I went looking
for my mother's grave;
it took me two weeks to find it,
and when I did, I was standing
on it; I actually looked around
to see if anyone else saw
what I had just done

things which came to mind
when I read your poem,
I have been able to
flesh out with imaginative
reality, wrestling your
dilemmas to the floor
and pinning them there
while the poetic referee
pounded the mat, shouting,
and counting to three,
the match is over now,
and you can be free

-----------------
-----------------
-----------------
----- me ------
-----------------
-----------------
-----------------

fog dampens
the irritation
of a barking dog,
that's what I like
about fog

I want to slip easily
into tomorrow, no
jolting by noisy
garbage trucks, no
disrespectful distribution
of confusion, no snurgling
confusion of words,
as if

On a tranquil sea, I float,
upon a cloud;
streaming from my mind
are many flowers,
lilies I lay gently
in array, upon the water.
The wind arranges them
in pleasing patterns,
but then, the wind
grows stronger,
and stirs the water
and the flowers
begin to sink.
I reach desperately
for the ones nearest to me
and fall from the cloud,
helplessly into the sea.
Struggling to stay afloat
I sink beneath the waves,
and there, I am floating
with the sunken flowers,
only now there is no surface
I must remain upon

words properly spoken
do not need to be strewn
all over the page
as if it were
a work of art,
let the artists
paint their pictures
while we poets
put our words
one after another,
line upon line,
hoping to be heard

You can listen
to the news,
you can express
your views,
you can point your toes
when you dance,
but the future, my friend
will unroll like a scroll
and there won’t be
a thing there by chance.

There are things
that you hear,
there are things
that you fear,
there are demons
inhabiting dreams;
but events that unfold,
or so I’ve been told,
are not the results
of man’s schemes.

So retire your talk
and just go for a walk,
look up at the stars overhead,
and be thankful that you
have no claim on the view,
and then, laugh, be happy,
go to bed.

I sat up all night
by the pool of sleep
stirring the water
with my toes,
but didn’t slip in;
you floated easily
beside me,
a couple
singing harmonies
behind an open door,
inspiring the curiosity
of children.

I hear your cries
from far away, your
needs are not unusual
in any way, you rant
and rave and pretend
to propound, but seriously
is your mind still sound?
No worry. Be happy. An
old prophet sang, for you
and for me, and for all
who need to be found.

Love is always a risk;
once you give it away
you cannot be sure
if it will return.

Some will wear it
as an ornament,
posing, seeing only
how nice they look in it;

Some will reach out
and ****** it skillfully
from the air,
and throw it to the ground,
and laugh at your weakness;

Some will demean it
and call it a farce,
holding you accountable
for every act of transgression
before it;

Some, not knowing what it is,
will toss it, and play with it
until they tire of it
and then leave it behind
like a toy;

But where love is greatly valued,
it will be carried, carefully,
and placed upon an altar
of thanksgiving,
and reverenced;

And the author of love
will receive it,
and return it
in such great abundance,
it will overflow its course
and wash everywhere,
making debris of the
hard-hearted
and foolish.

I keep Hello Poetry
at the bottom of my page
so that when I need to
descend into language
I stop gesticulating
in such awkward
maneuvers, and
start to think

I think you are
my last known
viable human
on this network,
if not this planet;
ordinarity has been
displaced with disparity
and a reaching
for a handhold
in the confusion,
are you here now?
I promise not
to disappear into
my illusionary state
if you promise not
to disclose my location

a triscuit, a triscuit
a green and yellow biscuit
I went to town
to see my shrink
and on the way
I lost it.

I am at the side door;
I tried the latch,
but it is locked.
Around in front
others are coming
and going;
I can hear the commotion
of their greetings
and partings,
and I am thinking of
walking around
and participating;
but it is peaceful at
the side door,
and I know if I wait,
that eventually
you will come around
and let me in
and we will be
alone,
together.

with them I used to see,
now mere images come
to me, in abstract sometimes,
more substantial when I
am staring you right in the face
here I can only suppose

look at your clock
and believe it won’t lie,
while others, on the other
side of the world will sigh,
and side with me, I have
recruited them all,
don’t you see, they were all
weary, and forlorn, until I
showed up, with my
happy, my cheer
and my freaking
good luck; so hear
me out, I’ve had
enough psychedelics
for a really good bout
and I won’t shut up
and I won’t (fill in the blank)

if you must
just go slide
down that slide
behind you, and
we'll tell the tourguide
you weren't really
there, but if you like
you can choose
this silly aside
and be happy
for no reason
other than to comply

