Each morning I awake
with a renewed hope
that my walk, my sifting
through the day
will become seamless
like the dreams of my nights
that flow from place to place
without barriers, or hindrances
to empathy, to understanding
Like the water seeps through the soil,
as the breeze blows through the leaves
in my dreams each of us
fully gather thoughts,
feelings and desires of each other
All relationships ensue
unescorted by impediments
My fear is that
few others dream this dream
rather haunted by
nightmares that bleed
into reality, nightmares
of violence, poverty, despair
of pockets of hell
growing around them
on this earth

Do spiders ever
paint themselves into corners?
Humans often do.

No sickle bar churns
repetitiously clanging two notes
while grasshoppers and field mice
scurry to survive the blade

Now yellow bulldozers with humongous tires
roar like thunder in a rainstorm and
scrape away black loam leaving
clay as red as fresh beets

There is no funeral for the hay meadow
that is dead and put to rest
without a tombstone

no silence
by the water,
flies buzz, mockingbirds
try for a Grammy
airplanes roar
land, leave
touch tarmac like
sparrows gather
crumbs beneath
the feet of tourist
who dine on patios

no silence,
by the water
no holes in the water
only holes in the sky as
contrails churn up
nature's cycle
no silence
buzz, sing, roar
no end

There was a firmness
in her voice,  conviction
swimming through every line
across her withered face,
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Life for her now filled with hallucinations,
the fabric of prescriptions, intended to
calm and relieve, nonetheless resulting in
dreaded dreams or day-long semi-comas.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Steps now few
taken with arms straining against
aluminum bars capped with rubber tips
and a stranger watching,
waiting to help her sit, wipe and
retrace her shuffle to
the high wheeled chair by the window.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Her world, a waiting world
filled with shawls, quilted blankets
bland food, and echoing medicine schedules.
Her room, a blaring television set with
a remote that calls up one channel
that plays the day away.
"I hope I go to bed tonight and not wake up."

Old Age

What are you for?

Do life at a snail’s pace

Notice the drone of slow breathing

Wither

Old age *

Growing stillness

Know one day at a time

Pound the piano key’s of life

Softly

Present
Going slowly
A good time to explore
Venture toward the unknown
Gently

I'm older than FM radio,
I grew up when it was normal
to hate your enemies.

“****” and “Nip” were taught
as appropriate
and wars raged
on air, land, and sea.

Food stamps rested with coins
before situational ethics
made life grayer than gray.

Might did not make right,
Right made right!

I don’t know if “then” was better.
I know it was different
and I was at play.

Judgment had an extra “e.”
It was a different day and
no one knew who I was.

Sprinkles shower backyard fescue

Fighting against dry August air

Still days

Smiles cross aging cheeks

Love’s invasion flows upon

Discontent

Chest rises, bolstered anew

Expands with

Zest

Fieriness slithers away from

Heartbeats no longer on the prowl

Attachment

Cardinal chirps as if

Aware of a simmering fire,

Anticipations

Sprinkles immerse damp grass

Fighting against diminishing daylight

One more hurrah

I found your face
On Facebook
Hard to believe
I was ever there
The landscape
Is fuzzy
Through the fog
Your profile is
So faded, there are
new wrinkles
Around your mouth
Under your eyes
Wisdom lines
Gathered during our
togetherness

Your eyes still seer with
Every look, yet that look
Seeks not to find my soul
Whatever you saw
One look was enough
What you saw
was too mild, or wild
Or too jagged

Hidden in this box of memories
Are pieces of you
Musty reminders
some invigorating
some good
Mostly gone

It is one of those strange evenings
when orange clouds fill the sky.
It is an end of the day
when showers bring out
newspaper umbrellas
as people race to their cars
with an arm full of groceries.

A girl with wide hips and
soulful eyes walks her dog
unaware of my presence and
without notice of the blazing sky.

To her, I am transparent
as I stand on one leg
like a seagull perched
on a post in sea breeze
with a smile wide in hope
her eyes will find me
aching for her to ache for
me.

On his bucket list
he wanted to commit
an original sin
was told he already had
Somehow he missed it
No one told him
if he had fun

The Bradford Pear died

Our children left home

The Maple out back

Is a nuisance

The Star Magnolia

Blooms early this spring

Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's Flying at Night.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read Sunset, Carp and Spring Plowing
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.

Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser's *
Flying at Night
.
Pages flip
for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset,
Carp and _Spring Plowing

Envy swells inside him
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures

Like Kooser
he was reared
living rural
among tiger lilies
blooming in meadows,
amid newborn calves
teetering toward first steps,
and around
freshly spread manure
capturing the scent of fall air

His fingers still grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser's work

He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream
his dream
of pages unread.
and pages unwritten.

Morning’s first scent
bathes an arousing room 

with musty fragrance
of spoiled passion.


Clothing forms little
mountains of disarray
on faded carpet.
Burned out cigarette butts
snake gray in the ashtray 

while tepid water
with a hint of scotch
wiggles in the glasses
on the end table. 

Bodies stir with memories
of unwelcomed
interruptions. Unspent fluids
still surge in naked *****. 


Her eyes feast on stubble
sharp enough to chafe her neck.
Memories of the previous evening’s
unfulfilled promise incite tightening
between her legs. She smiles,
snuggles into the crook
of his summer-tanned arm.
No phone calls, or knocks on the door
will deter her passion this morning.

He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.

It’s spring 
on the shore
near Isle of Palms
their toes dig deep 
in wet sand 

until shards of shells 
fashion a strip 
that challenges their soles
as they tiptoe forward

A faint-hearted rainbow
bridges sea to sky above 
while they walk 
along the wind blown shore

She sees the arch of colors as an omen 
that love fades
like the bronze backs of teenagers 
turn pale in autumn’s shadows

He regards the
vague glow
as a pristine promise
that their love will grow.

He attempts to link 
fingers as a sign of endearment.
She smiles, swings her hands in rhythm
and quickens her pace before him

She was known for finding

shiny objects, pennies,

dimes and nickels on the street

in front of bodegas and filling stations.

He liked to look

upward and find priceless views

among trees and in the clouds.

They shared life well together.

Each time I notice
Small changes in your life
I keep them to myself

You know your smartphone
has a new ring
I don’t need to tell you

Your hair has a different tint
If I mention it
Your will ask me
Do you like it

And I would have to say
How much I love and care
About you and all that you are
Even if I don’t like your
New hair tint
And, by the way
The new phone ring —
Irritating

Today it's the rusty pine needles
flecking the tar covered street
and pointing every which way
that signal a new season
soon will cool my morning walk.
Hidden alongside the curb
a coke can and pale spent prophylactic
trigger memories of front seat
romances that never erupted.
Luckily I didn't know then
what I know now.  I would have
wasted more of what I had been given
trying in earnest to waste
more of what I had been given.

Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night

Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams

Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet

Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes

Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience

Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline

“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”

affixed to the cubicle wall

Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving

Grab a handful
Of warm dirt
Hard between thumb and forefinger
So it spills out upon wrinkling toes

When dew hits the morning green
Write sorrows and joys
With a stick
In cursive on the ground

Savor grim and grit,
Grow earthy, real
And unafraid
To become unclean

Watch new growth sprout
To meet the day
Become like a child
Play as a child

Come fill the void beside my heart
Wide as the river valley spreads
Still as hillside without wren's song
Make full this space where you belong

Who will sit down beside my tree
Enjoy the shade of my misery
Communicate what turns their world
Help my pain fade to ecstasy

Come fill the void beside my heart
Vacuity so deep and wide
Become the clouds containing joy
Please sit beside my lonesome tree

Water it while you water me

Each morning
He gathers
Those essential items
Left on the nightstand
Car keys, pill box,
jack-knife, and ball point pen

Pockets filled
With the necessities
For the day
He made a mental note
Find moments of stillness

Discover moments or places
To create a pause
Without sound
Or movement
Some short time
When he will inspect his
Surroundings
With noncritical awareness
Engage with the world
Like a wistful child
Who picks up a pebble
Rolls it over and over
Between his fingers
Studies it carefully
Before secreting it
In his pants pocket

During that moment of stillness
Perhaps he felt
Comfort oozing from
The stone or
Noticed the beauty
Gleaming at him
Reflecting the sunlight
Washing him with renewal

Flickering blast forth
"It is broken.  It needs fixing"
We know, we broke it

Today all carp are swimming high
in swirling waters.  Autumn
calls them to flip sideways and glance skyward

Industrious people prepare homes
for the ravages of winter
cocooning foundations with bales of straw

