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

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.

I am working up
the courage to
face you all again
ever since I laid
myself bare with
my accounting of
how I thought to
survive; by hording
my words while trying
to stay alive, but
it didn’t work, I
almost choked on them,
and now I feel like
they are just going to
spew out of my mouth again,
and shame me as before

if you would consider me for a place in the human race, without thought, then perhaps I could be bought, but I ain't cheap, I came here by dubious means, swimming canals, finding shores, you can put water that is about three hundred degrees below zero into a woodstove and it will melt and sing you the hillbilly national anthem, but I, river swimmer, am a threat?

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.

just in case
you have been waiting,
someday never comes,
it’s always now,
it never changes
from that, so stop
saying it, someday
I’m going to do
this or that,
someday never comes

I await, faithful poets
with upturned face
for a little debris
from outer space
to fall and land
in just the right place
about noon this coming Monday;

please pray, faithful poets
along with me
for this unlikely event
because it really could be;
we’d be shocked for sure
but secretly,
our mourning hearts
would be full of glee;

(now sing the chorus along with me)

Space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready,
Oh, space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready.

Vote for me for poet of the year,
I can make you laugh,
I can make you fear,
I can make you giggle
like a schoolgirl again,
I can give absolution,
I can make you sin,
I can make you sing
with my meter and timing,
or upset your balance
with imperfect rhyming,
I’ll need your vote
at the end of the year
so, I thought I’d better
start asking you here,
vote for me for poet of the year.

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.

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.

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 like the girls
at the pizza place,
even though they're
not very feminine,
arguing with the cooks,
exchanging insults
with the dishwashers.
Still, they're good to me
and understand.
The waitress said,
wiping her hands
on her flowered apron,
I'd take you home with me."
And even though
she didn't really mean it,
still, it was a nice
thing to say.
I saw you at our ten year
reunion
with that big-mouth
you married
and I tried to be
friendly
but it was hard
with him there.
I hadn't seen you
since the party
when you rode out
of my life
on his back,
him prancing into
the bedroom and
closing the door,
you laughing.
You were so beautiful
that night, though
not very feminine,
drunk and riding piggyback.
I waited until
the party was over
but you never came out.
I told the pizza girls
how much I wanted to tell you
"I love you," but couldn't
with big-mouth there.
They gave me a free cannoli.
They're nice,
but not very
feminine.

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

there once was a fisherman
who went looking for words,
(he knew exactly how close
the words words and worms was)
so he took grubs; and pushed them
up into an inconspicuous place
where they festered and were
expelled, (completely without grace)
he survived in the end, without
comment, without friend,
but he wandered, and now is here

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.

(for erin and Kalliope)

I'm swimming alone in the river of time
Do rondy rondy rondy, do rondy rhyme,
Remember me as the one who swims here,
It's par, silly sage, nose buryin' time.

I must keep swimming to keep my nose even
With a point on the shore that I think must be mine,
I swim and I swim, and I never stop swimming,
Staying abreast of that arbitrary line.

When I swim over towards it, I start drifting back,
It never gets closer when I swim the oblique,
I turn back and swim harder against the strong current
No closer but even with the shoreline I seek.

I want to turn over and float on my back
And drift idly down, feet first in the stream
With my hands intertwined 'neath my head as I aimlessly
Seek circumstances that are more serene.

With my toes I could point and turn this way and that
Watching cloud pictures pass in the heavenly blue.
But wait! There is something I remember from stories
Of a waterfall somewhere. I think that it's true.

The waterfall stories are full of destruction,
Mangled bodies all broken on sharp rocks below,
So, I swim and I swim and I just keep on swimming,
There is nothing else. I have nowhere to go.

I pull at the water, do breaststroke and crawl and
Dog paddle when I'm tired. How I wish I could fly!
I seldom look over at the shore anymore,
It discourages me so much I just want to cry.

I used to swim as fast as I could
But then I would falter, lose all that I gained,
I now take it easy, I know my own limits,
I don't swim with my body, I swim with my brain!

A friend of mine used to swim with me and tell me
She loved me and wanted to always be there,
To challenge, encourage me, touch me and feel me
Splashing ahead with the burdens we'd bear.

But now she's veered off and she swims at a distance;
I can see her struggling like me, even more.
I'm trying to help but I know I can't reach her
Any more than I can reach that far away shore.

Look around! There are so many boats in the water,
I've been in a few but I've always leapt free
When with sad revelation I've found that their heading
Wasn't anywhere near to the port of "point me"

Ah, who's afraid of those waterfalls anyway,
Maybe, like rollercoasters, they're thrilling I'll bet.
We just fear them, avoid them and make up the stories
Because we have never been over one yet.

It's not easy to keep this stuff dry while I'm swimming,
I can't record anymore in the water, as such.
Would somebody please just hand me some goggles,
My eyes hurt from laughing and crying so much.