Don't look up,
because if you divert
your attention
you will be blindsided
with more misery;
keep a steady eye
on the goal and
trudge forward,
your prayers
have already
been heard

it don't matter whether I click on you or not, I promise to never, ever be your bot, and promise you words with sincere application, and never surrender to mere duplication, except when I'm winging my supplication I'll try to hold true

there isn't much
time left, the
round things
are all rolling
down the hill

everything is shipshape
around here, a place for
everything, and everything
in its place, there is a softening
layer of snow accumulating amid
the falling temperatures, and the
tempest is at rest, there is wood
in the woodstove, and dinner
on the stove; of course, everything
could change dramatically in a
moment, but not likely under a
blanket of snow in the West Virginia
hills, where constancy is preserved
and treasured just for the sake
of everything else.

all you who scroll back
y'all come to your senses
there is nothing there

I asked this question of a one armed man,
“Can you plant a seed and make it grow?”
He said, “I really do not think I can.”

The same I asked of another one armed man,
He said he could but half-heartedly did sow;
He never finished with his plan.

The third bragged heartily but never began;
He talked a lot of all the things he’d put in every row,
But in the end, he ran.

The fourth realized it as a good thing to do, and
When he tried, what do you know?
He succeeded and became a better man.

The time in anyone’s life is not a prohibitive span,
To try out things that challenge you to grow;
Be brave, and try to do all the things you can,
And don’t be discouraged when you have to change the plan.

We’ve all felt it,
been thwarted by the
thwarting forces of Thwart,
left to wonder
what we’ve done,
what was our part, well
come inside and ponder
until the forces depart.
You would think it simple
to just get up and go,
do the things that
you want to, but
oh, no, oh no,
the first tool rule is
always applied, that
the first thing you need
has found somewhere to hide;
you hunt and you search,
it’s nowhere to be found,
and you thought your organizing
skills were so sound; here
have some tea, sit for awhile
and talk to me. It’s the gremlins
I say, they are always trying
to mess up my day. Oh, you don’t
believe in fairies and such,
then, what do you think
has been hindering so much?

I do not want
a single wish granted,
  because if it is
   I will not have
    this exquisite longing
     in my heart
      for you.
It supplies me with
foolish and wonderful dreams,
  life-giving and death-defying hope,
   hearty laughter
    and childlike vision,
      the plotting of courses
       to distant, unreachable
        shores.
I do not want you
to say yes to me,
  and replace these things
   with the difficult drama
    of mundane reality,
     familiarity,
      with all her
       boisterous children.
No pessimist, I, no fatalist,
no hopeless, gutless,
  whining quitter, I bound
   up the stairway of hope
    three steps at a time
     the longing in my heart
      for your love
       invigorating
        my soul.
Remain aloof, and inaccessible,
and let me dream
   my impossible dreams.

oh, man
I am having
a really good time here
all by myself,
making a lot of noise
to make up for
the silence

I've only just discovered
that I have latent inert
potential merely by
not acting on my
initial instincts, and
using my mind, but
discovering my fingers
and allowing them their
full potential. . .hence
a;lskjf;alskdjf;allsdkjf'ksljf,
ain't it beautiful??

long lost lovers
of humanity, why
do you persist, it
has to be painful

imagine that loneliness
has an executive secretary
who works his/her work schedule,
and loneliness forgets
to give her/him
the proper recognition, and
when he/she forgets everything,
loneliness turns up the isolation

what the heck is wrong with me,
ain't I got no sense?
I've spent my time with
frivolity, and lacked for
recompense; I never counted
anything before, but now
I'm feeling spent, maybe
I should have
played the game

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
I’ll keep a watch from dusk until dawn;
I’ll report on the news even though unsensational,
On the street, up the hill, at the store, on my lawn;

I’ll tell you the things that I hear from the birds,
Report on the rabbits that squeeze through the fence,
Sustain your attention with irrelevant words,
And keep an eye out for Marjorie Pence;

If Ed wins the lottery, I’ll give you a shout,
If the dogs keep barking, I’ll stop up my ears
If you’re worried about thieves that are lurking about
I’ll give you a call and calm all your fears.