Storm windows prop against scaffolds
like volumes balancing
between bookends on library shelves

Each evening doors close and shut tight
locking out lonely shadows
in search of a bed before sunrise

Skin dark from summer rays fade away
Evenings edge closer to night,
fish form schools in the lake’s warm bottom

Dakota is preparing for winter

Surprise overcomes
Words seem nonsensical
Fact checks become
Daily headlines
Pure prevarication
Not mere vagueness
Untruths, shams
Two-faced attempts
To cheat to win
In a battle of ideas
Better still, flooding
Air-waves, all media
With bogus pre-text
That fend off
A battle
From ever being fought
Fabricated?
More than merely falsification
Calling truth a lie
Shout-downs over debate
A campaign designed to
Discredit, debunk and divide
* (back in the day we called this **** and bull)

At ten
I skip through opportunity
eyes focused
across the bridge

At thirty
each day
duties and plans,
surround me
to smother every dream

At fifty
sons and daughters
abandon my side
to swim
in their own soup

At eighty
days are handled
like worry beads
strung on a broken cord

In life, does one stalk
Integrity and dignity

Choosing to hide behind and follow
As a Labrador Retriever tailing a pheasant

Or does one chase the prey
Like a Bluetick Coonhound gives chase to a fox

Perhaps one can fall upon goodness
Floating downward slowly as a fading magnolia blossom

Tell me, how does one accomplish a desire
Without knowing what to use to get there

Besides, is life better lived by being honorable
Is there merit to the rewards

Surely, the pursuit is what life requires
Instead of being in wait for what is in store

As though sitting on a rock, watching a stream
Reflect the colors of the sky
While playing a song for you to hear

Yes, a baby
Asks questions
By the act of pointing
Or making a quizzical
****** expression

What is this world
What is the world about

It is so easy to Imagine
A baby not knowing
It is easy to imagine
Not knowing because
Who knows

Not the best of us
Not the stargazers
Not the book readers
Nor the book writers

Especially not the politicians
Who never stop
To ask the question
Or to ask any questions

Their nature is to accumulate
While they pretend to lead
While they pretend to guide
Their nature is taking

Some pretend to tilt
toward compassion
Toward caring
Toward altruism

No longer a baby
One grizzled octogenarian
Ask no questions
Merely wonders

Where has all of the wonder gone
He wonders if altruism is real
And if it is, why is
It ******* by greed

One small gripe dropped
On me over our morning meal
Unusual coming from
Across the breakfast plates

Your grimace
Accentuated what was labeled
A slight beef
To begin the day
About last night
When all of our world
Was supposedly sleeping

Most of the covers
Gathered on my side
Of our sleigh bed
Tucked around me

At least this nitpick
Was something tangible
Unlike the night before
When I danced all night
With your sister
In your dreams
While you were
Left sitting
on the sidelines

Still in your pink sleeper
Poking your smartphone

I watch the raindrops
playing dribble on the patio

Looking over plastic frames
You search through missives

Dark eyes still intriguing
Captivating as our first encounter

Still overwhelming
This urge to embrace

So often he attempts
to change words
he has said.
Words that he says later
do not mean
what they convey

There will never be
enough blotters, or erasers
or black markers to cover all
that he would amend
or alter if possible

A secret disclosed
once redacted
becomes evidence
that he desires his words  
to remain unconfirmed

A secret is a secret
only if concealed,
totally hidden
and never unearthed

Redaction is an action
to revoke or nullify
words and actions that
may or may not be undoable

Two years ago
her fingers
stained red beneath her nails
pillowed and splattered
layers of anger on canvas

paints and brushes littered her bedroom
where canvas stretched on frames
and love was lost under the mattress

collectors purchased her works
hoping to alarm viewers
like a siren alerts distracted drivers

at tonight's showing
she walks with a smile
as broad as a tourist
in a Japanese Garden

brilliant white works
cover each easel matching
her snowy cotton dress

In a back room  red's,
hidden under blue, green
and yellow cans and canvas,
fade daily.

Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter

Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish

When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack.  Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.

Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack

Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors

Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul

Brown and withered
Who could foresee
How tenuous was the
Hold on earth

Embedded deep
Surrounded by soft
loam, lightly tethered
There was slight resistance

Efforts to replace
Prove futile
Remnants of what
Once appeared to thrive

Lie gathered among
Scraps decaying
In the morning sunlight

The sheets are cool
Upon crawling inside
Unlike your continual warmth

A lullaby soothes me
Welcoming my dreamworld
Perhaps infancy is approaching

Over forty years
Beside legs willing
To entangle

Whoever thought our nights
Would become my
Emotional sustenance

Weathered turf
Fights against the steel
Clean sharp spikes
Penetrating hard packed soil
Struggling to fight off
Dandelions and noxious crabgrass
Growing in greensward despite
A lack of much-needed rain

Renewal begins as
Aeration creates holes
Spaced apart ready to accept
Seed flung across the lawn
By the cranking of a flywheel
Beneath the canvas sack of kernels
Destine to become blades
Of new grown Kentucky bluegrass

Re-seeding, renewal
Essential for lawns
As well as all living beings
Which regenerate
physically, mentally and spiritually
to fight off
Scars and growths
That disfigure and destroy

After forty years of marriage
he still pondered whether
she liked
his arm around
her stomach
as she awakened
in the morning

One side of her face flush
red, like she has been slapped
hard, broadsided

Since the report
her searches on Google
garner extensive lists

of indecipherable medical terms
inciting fear, fuzzy thinking
as despair shrouds her essence

Solitude
Can be spent
Enjoying what is in your midst

Solitude
Can be refreshing
Refilling the cup you carry

Solitude
Can become hard
As thoughts swirl in one’s mind
Taunting us with unpleasant
Or daunting views
Laced with brooding anxiety

When ruminating becomes  
Mulling over fears
Our negative thoughts
Become erroneous ideas
That feed even more
Agony and fretting

Name the feeling
Of desponding anxiety

Pull yourself away
From within yourself
Back to the beauty of the solitude
And experience the rejuvenation
of each new moment

Within stirs a persistent bane

birthed while on her mother’s knee,
endorsed with fiery warnings
loudly proclaimed from weekly pulpit.

Now her bones grate
against the cushion
while the rhythmic cadence
of rocking chair
runners on hardwood
breaks the dim silence


as past misdoings reverberate

on the back walls of her mind.

Disquietude prompts obsessions
she endeavors to prove invalid.
Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister.
Neither pleas nor prayers

quell her remorseful ruminations.

Thunder rolls like
rocks banging down
a mountain creek
during a downpour

Sheets of rain
blow across the lawn
as splashes bend
pink coneflowers
toward the hostas
and paved avenue
becomes a fleeting river

Bolts of light
flash through the
window evoking
fear of a strike
and the smell
of sulphur

Now the cardinal
damp from rain
reflects full sunshine
True to its name
it sits like a flame
atop the iron pole
lifting the bird feeders

Parting waves
of distant rumbles
say goodbye

shelves filled
pages turned
podcasts downloaded
unfinished soundtracks
surrounded by media
mostly lies
pulpits visited
sermons forgotten

silence beckons
sit, notice
insight sifts

mist becomes
droplets
comfort
contentment

absorb this moment
search no more

Stiff west wind blows cold
A testament to winter
See the huddled wren
Shield itself along the gutter
How sudden the seasons change

God are you among
streams that filter through
drapes of rituals
adorning  halls
of sacred buildings?

God are you lingering
in faded ink
on pages transcribed
by scribes who claim to transmit
your wisdom?

God are you hidden
amid the din
designed to cover
the answers sought?

God are you present?

Walking on a river’s bank
Looking inward
I pause with fear

Turning over rocks
May not
Soothe my heart

There may be mysteries and
Fears waiting
Amid joyous realizations
Waiting in the warmth
Of the ground

Sensing what is about me
Intaking all that is
Allowed to transform
Like I’m pumping
an accordion’s bellows

Breathing in and out while
Each of my senses
Alerts me to what
Surrounds me

I want to feel those things
That are pieces of me  
But do not define me

Metal softly clinks on ceramic.
Fingers joggle embossed grip,
elevate blades toward moistened hide.

Darkness covers the corner
opposite antique coaster bed
disheveled by fitful sleepers.  

Her hair, twirled into tangles
flows on the pillow, nasal noises
mask the music of his movements.

Any light might arouse her,
awakening her to revive
last night's squabble.

Their endless feud
over contentions long forgotten  
encircles their days.

Blades glide over chin and cheeks.  
Shaving quietly in darkness
avoids anger in the morning.