one with one's storm

window to window

watching water

Thunder BAM and Rumble

to answer

flash of light

heavy pounding

rain seeking

its own

way out

hang me above your couch

I go with everything

I'll keep quiet

You'll forget I'm there

until the butterfly

comes between

the sun and me

casting a shadow

and you see me again

I often had dinner
with my ninety four year old father
at the nursing home,
who,  towards the end
had little to say.
what he said
was mostly incoherent
and softly spoken.
after one dinner,
where little was said,
we sat together,
he in his wheelchair,
I in a lounger,
in the lobby,
in front of the television,
digesting,
he turned to me,
and said,

"I didn't think this would go on so long."

this morning I mistook
my streetlight shining through
the Summer leaves
for the full moon
and for a few seconds
I believed she was off her track

morning dove
or is it the mourning dove?
speaks this morning
of melancholy
rock and sheep
and a drunken friend
who each night
ended his day
the same

each minute
was nothing I knew
it was the sound of the bells,
around their necks
and from the church.
Above in the abandoned castle,
defenses down
in rooms
open to the sky
looking down
on the village life
the smell of the beach
fish and retsina
the wisteria sheltered agora

I came there
like the gypsies
we never saw
who snuck in at night
took our clothing
off the lines
and potted plants
from the patio,
leaving only what was missing
as evidence
they'd been there

*** is one of the sillier of human behaviors
along with bowel movements
vomiting
and sometimes eating
trees are so  much more civilized
orderly mating
quietly courting
producing and sharing
their efforts with all around them

their singing, dancing ,and laughing
is choreographed
not a frenetic jazz interpretation
but ballads
sweetly put
no *** crimes
no need to dominate


I know we are not trees
but we are related
they're the branch of the family
that plays instruments
reads long novels
discreetly meeting their needs
without high heels

formulaic

derivative

uninspired

sophomoric

myopic

misguided
­
decorative

nicely framed

there was no fire
there was no smoke
only firemen
and a burst sprinkler system
but Mom could lie
in bed
looking up and point to
where the smoke
had seeped in

even weeks later
in the dining hall
the repairs finished
she would still ask me
if I could see
where the fire had been

I looked at her
and saw where the fire had been
I saw her
in the bright morning Summer sun
walking through heavy dewed grass
thick with crickets
wiping down the lines
hanging our laundry
up to dry
whistling along
as Nat King Cole sang
Mona Lisa
in her head

I am
feathers stuffed
in a pillow
a colony of ants
in a rotten log
pieces of gravel
in a limestone block
waiting to be crushed
words in an unread book
describing lives lived
a vase ready to be broken
into its many pieces
the packed earth
entered by a *****
and water seeping under a door
only to evaporate

went to a wedding
a straight white wedding
full of straight white people
who lean to the left
I was an island there
floating
a small gay resort
watching the rituals
thinking of color

now we can marry
mine would be different
full of living color
no purity of white
but the shocking hue
that is hot pink
guests in their getups
would leave
dull at the door

there'd be open flames
burning bright
orange haired boys
serving the drinks
projections of past love
lighting the walls

and only 60 seconds of silence
to honor the vows
then back to the dancing
and on with the show

What do birds see?
perhaps more than we can know
and what of their dreams?
are they full of worms
and juicy slugs?
are there also nightmares
of predators and windstorms
destroying all they've built?

given a choice
I'd probably be a robin
waking in that well built nest
shared with eggshell blue
waiting for the warmth
the return
of the reddish feathered breast

or perhaps a catbird
is closer to my truth
a wordy bird
behind the black bead of an eye
taking it all in
confident
Arizona will be there

yes
the door is unlocked
come on in
and take
what pleases you

its a currency of sorts

the candle's burning
off the exhalations
we've done before