"greenway" poems
Walking alone
along the neighborhood greenway
aware of unique colors and sounds
normally hidden
or camouflaged by toxic thoughts
that chip away beauty
Centered upon each step
each swing
of first
the left arm
then right arm
signals of life
Noting strength
surging through
each calf and thigh
careful attention
of each intricate
movement of a body
complex as spider webs
on a damp morning
braiding from a woven-wire fence
Notice each moment
see how each second
contains now again
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
today, I have a biting case of gray-
a need, for what I don't know.
like there are pine needles, under my skin, digging their way in,
splinters through my rib cage, tickling the strings that attach me to my heart.
I have been checking my pockets for days now, found only worry stones,
shined and polished by my thumb.
For days now, I have had dusty fingerprints, for days now, I have felt this way.
for days I have carried warm cloth, the unborn child of my spirit,
fresh from the machines.
Buried my face in them- in order to find solace,
for days now, I have slept in.
Sometimes gray is soft and daze inducing-
somedays it is a scratchy wool afghan stretched thin across my body,
leaving channel marks and rashes-
it is an unforgettable, unexplainable feeling,
the feeling of gray.
One day in march I took a walk down the greenway
and my movements became clear to me-
cigarette flicks and head shakes had purpose.
Since then- Gray is overwhelming.
It was a cloudy day when I took them- it has remained that way since.
For days now, I have let my worries gather on my thumbs and fingers-
for days now, I have swallowed the stones.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
Canadian goose sitting
On retaining wall of stone.
Bellied up to the roadside edge,
Seemingly alone.
Wistful so I find him:
He's watching the men working-
On sterile high rise apartments
Near build-it-and-they-will-come bars.
With wings that can fly, oh why,
Does it seem like he will jump?
It's a 10 ft fall way down
To a concrete & chrome dump.
I look into his eyes to find,
The suffering he must feel.
But further there beyond the goose,
A habitat's revealed.
A winding glade n' Greenway path,
To an urban pond and park.
Not as grim to him, I see--
friends swimming by the dock.
Yes, a goose will always find
The water in the sprawl.
He'll find the pretty little stream,
By offices & malls.
To be goose, is to be free
Of yearning and supposing.
Of thinking how things ought to be,
Unsettled by the hoping.
If I could find my little stream,
Oh, maybe I could swim.
I could honk and splash and settle down-
Find the peace somewhere within.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
Tearing up and down the paths
Leaves and pecan shells on the old concrete
We thought it would last awhile
But while it did, it was sweet
Now I can’t drive over the old river bridge
Without breaking down
Nineteen years and I couldn’t have been less prepared
But I’m joyful over the memories we shared
Because in the end
I made a friend
I Love You
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC