TV weather people
I find to be a pain
With their doomsday reports
Of drenching rain,
Of raging winds
And threatening skies
And temperature's
Escalating highs

Easy on the eyes
Always gabby
They give more advice
Than the current "Dear Abby"

"Keep your pets inside
During a monsoon,
Grab an umbrella
If the skies reflect gloom,
Apply sunscreen
And avoid the sun's glare -
Boots, jackets, coats, gloves...
Always be prepared!"

And forecasters' eyes light up
When a storm is due
And if there's snow
They'll remind you
To get bread and milk
And a load of rock salt
And don't forget to shovel
Your snowy sidewalk

Their do's and their don'ts
Are a pain in the ****
I advise all of them
To keep their mouths shut!

This false pain from a still false lance
Is mine to suffer through a frenzied dance
For beyond the pirouetting players
Lurk my silent secret slayers

In closing come come the curtain calls
Trapping me in mad applause
And even my expiring breath
Belies the backdrop's quicker death

Although the savage clock will strike
And toss me from this scene
The bravos never uttered
Will survive my dreaded dream

I tried to make me God and King
Sainted in the flesh
I find the easiest meeting begins
In shaking hands with death

The flags languish
expecting to see
no light of day
until
once again
proud veterans
march down
a thousand main streets
their shiny shoes
striking pavements
their ears filled with
standing ovations
their faces
smiling with pride
as they pass by
in
perfect
parade
formation

Shining by the sun's reflected light,
the moon's lumpy comical face
squats over rooftops,
grins at the fate
of mere earthlings

Soon footprints of men
will mark its smirk
while this one death on earth,
sealed in slack tide,
is unhinged,
rising slowly from a pond
while arias and omens resonate
in the muggy calm

I am leaping fountains and quiet parks,
museums of culture and halls of learning,
a place of lofty dreams and stark ambitions,
colliding like campaign posters on a wind-swept parkway.

From the outset, the marriage had
been a troubling one...a springtime
honeymoon in London with frigid
winds and dark April skies only
added to the gloom.

Their rocky union consisted of
alcohol-fueled marital warfare
...arguments endlessly erupting,
the 'silent treatment' dividing
them, bitter trial separations...
but somehow something always pulled
them back together until that one awful
morning when he found her lifeless body
next to him in bed, the victim of a stroke.

Weeks later he made a shocking discovery
...her hidden journals shoved inside a
trunk in a dark corner of their cluttered
attic - diaries filled with deception,
a litany of love affairs, heartless
couplings, page after page of secret
passions featuring a  cast of paramours
catering to her every intimate whim.

And then he pondered his own romantic
intrigues slipping in and out of his
own life all those years they shared.
But he was certain she had no idea what
he'd been up to - she'd been entirely
clueless. She never mentioned them in her
private journals. She'd never accused him
of anything like that. She never knew
he'd ever been unfaithful. It was
simply not possible...
or was it?

It was Nixon's last day at the White House.

He was a vulnerable man,
meandering through the halls of history,
one step forward, two steps back

Once he was
a dreamer of faraway places,
a leader with ideas and purpose,
a seeker of peace

Critics saw him differently...
an easy target for derision,
fit for caricature,
for satire

Now he prepares to leave
this temporary home,
faced with dread awakenings,
his final hours slipping by

Soon a valet will knock on his door
and there will be no more dreams left
to interrupt

The friend I know
is not the friend I knew

His once open smile -
focused, pleasant -
has become a fast fade,
changing instantly
into a serious unforgiving expression,
a Dustin Hoffman smile,
fleeting, formidable,
a solemn face that closes gates,
builds walls,
seals fate,
the expression of an
enigmatic character
in a strange novel
speaking endlessly
with great authority
and then
just like that
vanishing
with a turn of the page...
never ever appearing again

Voices are telling me not to jump
They're loud, demanding
Crying out, beseeching me
"STOP!" they yell.  "STOP!"

A small voice inside me whispers "jump"

I'm afraid but I step forward
Swaying in the rough wind
The urgent sound of an alarm clock
Shrieks next to me -
The sound rushing through my room
Like a runaway train

My dog leaps up barking, licks my face
I sit up soaked in sweat
Disheveled, confused, shaking

A witness once again
To my own resurrection

My words will roam
like untamed cattle

searching for water
for the velvet of grass

the sun will bear down on them
ruthless and bright
ignorant of their aimless trek

with no leader
they will have to find their own way
    across the prairie of thought
their thirst quenched only by the
    clear water of ink

The poetic license I seek
Seems to be something unique
No numbers are on it at all
No address or phone number to call

There is no photo of me
Smiling so pleasantly
Nor an "issued" notation
Nor "date of expiration"

No signature is needed
(A departure from the norm)
In fact, my name's nowhere on it
Or even the date I was born!

My advice is not to apply for one
In fact, I strongly insist
Save yourself stress and bother
No such "license" exists

Poetic license you see
Is invisible as air
Yet your skill can make someone smile
Or passionately care

Your words can paint sunsets
Or spout political views
Your poetry can be a fantasy
Or as real as Page One news

Set your pen to paper
Hit those computer keys
Create your own masterpiece
And let your mind roam free

You don't need a license
For your imagination to soar
Just wait for that creative spark
And let that mighty pen "roar"

Giddiness
Feeling jumpy
Breathlessness
Rapid heartbeat
Lightheadedness
Constant daydreaming
Smiling inappropriately
Butterflies in the stomach
Feverish but in a nice way
Extreme feelings of euphoria
A springlike rise in one's temperature
Hearing singing when there's no one there
An unexpected interest in romantic poetry and schmaltzy love songs
And
Finally
A sudden urge to dance

DIAGNOSIS: You're not sick -
                         You're just in love!

Withdrawing to an empty room
I shut out light
and breathe arrhythmically

Childlike I warm myself
with dark vibrant blankets
as I fall deeper and deeper
into a dream
within a dream

A madwoman's fingertips
skim down the side of my head,
an old man's remains
are lowered
into sacred ground,
darkness smothers
a snowman mourning
in the blue night
of winter

There is no adventure in him.

He knows only that there are trees.
He does not see lumber camps
or feel the strength of men
in black checkered shirts.
He cannot touch their red leather skins
or smell their hot whiskey breaths.
He does not see logs on the river.

I have tried to speak to him of Indian canoes
and rafts on the Mississippi.
I have tried to share leaf scents
and wood-burning fires
when everything is cold outside.

But he is content to just find shade
by the northeast window.

There is no adventure in him.

When the poet dies
his grandchildren may
only know him from
memory
someone who used to
hug them
tickle them
give them fresh
dollar bills on
their birthdays
someone to tell them
what his youth was like
when he lived it

Will they read his
poems and stories
his published works
now relegated to a
box languishing
somewhere in the heat
and dust of a storage
space
just stuff in a box marked
MISCELLANEOUS
a carton among many
cartons right behind
a half dozen hefty bags
pregnant with forms,
statements, bills, things
he never quite
got around to
shredding?

Maybe he should have
composed an opera
with the singers'
voices rising like
beautiful pink angels
in a heavenly choir,
a celebration where
the audience would stand up
and shout "BRAVO!" -
a sound so triumphant
so unique
even the gods
would bow
in reverence

what is more useless than beauty?

it's nothing more than an arrangement
   of features that please the eyes
a form of visual perfection
   that inspires awe
a whim of god to distribute it
   in modest numbers

but it still works its magic
when it sashays down a street
and children at play stop
as if a goddess is in their midst

I think that I shall always fear
The sound of footsteps very near
Not the kind of footsteps military
But the tumult of shoppers in a hurry
That is of course a sorry sound
Of customers running all around
Grabbing sale items everywhere
And scaring all without a care
It's the shrill noise of Christmas fright
(Forget Santa Claus and "Silent Night")
From Black Friday to December twenty-four
It's that time of year when they head to the stores
Then everything ends up under a tree
And everyone's savings vanish mysteriously
And the mall's sound system sounds kind of funny
As it resonates resolutely with the sound of money

These moments...
to see the days sparkle
with the sun's brilliant glow,
to breathe the morning air
and smell the yellow rose,
to sip red wine
and laugh and sing,
to welcome love
and cherish spring...

These moments are departures -
fleeting bits of pleasure -
but each one gives us cause to smile,
to savor and to treasure.

To overeat is human.
To diet is divine.
To count your every calorie
is a precious use of time.
To pass up fattening goodies
shows your admirable restraint,
a noble cause you've championed
with nary a complaint.
But who could nix banana splits
or pasta, piping hot?
Your diet is well balanced.
Your mind is surely not.

