the warm summer breeze
blows from sea to sand
and gently caresses your face
while you stand on the dunes
it's breath overflowing
with the scent of the ocean
do you simply enjoy its caress?
or
Do you ponder the individual molecules?
The atoms?
The updrafts?
The suns rays?
The spin of the earth on its axis?
Where the wind came from?
or
Where it is going?

Or do you, like I
simply close your eyes
breathe deeply
and enjoy the moment?

On the hook on the back of a door
A pair of faded jeans hang motionless
Soon they will move again
But for now
We are left to wonder

Are they to cover the legs of a farmer
soon to be covered in the dust of the barn?

Are they to protect the legs of a construction worker
destined to wear the scent of concrete and wood?

Will they dance and stand on stage with the musician
drenched in sweat and smelling of cigarettes and stale beer?

Will they go to sea with the lobsterman
and be wet with the sea and smell of the algae that covers the lobster trap?

No

They will soon be sitting in small chairs
and smell of crayon and pencil and several kinds of lined paper
and applesauce and desk cleaner
for I am an educator
and these pants are mine.

I breathe
My heart beats
I feel
I love

Then what?

After breath has gone
and beats have stopped
I what?
Am I mourned?

And if the answer is "yes"
Then how?

Is it a bit of jewelry?
I am not a bit

Is it a coat or hat?
I am neither

Is it a house?
I am not a house.

What I am is;

A tear in your eye,
a smile on your lips,
a sigh.
A memory.

I will always be that but
I am not things.
I never was.

Explore
Plant the seeds
Of change
Shut up and compost
Breathe
Choose to be Eco
Contribute
Rock the trip
Green is easy
Do not microwave
Hot

On the green of old hotel
carpet

Multi colored
snakes

gather like a
pride

of lions around
food

where only two can
dine

at once

The light of summer
now lost
my soft green carpet
turns brown and crunchy

I have reached an age
Where I should be
Responsible
Wise
Thoughtful

52

Still

I'd rather be a little irresponsible
To play and have fun
Laughing
Curious
Silly

12

So I will
So there

Instructions are not
necessarily followed better
if sung with no rhyme or reason
just tell them straight up, kids will listen.

No,
Sing
Rhymes
Please, ok?
Ah!

Many hands make light work
but is that true of feet?

On a crisp clear autumn morning
many feet; old, young, somewhere in the middle
walk along the beach, through quiet streets
In support, memory, honor of those
Who can't remember
and have forgotten why

From underbrush it creeps
along spring's damp ground
crawling, dragging towards light
Then
A crutch with which to achieve up
begins the climb
tendrils grabbing bark
First
a few at the end of the grow
more and more as maturity is gained
and grow moves upwards
Three
Green leaves on of each stalk
waxy, jagged and glistening
Will turn red in autumn
Pretty
But best left alone
should rash and itch
follow the handler's
folly

Course brown fibers of burlap
woven together years prior
rub against weather beaten neck
sometimes shrugged off
sometimes an irritant
pressed by
weight of a bag filled with rice
at times
to heavy to bear
but a small hole
unnoticed
where single grains slide free
to fall into the dust of the track
where they are mixed with dust
and are only noticed by birds
which carry them away
forever
bearer and bag sway, rise and fall
together
as the journey forward goes
each step
each sway
frees kernels from the confines
now in twos and threes
then a steady pour
from shoulder to ground
the hole is noticed
nothing can stem the flow
the bag grows lighter
but sags against back and chest
and is harder to hold
it slides from the shoulder
carried in arms like a small child
inevitably
the last of the grains falls free
glistening white
falls end over end
gleaming in the sun
and is lost with the others
the burlap is empty
the weight and toil is missed
words of anguish
and
the empty sack
is laid in the sea

The deluge is cyclical
and the dry between gets shorter
The rain pours down
Sometimes straight
Sometimes slanted from the left
Sometimes slanted from the right
Sometimes from two directions
Other times from all at once

The only constant?
We can't help but get soaking wet.

After thirty seven years
The grief is mostly gone
yet
today
a poem by another
sparked a thought,
I am ten years older
than my father ever was

A river runs as rivers run
Just where it wants to go
You can build a dam
Canal or trench
But you cannot stop the flow

And if divert it you succeed
by cutting course through stone
there will remain trace
where its been
and the truth of course be known

You can not tell the truth straight out
it simply shant be done
It makes the people scream and shout
and build walls by the ton

But if you lead them there by "chance"
a chance you planned before
they'll grab it first in vict'ry dance
and love you even more

The ignorant are easily led
But by emotion
Not by head

Though not just "over there" you see
But 'round here too
'round you and me

And when you add religion in
The leading's a cinch
Let the games begin

Little tea bag talking head
Your cheeks are round and rosey
But every time you speak your "mind"
We see what you don't knowsy

Those who choose to live
In the idyllic fifties
Must go all the way

If careless with fire
And burn your beautiful house
The guilt is yours
And you should not stand aloft
Proclaiming the fireman's guilt

If...
we do
think a
bit first
we...?

