Her brow furrows
 hard
as if etched on flint

deepens gradually

as his heels click

in cadence toward the door.

She feels unworthy of his love

but knows he will return.



When love comes like a mist in the night

accept it as a nourishing dew.
Know that mornings may

present a threat of rain
to capture the mist

only to send showers later.



No one earns love,

love comes to be consumed

like grass absorbs

the offering of the morning.

Morning sun
Peaks through
The auburn leaves
Of the red maple
To draw the eye
Away from morning news

Trouble oozes from the page
Words written in anxiety font

Attend to the beauty
Of the leaves
Instead of the letter

What problem
Has your fret solved?

Reject agitation
Select splender
Resting before you
in nature

Bread is gray, molding
No toast and jam this morning
Food for chickadee

There is no sunshine.
Cascading through
The wide porch windows

The overcast morning’s task
to make a grocery list
cans of soup, types of fruit,
nuts, cereal, potatoes, and more.

Don’t forget paper towels,
toilet paper, pancake mix,
and Jell-O.
Don’t forget the Jell-O.

Dots of White Queen Anne’s lace
Splash in the backyard

It’s August, and soon
the Lazy Susans and Cone Flowers
will go to seed.

Mundane, the view becomes prosaic
Making lists becomes dreary,
And days drift through the year

Lists and life,
unlike love, become mundane.

I was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the  poetry section
next to coffee and pastries

I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled her Red Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise

She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front
She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****,
and her fear
of ridding her garden
of a small harmless snake

I spill my passion
on the beach’s sand — our bed for now

Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions

We are intimate beyond belief
through her verbal kisses
which bring sweat to my palms

I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice

I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver

I know I had a dream last night

The dream was the first thing I remembered
when I woke up

I know it was about a child
Perhaps a near baby

I was with a male friend
Though I don’t remember who

I’m sure that I was at a baseball game
Which I left before it finished

And I left the child there
With some people I met
Sitting behind me

I do recall being told by someone
Perhaps my wife

To go back and get the child

Which I was doing when I was awakened
By a noise on the street

I hope the child is okay

When I say irritated, I mean it prickles my skin.

When I say sore, I mean it stays red and puffy.

When I say annoyed, I mean it furrows my brow.

When I say displeased, I mean my mind is tangled.

When I say provoked, I mean I long to strike out.

When I say I’m angered, I mean it fires my heart.

When I say enraged, I mean it curdles my soul.

You say tomato
I say tomato

Black is white
Up is down

This is an insurrection
By and large
That was a peaceful protest

Masks save lives
Masks promote disease

He died of Covid-19
He died

Promote the common good
My freedom trumps
concern for others

rays creep through
dust covered blinds
amid sounds from below
trip-trapping of heels across
kitchen linoleum
by legs, hearts and minds
unaware that tears
did not dry on my pillow
heedless that covers
hide fears that
the luminous hands
on the dial
will not stop  
warning me that
a voice will call
ringing my name aloud
expecting this body to carry a smile
to morning coffee and darkened toast
for another day this smile will
conceal a bleeding heart
a heart at a loss --  naive
unable to cry the tears
to seek compassion

There's red on Nandina,
berries blazing among
morning's mist

Years ago you were
a sprig, shiny green
hiding below the white spruce

Once,  nearly
pulled along with other
less worthy underbrush

Like the car that braked on
time, like the strike of lightening
that missed the cabin

Survival can show
bright, radiant
veil of flaws

Gone, times of trial
evasions of destruction
hidden behind the glare

Beneath shade from tall poplars stand
markers: rows staggered hand-in-hand.

Rock slabs like soldiers on review
symbolic nameplates capture dew.

Planted deep, mounted in red-clay;
lean to and fro like mimes at play.

Weathered by icy winter frost
and torrid heat near sacred ghost,

echoes resound of beginnings
while dust sifts across the endings.

I was told when six
lighted smokes show up for miles
during a blackout

Toward home, Christmas eve
lighted candles on tree bough
pierce through dark windows

Moonlight can become
bright enough to cast shadows
beneath my movements

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.

I can feel your patriotism
from across the street.
There’s a sense of arrogance
in your flashy display
of love for your country.

What ignited your patriotism?
Did a parent plant the seed?
Did your education reinforce it?
Were you there,
paying for butter with food stamps
during World War II?
Did you fight in Vietnam
or crawl through the hills of North Korea
as one of our fighters against communism?

You fly the flag to show respect.
Still, you fly it at night without light.
You don’t take it down when it’s raining
to prevent discoloration or fading
You don’t fly the flag at half-mast
When the state or the nation orders it.

Please align your sincere desire
to express your love for the country
with a solid understanding of
The Flag Code of the United States of America.

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

Garbled groans
Emanate from
A feeble opposition

Debilitated Democrats
Stunned and still

For want of the right word
For want of a plain proposal

Meekly making
Faint sounds of life

Begging belatedly
“Follow the rules”

Cheating continues
Constitution crumbles

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)

Words appear nonsensical
Fact checks are becoming daily headlines.
Pure prevarications
Not mere vagueness
Bold untruths, shams
Two-faced attempts
To cheat to win
In a battle of ideas.
Better still, flooding
Air-waves, all media
With bogus pretext
That fend off
A battle
From ever being fought.

More than just falsification,
blatant fabrications!
Labeling truth a lie
Shut-downs instead of debate,
All communication aimed
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