It blares me awake
   from a deep sound sleep
a high-pitched aberrant signal
   that disturbs and mystifies
a sonic knife
   cutting through the air
i pause
not remembering
who i am
where i am
how i got here
in this dark unfamiliar room

i struggle to remember
what mayhem could await me -
something evil, foreboding,
something awful
cloaked
in the merciless sunlight
of morning

at summer's end, she is in the
fabled city of light, drifting in
a romantic evening of soft breezes,
streets majestically lined with trees,
the brilliant and luminous eiffel tower

she is thinking of those she turned
against, people she had once trusted,
admired, adored, loved - and then spurned -
her mother, husband, sister, brother,
friends, each one falling away like
those endless bouquets presented to
her at state visits...bright, beautiful
flowers, their petals dropping, dreamlike,
from her arms, falling like little pieces
of flesh floating lazily to the ground

she faces the tunnel now, fearful that she
might disappear in the cavern of lights,
the glistening mercedes, almost airborne,
moves at a furious speed, she ends up
trapped in the car, slammed against a
wall, she does not even know, in this
moment of profound loss, that she has
no voice to speak, to call out, to plead,
her eyes fluttering wildly at the lights
glaring at her in the tunnel

it's
time
to talk
about death now
one of my favorite
topics
the wonder of it
the finality
is there more to it
or do we become only
fodder for the crematorium
or do we fade
in the big dark box
leaving behind
whatever hair we have left
and our bones
brittle as they may become
what happens when we go there
are we reunited with family
do we sit down and have a chat
about old sunday dinners
and christmas get-togethers
and how much weight
aunt barbara put on
after she divorced that rug salesman
the one with the bad toupee
and who inherited
all that fancy china
from grandmother getz
how do we look when we're dead
- pasty and pathetic -
do we sag     do we gossip
do we bowl or play tennis
so much time
nothing but time
and not a clock to be found
and what about heaven and hell
all the time in the world now
to see what everything's about
i wonder if there's music up there
i think i'll look up my neighbor mark
the one who ran off with the brassiere model
i think that he knocked her up and they moved to florida
and then he had a stroke or something and died
but being dead might not be such a bad deal
after all
so many questions
all that time
and all we really want to know for sure is
is there life
after death
at least we'd find out
wouldn't we?

The demons of drugs, drink, and excess
Seem like malevolent strangers
Purveyors of madness and mayhem
Symbols of doom and danger

The demons that overwhelm us
The demons that we hate
Threaten us at every turn
They lurk, they taunt, they wait

We should look deeper every time
We fear the demon's flaws
For they may not be hiding from us
They may not be so strange after all

We should look within ourselves
And heed that urgent call
For the demons may be staring at us
From that mirror on our wall

I wish for sleep
A restful night
No pain  no anguish
No endless plight
My breathing measured
My mind all clear
Of stress and strain
Of doubt and fear
And when dusk nears
And dims the light
I'll bless the calm
This dreamless night

I am you
And you are me
My cool twin brother
For all to see
Same eyes, same hair
Same dazzling smile
Follow my lead
Copy my style

Get out there now
Break a thousand hearts
Woo them with words
And play it smart
Shed some tears
And wipe them dry
(Sensitivity counts)
Oh, what a guy!

Have your turn
At romance and fun
Lead the pack
Enjoy your run
But always remember
Whatever they say
You'll only be
As cool as me -
It's in OUR DNA!

We know that snow and ice
And wind and sleet and hail
Will make us all uptight
Make us despair and wail

Let's face it: The roads are scary
                      Filled with sudden risks
                      When Mother Nature digs into
                      Her nasty bag of tricks

And weather experts only
Make us tense and fidget
With forecasts of wind chills
In dreaded single digits

We say: No more shoveling snow
              No more arctic winds
              No more cars that cough and stall
              No more tires that spin

We'll wait for warmer days
The days when bluebirds sing
We'll wait for winter's end
And bless the birth of spring

Standing at the top of Billy Penn's hat,
I dive into the depths of two great rivers.
When I surface, the course of human events
courses through my aged veins,
and I can see, in the fleeting sun of autumn,
this procession of people and neighborhoods,
this cityscape painted with a sweeping stroke,
these diverse proud citizens who call me Philadelphia.

late morning
we're asleep
the phone rings

i hand it to her
she tells me
it's the drugstore
her prescription's ready

later i'll remember
her voice sounding
a little weary
but there's
no pain there
no urgency
yet there's something
not right
about her voice
something disembodied
like a lost voice

a little later
when i wake up again
she's facing me
her eyes are shut
then three rapid exhalations -
three in a row -
escape from her mouth

then there's silence

i call her name
there's no response

i scream her name
nothing happens

i touch her arm
she's warm
but her eyes remain closed
her hands are still

i phone my daughter
she says call 9-1-1
9-1-1 tells me what to do
i do what they say
then rescue people show up
and take over
then they rush her
to the hospital

my daughter drives me there
we go inside
but we don't want to

we don't want to hear
what we already know

a blank white page stares at me

it seems to be
taunting me
daring me to fill it
with lush language
and clever rhyme schemes

around the same time i imagine
a white flag waving on a full moon
a moon swimming lazily
in a galaxy of
bright
glistening
stars

this scene of cosmic perfection
enhanced by my lopsided logic
somehow inspires me

i take a long deep breath
and my pen begins its journey

new year's eve
is way too much
too much to drink
to feel to touch

midnight comes midnight goes
time to shuck all those clothes
desire dances from dusk till dawn
new year's eve all night long