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
Sensible and skeptical, lamentable, intentional.

or maybe I should
just stand on the thing
I want you to see, and
hail you as you walk by

typically, when something
fell from the kitchen counter
onto the kitchen floor, the
old man let loose a stream
of invective, but he held it in
this morning; he was expecting
company and didn't want
to be found in a kitchen
full of asterisks

I don't remember
opening this other
bottle of wine, but
it is here now with its
disgusting insistence

As I lay these things out for you to understand, please do not pretend that you do. These words are full of tricks. Like taking you to a place you have never been, and making you feel like you know it, making it all feel familiar. I called the place Argentina, but it was no further away than my writing desk. Do you understand now?
You think you can see children playing in the street and laundry hung from high windows, a street vendor honking his wares from an old cart, a cat lounging in a sunny doorway. But what was really there was a bowl of nuts on an old wooden table and a man dressed still in his pajamas, his pant legs tucked into his woolen socks, shaking his pen to get the last few drops of ink down before he consigned it to the waste bin and got another from the kitchen drawer. The coffee that was steaming on the stove might have been from Argentina and the weather could have been balmy and not frigid like the old man’s heart as he tells you his tale.
The old man’s writing had been previously thwarted by his children as they taught him to believe that he was destined and doomed to stay in that lonely old clapboard house forever, but he had escaped to a faraway land. The cat got up and wandered slowly in the trafficless street looking for something to eat. A child with a stick and a hoop came running by and the cat scurried out of the way. A very low rumble filled the air which smelled of cinnamon. No one knew the noise was from tanks because no one there had ever seen one before. A woman with a puffy dress that made you wonder what she looked like underneath it cocked her head out of a kitchen window. A steaming pie beside her revealed the source of the spicy smells. A flock of starlings flew by.
“Raul,” she called, “bring that cat to me. I have some milk for it.” The boy threw his hoop and stick down and chased after the cat which eluded him effortlessly by darting under a low wagon. The barker laughed and held out an apple for the boy and distracted him from his mission.
The old man groaned again and shifted in his chair and sipped his coffee wondering whether he should stop writing with his pen and shift to the keyboard because the pace of the story was about to pick up dramatically and go from a leisurely day in a small old town to full scale war. The old man pushed a button on his keyboard, but nothing happened. He remembered that he had unplugged it the night before and reached down from his chair, groaning again, and nearly fell out of it reaching for the plug. His elbow hit the coffee mug and spilled it all over a stack of bills waiting on the table to be paid and a stream of invectives flew from the old man’s lips. A woodpecker pecked loudly on the side of the old man’s house, and the same flock of starlings flew by his kitchen window. Are you curious enough now to go ahead and turn the page and see what happens in chapter two?

I woke up
wondering,
why is the sun
shining in through
a north-facing window?
it was
my big maple tree,
bright yellow
in its dazzling,
autumnal display;

the trip to town
was a glorious drive,
the sky
full of falling leaves,
windows open,
my half-finished poem
flapping
on the seat,
I drove more slowly
dodging wooly bears;

the autumn colors
remind me
of the corduroy shirts
I wore
as a boy,
and the multi-colored
drip candles I made
in my bohemian days;

I’ll do my shopping,
then see if the leaves
have fallen
from the gingko tree
on the college lawn,
then go back home
and think
of all the things
I’ll write
while sitting
at the kitchen table
this winter,
by the woodstove,
when the leaves
are all mulch
in my garden,
the snow is falling,
and evergreens
reign supreme.

Life seems to be
an arduous climb
up steep, winding roads,
with harrowing bends,
to the top of a mountain
where you can turn
in a full circle,
and see all around you; or

it is a long sea voyage, all alone,
where you can see that same horizon
all the way around;
the monotony tempered
by the anticipation
of reaching shore
somewhere, maybe to find
something new; or

it is a long walk
in the woods, lost,
all the trees seeming the same,
until you find a clearing
and see a house,
or hear the familiar sound
of traffic on a nearby road; or

it is a journey upriver
battling against the current,
losing headway when you angle
for either shore; frustrated
and out of strength from
the continual rowing; or

it is a tedious drudgery of work
on an assembly line
of routine and boredom,
your paycheck no remediation,
your weekends bland, similar,
a welcome rest, but
holding no promise; or

it is a tiring routine of meals,
the same over and over,
until you end up putting
hot sauce on everything,
and your mouth and your mind
go numb in rebellion
to the lack of creativity; or

it could be a walk through a city
down unfamiliar alleyways,
large buildings blocking
your view, with a fear
inhibiting the anticipation
of finding your way out again,
a foreboding at every corner; or

maybe it’s an accumulation of meaningless things,
a discarding of meaningless things,
an argument over meaningless things,
a long oration from meaningless people
about the meaning of meaningless things; or

it can be a search through a library
of information, roaming
through the stacks, taking
books down, looking
for secret directions,
hidden meaning between the lines; but

sometimes, it is the joy
of a song with others, the
harmony of worship, the
serenity of hope, the
other-worldliness and the tears
of the sadness for yourself and
everyone else caught up in it,
and the faith for what might be; and

sometimes, it is just
the joy of food with others,
sitting together in comfortable chairs,
the chitchat and the laughter,
the regaling of memories
of how you somehow made it,
miraculously, this far;

and then, as if waking
from a dream, you climb from
your bed, dress painfully,
groping for your slippers, and
you stumble through your home, and
lurch to the door, open it and marvel
at something radiant and unexpected,
a prospect of new adventure,
where everything will become
the epitome of all you sought, and
you will become the epitome
of all that you have ever been.