In a second grade classroom
a tiny ant with a treasure thinks only of taking it to his colony.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom floor,
the ant's work is hard but will be worth it.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom rug,
the ant's task seems insurmountable but he knows of no other way.
So for an hour, he retraces his path backwards dragging a piece of popcorn
across the classroom rug.

He drags
and tugs
and pulls

In the open of a second grade classroom,
the ant feels exposed on the carpet but cover is closer now, he can feel it.
It's just there, where the wall meets the carpet.
A space just big enough to hide an ant.

Closer and closer.

He tugs and pulls and drags his prize closer still
Pulling and dragging the popcorn lurches across the carpet.

His rear legs reach cover
Then his thorax, his abdomen, his head with antennae and mandibles

then

The Problem.

and...

In a second grade classroom
a line of popcorn rests
where the carpet meets the wall.

Sun paints cloud bottoms
paints mist over lake orange
Summer day begins

The lines are drawn
my side, your side

We walk our lines
back and forth, forth and back

A rut appears, two in fact
one on my side, one on yours

Our lines are marched
my side, your side

We never waver
never look at the other, never step out of our rut

So

Rut becomes trench
knee then thigh, waist then chest deep

We march on
we never waver, never look nor climb out

Fear of what might happen
bars us from communication

Quiet separation is safe
separation from argument is feared

We march on
trench deeper that we are tall

We march on still

When the bond between a family
is removed by chance
and scattered to the winds
the family may come apart

To be legit
do poems always have to be deep?
Do they need to burst open
spilling metaphor
simile
or can they just be about anything
like the young doe
standing in the woods across the driveway
from my window
like a statue
silent
but for the sound of green maple leaves
being ground between her teeth
her eyes fixed
on the movement in the window
as a middle aged man
writes about poetry.

She went away my little girl
sure she was seventeen
but she'd always been around
my kid
my daughter
my friend
yes, singing

She was always responsible
smart and funny
musical and funny
emotional
kind, apathetic and funny
yes funny

Then she went away
today she returned

Different

More poised
More confident
More
Grown up
Less a teen
more an adult

Different

And yet
still
wickedly
brilliantly
funny.

It seems that to some
that I hate a certain cat
just because I used his call
as a punctuation mark in a previous poem.

That I hate this certain cat
is not the case at all.
His meows serve as a punctuation mark in another poem
and only as that, like the shout of a man.

Not the case at all
this perceived dislike of said feline
and just like the shout of a man
his attention can be welcomed at times.

This perceived dislike of said feline
is not always a correct read of the relationship.
His attention can be welcomed at times,
late at night watching tv is one such time.

A correct read of the relationship
would be one of mutual understanding,
of a shared love late night TV
while absentmindedly scratching between a pair of furry cat ears.

The hush of the morning breeze
whispers through aged pines
The rush of tires on asphalt
As an unseen car moves an unseen driver
Closer to the start, or end I guess, of a workday

Meow

The birds begin to wake
Softly at first
Then, as more and more of them awaken
The chorus grows louder and louder
Filling the near stillness with a multitude of calls

Meow, meow

A squirrel scurries in fits and starts
Across the shingle roof outside my window
An acorn, not yet ripe falls from the oak out front
And hits the slate walk
Heard this morning where as the sound would pass unnoticed later in the day

Meow, meeeoooww, meow

Then there's the cat

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.

Webbed feet grasp wet granite
And after standing taller
a series of *****
send water,
like diamonds in the afternoon sun
from wing tips
And
bourne by Newtons theory
return to Winnipesaukee

Sometimes
When I need to read a long poem
I find I don't have the patience.
So I don't.
You're welcome.

Patriotism is normal
alive and well
vigorous
flying high

Patriotism is voluntary
is love of
is love of country
is a love of and devotion for one's country

Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first
racism
more than flag
too often the refuge of scoundrels

Patriotism is as dogmatic as the old
a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched
conviction that this country is superior to all other countries
no excuse for stupidity

Patriotism is alive in america

boat wake draws lake drops
on rounded rocks
where summers sun erases

The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.

Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from,
the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street

These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy

But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets
and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.

The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land
it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth
in the smile of an old tannery worker

Now,
the tooth worn away by years of
spring waves
and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point

but many things are the same

the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes
being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water

which was further away when I was a boy

Louis Rey smolder bright
Your velvet smoke obscures my sight

It's been near year for me and you
I loved you so while in my youth

But mother's gone since last we parted
From cancer, wait, here's my light

As a child I walked, no ran, downtown
a dollar grasped in hands that wanted to move small plastic armies
to Woolworth's for a bag of soldiers in Gloversville

Then as the places that made things left
and Main Street began to starve and it's abandoned bones bleached in the Adirondack sun
We drove to shop, like everyone else in Gloversville

Standing once proud and full of life
Then left to decay and die
The resurrection of the Schine brings light to Gloversville

In the midst of the abandoned and empty
a spark grows to a small flame
and a more vibrant life returns to Gloversville

Flopped in the house on the floor alone
Sullen and saddened wondering
Are the missing near or far away from home

Nails scratch circles into the hardwood floor
Wondering whether the missing will ever return
Then in an instant, a car door, and the realization that the missing no longer are.

Working on car engines and in fish cases
has enabled me to cook
for often
when the process of cooking is a balance between hands and heat

my old fingers
battered and beat up as they've been by the heat of a Pontiac V8 manifold
or five hundred pounds of shaved ice every day for seven years with no gloves

shrug and shake it off
as an old cowboy shakes the dust from his chaps
after being thrown to the dirt by a horse who doesn't realize
how many times the cowboy has been in the dirt before
and gotten up

How many forms of
Haiku are there?
First I learned syllables, now what?

The loss of loved ones has clarified something
it is not that the ache of loss is profound
for it is

Neither is it that watching a loved one struggle
with the looming reality of passing wrenches the gut
for it does

the clarification comes after
the passing
the mourning
the sadness
and depression

the will

the clarification is
that no matter how spiritual we are
or
how much we love those others left with us
behind
that the division of property
most likely equals
division of family

and it is for that reason
that I hope there is no heaven
from which the passed
can look down
and be sad at what
has happened

despite best intentions

in their wake

Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
but come to stay

I know not
If I die this day

The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say

I know not
If I die this day

We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray

I know not
If I die this day

Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins

The house stood
on a slight rise just
on the edge of the village.

It looked out
over
a broad spread of West Country farmland.

Not a remarkable house by any means
It was about thirty years old
squattish
squarish
made of brick
and
had four windows
set in the front
of a size
and proportion
which
more or less
exactly failed
to please the eye.

I don't know what the day was like
But I want to believe that it was glorious
Cold
Clear
With the sting of February on the face of a doctor
A father to be
Hurrying his wife
Probably in labor
Down the steps to the car
For the trip to the hospital
Actually the sanitarium in Clifton Springs

Then, after awhile in the waiting room
The news
And the promise of a baby girl
His first child
The first of five

The child who won't die at the hands of a drunk driver
The only one who won't be a doctor
Who will marry
Have three children of her own
Loose a husband
Gain daughters and a son in law
Grandchildren
And who
Sometime later
After the roar of a hurricane passes
Will pass herself
Hiding the pain that ravages her small body
And tells her that she's still alive

But for now
In the sanitarium
In Clifton Springs
Only the promise
Of a baby girl
In the arms of a new mom
His wife

The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house near Seal Beach
In Southern California.

The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner

I was eight

I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room

I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays

We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans

I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count

And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive

They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time

They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis,  tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life

To that first enchilada.

Often I wonder about just what it is that I am doing
with what I say
with what I write
with my family and work and health
with everything I do

I don't wonder about the all at once
but in the quiet on a summer afternoon
my wife still at work
my daughter off at camp
I wonder

It is not the wonder of how
of fireworks
of Starry Night
of a successful Aioli
of an airplane heavier than I can lift gliding silently overhead through cloudless blue

It is the wonder that bares the burden of wrong
of blindness towards others
of their fears and needs and beliefs
of reaction without thought
of articulation for it's own sake

And in the quiet
on a summer afternoon
I am
saddened
and truly sorry
for the blindness

Rage
is back
is all the rage
is the talk of the town

Rage
is a bully
is everywhere
is roaring down main street

Rage
is the wrong way
is a beast that kills the spirit
is never free

bloodshed
in the name of religion
against color
because of differences
due to gender

hate
due to religion
in the name of color
against differences
because of gender

intolerance
because of religion
due to color
in the name of differences
against a gender

prejudice
against a religion
because of color
due to differences
in the name of gender

senseless

pill bug
no insect

small crustacean spends entire life
on land

pregnant
carry young in a pouch in her belly

rolling herself into a ball for protection
from the likes of a harvestman