We grieve as one to understand
how death could take this joyful man
who knew some days were swept with rain
and some nights filled with loss and pain
but knew the sun could light the way
and give him strength to face each day

And now at last he finds release
Sleep well my father...rest in peace

I'm the face on a Norman Rockwell cover
and a nameless soldier honored
in a single noble tomb

You see me -
a fearful face in a
sea of fearful faces,
a part of those huddled masses
yearning to breathe free.
Armed with dreams and apprehensions,
I wave to the majestic lady in the harbor,
her torch warming my hopeful heart.

You stand with me
in the stillness of Arlington,
a grieving parent
clutching a folded flag,
remembering my fallen child.

And you listen to the sounds I love -
the music of a marching band
on the Fourth of July,
a rhapsody by Gershwin,
the soul of Bourbon Street jazz,
the roar of rock.

You know me.

From sea to shining sea,
I am America.
You are America.
God shed His grace on thee.

Infrequent is my heart...
is the rain...
the sullen part
of every beating fist
against my windowpane,
renouncing all my dreams, my claims,
as if the drops' joyless sound
could split ambition halfway down,
make one part stray like stray balloons,
the other mocking (mere buffoons).
The clown of hope, lost in a crowd,
paints his face orange (loud),
so garish that the image stuns
that part of me devoted to fun,
for the moppet is tossed from here to there,
raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare,
who moves silhouetted across the walls
and sneaks under doors, along dark halls
and whispers to the dead in a far-off place
and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace
to fall like you fell with your hands so bony,
your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!"
Little prophet with buttons for eyes:
snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies
flit in the air like flighty ghosts,
land in the butter, spread on toast.
Infrequent little cups of truth
pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth,
infrequent as the beating part
of every man's still thirsty heart.

He arrived
Without ribbons or bows
Just a full head of hair
And a cute little nose
With a smile so sunny
It melted the snow
And lit up a room
And made our hearts glow

Then Santa showed up
With a sleigh full of toys...
Special deliveries
For each girl and boy
But no present compared
Or brought so much love
As our new baby boy
Our gift from above

The man who hated summer
smoothes on sweet scented lotions;
his body glistens like a waxed table.

Jobless and listless, he soaks in
lemon yellow afternoons
and smiles at the irony;
the season he's never sought
is the only one he has.

Now he never reads a paper
or greets a neighbor
or mows the lawn.

Instead he simmers on a chaise lounge
in a nest of mosquitoes and heat,
his flesh taut like sutures,
his eyes drawn shut against the sun.

Darkening under a paper white sky,
he holds his breath
while the phone rings and rings and rings.

Violins straining
lights playing
on the heroine's face
her eyes misty
with suffering
the handsome hero
caresses her frail hand

suddenly
her hand rests
on the chenille bedspread
her face passive
against an ivory pillow
her eyes close
soaring voices rise
lights dim

quickly
the hero
his lady
the room
lights
colors
music
screen
theater
people
you
me
fade
out

Who wrote these famous lines?  I know.
His name is Frost.  How apropos!
The poem has woods and a lake,
A farmhouse, horse, and falling snow.

There's also a harness bells' shake,
A sweep of wind and downy flake.
Though some say symbols do abound,
Frost wrote it for remembrance sake.

His rhyme scheme's difficult yet sound.
How he labored to put it down -
A work with a majestic sweep,
Simple yet so deeply profound.

The final words are very deep.
They speak of promises to keep,
And a journey that will end in sleep,
And a journey that will end in sleep.

Some attract with charm and looks
Some appeal with their love of books
Some ****** by spending frivolously
Most will choose Door Number Three

What then shall they discuss?

The sad-sweet months
when they trekked through
Europe, those hot nights
when they made love inside
a canvas tent or the untimely
death of a mother an ocean
away?

Nature, love, poetry,
art, old snapshots, a
seance that scared
them so many years
ago or that draft of an
old will found in a
long-forgotten
trunk in the attic?

Maybe they'll set aside their
memories and tasks,
let nostalgia drift away
like an  absentminded
ghost or uninvited guest.

All their energies should rise
to a final nervous pitch
when they raise their
glasses high and
wet their arid lips.