(later)

this is the shortest joke in history,
only four words, a dialogue,
question and answer period,
an inquiry, a response, and
somehow it gets a laugh,
emma would love it!

we don’t waste nuthin’
around these parts,
we boil down the bones
and make slaw of the stalks,
we compost the peels,
and crush up the cans,
eat all the leftovers,
chew roots for our hearts;
we do the same with
memories around here,
we forget all the sad times
and concentrate on cheer,
chew bark when we’re aching
and for sadness drink beer,
you may do as you like,
but be sure, if your wasteful,
better not come around here.

Silence,
  though sometimes golden
  is now awkward;
I came to you
  longing
  to drink
  from your fountain,
but you knew
  you could never fill
  this emptiness that is me,
    and you demurred,
    and sighed,
    and held me
  in your sad eyes,
    and wet my lips
    with a single kiss.

oh ****, it's Friday
and nobody gives a ****
they're all drinking

Alexander the Great
had a wart on his ****,
it bothered him
so much he cried;
he was stuck with the thing,
it wouldn’t go away,
no matter how hard
he tried; he tried doctors,
magicians, incantations
and chants, formulas
to help him in bed,
but it wouldn’t go away,
he was stuck with the thing,
so he conquered the world instead.

for what can compare
with the fanciful
drama of dreamland
where mechanics long for
the rusty old tools
of their past
and swans
larger than life
call to you
with raucous honking
then carry you
to magnificent heights
riding on their
billowing backs
bundled in blankets
of warmth among
the brilliance of stars
and a simple flat tire
results in multiple
tow trucks hauling
each other higher
while troves
of innocent children
explore pristine
mountain towns
in awe of nothing
in search of fun
and happy old ladies
with open purses
provide substance
with pleasure
and the prospect
of gloom
is nowhere
to be seen?

I spent the first half
of my dream
trying to find
the superglue;
finally, I went
to a store
and they only had
eleven tubes
for six dollars.
I couldn’t do it.
I knew I had six tubes
somewhere at home.
Then the clerk
gave me two tubes
she had in her drawer.
At last! I had my superglue.

I spent the second half
of my dream
trying to figure out
what I needed the
superglue for,
and why the neighbor
was driving his truck
in my yard
and who all those
noisy people were
that prevented me
from hearing
what you were
trying to say.

Honestly, I have no
feeling about now
just now, because
I am hiding, I am
not really here,
and time is behind me;
I can be here, silent
forever; but time
likes to creep up,
and when it does,
I kick it back
with my left foot,
and when I'm standing
that takes some practice;
divided right down
the ******* middle
is my mind,
and my balance
eventually always lands
on the gravity

Black and white are all the same to me,
I have this attitude because I’m blind,
I never wanted this to be;

when people touch me, I want so much to see
just who they are. I know that I would find
them different, not like in this darkened sea;

and the sort of person that I want to be
is always thoughtful of others, and kind
respecting their differences with charity;

We all sometimes act toward others stupidly,
not thinking how they’ll take things in their mind,
we call them names without apology;

So can we all just stop the vitriol and be
a race of people who have left the hate behind,
and try to broaden our humanity?

There are many things that make us disagree
But maybe we could leave them undefined,
And concentrate on things that make us free,
Like love, respect, and our accountability.

I live in the house of peace
where softness reigns, where
the news is watched but easily
ignored, were not stupid, here,
we just choose a different path
where all things don't collide,
and there is a buffer zone
and foam rubber reigns
and we are all trained to
subtly reject all incoming missiles
and fill the world with songs
and what else, whistles

most everyone has
something to say, a
criticism, an observation,
an opinion, but I know
a girl who just runs around
encouraging everyone,
how wonderful is that?

fie upon you
my subjects,
you have no idea
what I have done
for you, to bring you
to the brink of wonder.
you are all conclusionless,
while I only, reign in
alcoholic confusion
helpless while spouting
these illusions