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.

if I wanted you to see
what I saw, wouldn't it
be better to just point,
rather than conjure a
bunch of flowery language
gibberish that leaves you
wondering who the hell I am

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away;

my thoughts are not words
  that tell you I miss you;
    they are not pictures
    that conjure your beauty;

there is no color, no line
  no meter, or rhyme
    no past and no future
    no increment of time;

my thoughts are feelings:
  needs, pure wanting
    sometimes,
    expressions of longing

that words would fail at,
  and pictures distract from;
    only touches
    would do them justice;

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away.

These books of mine,
their titles bold,
which lie in wait
upon the shelves
just to be read
and never sold,
wait patiently
as I regard
their spine,
but never have
the urge to bring
them to my bed,
my eros dwindled
after years of
grand disapproval,
from them and others;
if they could speak
with pages unturned
they’d be a chorus
of reproving languor;
“you’ve done nothing
for us. Why don’t you
throw us on the burn pile?
you smile and spurn
our words and all the while
work at your poetry,
as if you have
at your command
the ages, but
cannot see the simple
things at hand;
you’ll never learn!”
So I, with dampened eyes
turn aside nocturnal
nonsense, and take one
down, and dust it off
and open up its pages
and realize its words
are eternally young,
while I’ve grown old
and spun my lifelong
web of lies, and missed
my opportunity,
languishing
in my impunity.

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?

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

I have met so many
beautiful devils,
one tried to stab me,
one tried to shoot me,
on stole my heart, and
when I wanted it back,
she took my car; ******

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 saw him there alone at his task
upon his pedestal.
It was large enough
for him to turn
in short little steps
and still keep his balance
but no more than that,
as he turned and he turned,
and always kept turning.


Just a hand
on the pedestal
would have been trampled
by his continual turning,
in short little steps
around and around,
alone at his task
as he turned and he turned,
and he turned, always turning.


His clothing a veil
that couldn't conceal
the glow on his face.
And the strength
so apparent
in the task he performed
as he turned and he turned
and he turned and he turned,
and he turned and he turned,
always turning.


With his strong arms
bent slightly,  
he held a rope firmly
in sinewy hands
with thick fingers gripping,
he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
always turning.






A strong muscled back
and large and sure legs
bent and locked at the knees;
he leaned back with the load
his arms stretched taut,
he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
he turned and he pulled,
always turning.


And as the rope
came by where I stood
I saw why he turned,
for licking around him
was a lake of fire burning
that lit up his face
as he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
he turned and he pulled
always turning.


At the end of the rope
was a large basket full,
of children all weeping
with nowhere to go,
too heavy to pull in
with arms stretched taut
as he turned and he turned,
and he pulled and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
always turning.


They looked at the fire,
then earnestly to him
with eyes full of fear
as he held them perpetually,
above the flames;
In the glow of his face
I now recognized him
as he turned and kept turning
and turned,
always turning.





It was the father
who held them
and called them and told them
and pulled them and told them
that he couldn't pull them in,
there just wasn't room
on the pedestal for them,
but he would keep turning
and turning and turning,
and never stop turning,
no, never stop turning.




And he sang them a song
as they turned
and they turned;
he sang, "little children,
go around and around
and around and around
and around and around
and never stop turning."

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

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

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

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.

is my dislike for the exceptional
regional or conventional,
am I paranoid or schizophrenic,
am I a raging peripatetic
or a reasonably ignorant human,
these questions all remain
as I wipe my hands off
and digress from communication
and work my way back
down into my wormhole
until the holidays are over

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

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.

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

The whippoorwills
are a portent of dawn;
long before sun’s rising
they awaken the
alert ones who
welcome the light,
encourage the morning
with its singing birds
and countless bugs,
enthusiastic for life;
whirlpoolS spin endlessly,
grabbing whatever they can
and swirling it
down into darkness;
whippoorwills are for
the listening ones;
the hum of the freeway
and the buzz of mowers
and trimmers
and blowers and
planes and gulls
is for the others
who swat at ambience,
caught in life’s vortex.

Still ones,
listening ones,
stop the wheel!
Everyone grab a spoke.
Let’s turn the spiral
in the other
direction, let it come
from the center out.

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

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

methinks, the would-be poets
have all lost their sense of humor
and are engaged in a tragic struggle
to retain their personal identity,
to keep from falling off some edge,
to decry a most miserable love affair,
to keen coyote-like at a disappearing moon,
to obtain sympathies only available
from other well-meaning sycophants,
and have also lost a certain dignity
that goes with the creative urge, the
willingness to throw off convention, to
explore, to invent situations unreal,
where they are the victors, the
heroes and heroines of a dying literature,
and to laugh out loud at all the circumstances
that have brought them to expose themselves
in such an unseemly manner
I raise a New Year's glass to you all
may you find peace, dignity, purpose
and regard in the coming year, and
overcome the forces of doom