It
may
happen
when your brain
gets confused and
you're out of rhyme
or don't have much time
or your heart's not in it so you
give it a try and your get up and go
gets up and says 'bye.' When inspiration
has decided to flee, don't take the flight so
personally. There's always something to give
you a lift, some magical way to steer
through life's twists. Just remember
those poets from olden days found
their inspiration missing in
a troublesome haze...
when the rhyming muse is
nowhere to be found and
words that used to flow
sink underground,
just keep the faith and
before you know it you're back
to being a full-fledged poet. Believe
in yourself and your gifts are enough to
show everyone you still have the write stuff.

Sometimes I just want to break free
from pen on paper

I want to get away from the sound of
my ancient typewriter clacking away
my fingers creating images dialogue feelings
the actor inside me wanting to
crash through

Sometimes I want to break away
from the pool of words
I want to startle someone
make them understand
my search for clarity
my desire to
take down the
fourth wall
brick
by
brick
the mad architect
shuffling through
a mass of blueprints
looking for the one
that shrieks order

This water bead in never being,
complete with confusions of cells,
of unspecial wombs,
whips in blood and phlegm,
strikes a snaking cord,
snaps taut in seconds.

Escaping this route,
shrieks explode
inside a glass room...
their sounds become
a strange comedy
of exhalation,
laughter,
occasional breakdowns...

Before long,
passion returns all this
into a water bead
drifting in a dim never being,
losing to a bright bitter is.

The newspaper reported he was
    the kind of kid
who rode home on a crowded school bus
sitting alone
looking out a window

Silent
shy
socially awkward
he kept to himself

He appeared in a nightmare I had
after that  tragic December morning
at Sandy Hook:
I only saw him from the back
moving quickly from a car
carrying a rifle
shooting his way
through a locked glass door

Then I woke up
cold
sweaty
a knot in my stomach

I never saw his face in the nightmare
just him
moving quickly
like a phantom
in a hurry

children dream
in peaceful slumber
no monster intrudes
on their gentle breathing -
as soft    as delicate
as their first prayer

           but somewhere
           some unfathomable nightmare
           will soon spread over the landscape
           watching
           waiting
           hovering

           impatient
           for this innocent night
           to end

someone still likes
the way words
race across a page
like brazen insects

someone still marvels
at the magic and movement
of poetry
rhythms that challenge
and calm the heart

someone still respects
the simple music
of a single sonnet
so sweetly sounding
the reader whirls
in exhilaration
like a ballerina
in a sunlit room

now take the words
and make them twist
and turn and jump
and rise and fall

you are their master
their leader their captain
make them bow to your voice
make them cower and despise you
call you hateful names
curse your power

bind them up
in a choke hold
watch the blood
fill their faces
their tiny mouths
squealing in pain

then release them slowly
into the night
whispering your forgiveness
currying their favor
for you know
in their naked humility
in their confusion and fear
they are
after all
only words

Her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point

In all her life
she rarely opened her arms to anyone
rarely returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed

Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in a snake pit

No voice is quite
like that voice...
pure and unfettered
every note polished
perfect
every lyric deeply felt
delineated

A voice that lifts
caresses
embraces

Soaring with power
stratospheric
in its reach
yet at times
surprisingly soft
yielding
delicate

A priest sent her
a letter stating he
felt the presence of
God every time he
heard her sing

An incomparable artist
she fills our universe
with glorious sounds
and infinite rapture

She is God's greatest gift
to music and the world...
her name is Barbra

Waking from a crash of glass
Sweat pouring...hands attending
In this bright room where whispers pass
I slowly feel myself descending
You thought that only words could break me
But glass, metal, time, rain
Mingled in one reckless moment
Left me scarred, seared with pain
Somewhere in my shattered mind
Where illusion can only take me now
Scenery changed just like our lives
No one will note my final bow
You thought that only words could break me
Racing from your angry glance
Bizarre, the slow lid's eerie closing
White bulb swaying on a final dance

Love showed up unannounced
Startled me in a dream
Did it come to take me away?
What was its noble scheme?

Love sort of mystified me then
Stopped short and sped away
What message was in its eyes?
What words did it fail to say?

Perhaps it came to taunt me
To challenge me once more
To share myself, my feelings
To allow my heart to soar

To watch me try once again
Before the hour got too late
To give me one more chance for love
To change my lonesome fate

i come from nowhere
being far from never
floating in a mazeless void
toward a nameless ever
and if you come across me there
wave an invisible hand
and watch my disappearing form
in this silent airless land
and make certain you remember
if you mindlessly recall
who and what and where i came from
and how i took my fall
through infinite skies of empty
past petty vacant stares
a journey with no purpose
a journey to nowhere