All the hard
times prepared me
for this.
The hopeless
times, black sun
sadness.
The long seasons of
madness.
Starving, like a
winter tomcat.

The hospital stays.
Jails and psych wards.
The fist fights under
bridges.
Midnight swims, drunk in
the Iowa River,
not drowned, only out
of spite.
All of this, and
much more got
me ready for this.

I’m sitting up in bed.
It’s 5:00 AM.
My three cats chase
each other, like
lovers in spring.
I’ve been sober
for almost two years.
I even quit smoking
cigarettes.
I’m writing regularly,
and publishing much
of it.
It’s mostly well received
worldwide.
I’m sipping a hot cup
of coffee.
It’s from Sumatra and has
notes of herbs and earth.

I look at the pictures of
Van Gogh and
Hemingway above my
antique maple desk,
as I listen to Mozart.
A writer needs four walls.
I have so much more,
children
wisdom
cats
and gratitude, the most
important thing I
found.

Winter chills have come a little early,
the Cascade mountains to the east
covered with fresh snow, a warming
blaze in my fireplace, the first of the
season, I sit content with a hot mug
of tea, life is good and now returned
to mostly normal.

I do so enthusiastically enjoy normal.

"...IN FORGETFUL SNOW..."

flake by flake
Heaven falls
until its whiteness covers all

angels guard
their dead
all is quiet all is light

even marble flesh
feels
the cold

the dead
have forgotten
Christmas

a Christmas
the angels
have never known

a forgotten bicycle
half there-half not
looking like an art installation

until it too
succumbs
to the snow's will

the silence slowly
erasing
the world

a raven
perches
upon an angel's wing

she pays it no mind
gazing with sightless eyes
as land and sky become one

even
the horizon
is being filled in

the raven's
harsh voice
upsetting the silence

*

“Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow”

― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land