Sails Unfurled
Poetry by Lou Marin


What Love Isn’t
West
Wendell Robinson, Lobsterman
Unopened Books
Twirling in a Field
Tulips over Daisies
Trying to be Honest
Truth
True Cruelties
Traci’s Lament
To the Dead Poets
Touch and Go
Tonight We Dance
Time
Tied to Me
Through My Open Window
Thirty-Two Days
The Wrong Side of the Bed
The Sound of Wings
The Song of Progress
The Jagged Wind
The Color of Her Hair
The Band-Aid
Testifying My Love
TENDER HEARTS BREAK EASY
Tell me Today
TEARS OF PAIN
Tears on my Pillow
Tattoo Song Too
SUNSETS REMIND ME
Sunset in the West
Sunken Ships
Stream
Steadily Dripping
Soul’s Reprieve
Sometimes The Sun Blinks
Snow
Sitting On Benches
Sirens
Shut Your Eyes
Share a Smile
Shadows of Seeing
Shadows of Darkness
Sensual Memories
Sea of Heartbreak
Sand Through My Fingers
Sea of Heartbreak
SAND IN MY HANDS
Sand and Water
Sad Summer Day
Russet Hues of Sunset
Running Solo
Reflections
Red, White, and Blue Cake
RED
Recycled Promises
Queen Maeve
Progress
Post-It Notes
PLEASE DON’T GO
Planter’s Moon
Paper Tablecloth
Once Upon a Park Bench
OFF TO WORK ON A RAINY DAY
OCEAN LIFE
New York Fireman
NEW YEAR’s RESOLUTION
Never Would Have Thought
Needs and Trees
Natural Prayer
Mother’s Milk
MOONLIGHT IN MONTANA
Mirror
Merely a Myth
Melody at Night
Magical Faeries
LYING EYES
Lost Legend
Looking For Green Pastures
Living Well
LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND
Keyboards and the Net
Just Another Day in Paradise
I WISH YOU LOVE
In This Box
Imprisoned by Silence
Immortal Eyes
Ice and Sunset
Human Machine
Holiday Joy
Hey Shanty Irishman
Green Words
Grace O’Malley
FRAGRANCE OF YOUR HAIR
Four Lines
FORTY FLAKES OF SNOW
Fishing Week Six
February Days
EVERYWHERE I LOOK I FIND YOU
Emerald
Doves
Dirty Quarters
Dimensions Collide
Destiny
DECEPTION
Darkness Where I Roam
Coyote Moon
Comfort
COME TO STAY
Clouded Dreams of Harsh Reality
Cigarette Smoke and Perfume
Bitter Brew
Becoming
A Time for Healing
A Path to You
Always Dreaming of You
Alice Springs, Meg Cares











What Love Isn’t
Tina Turner once asked
in wolf-wisdom
and gravel voice.
She growled,
"What’s love got to do with it?
Who needs a heart
when a heart can be broken?"

I love love, it's true.
I oft argue with you my love,
say things that hurt
down to the core
and challenge all that is you.

Some days,
you feel my love
hotter and deeper.
Some days
you question my love,
more painful and hurtful
than anything
and everything
you could ever imagine.

One of the things
I can do nothing about,
is love pure love.

I am sorry
I once again hurt you,
but I love you.
Deep down you know it's true.
If you did not,
you wouldn't
keep loving me,
no matter what I do.

Tina Turner asked
"What’s love got to do with it?"
I apologize for every time
I wanted to tell you
I loved you,
but left without
sharing my feelings.

West
West.
West into the setting sun
I drive,
squinting into the red light.
I hope to log 500 miles
in my travel book
before I stop.
West away from it all I go.

West into the setting sun I drive.
Separating actual and factual
from desires and dreams
is hard for me.
I have kept your memory safe
as though locked in a file cabinet
until today.
West I flee,
away from it all.

West into the setting sun;
no time to check
within my mind,
or fully process information
and rationality.
My heart only understands
the desire to flee westward.
I am going away from it all.

West into the setting sun I go.
I carry no personal thoughts,
lists, agendas,
save the animalistic hunger
driving me toward you.
As sure as reflexes push my foot
I am driving west
to your waiting arms.

West into the setting sun I drive,
squinting into the red light.
I have logged 500 miles of loneliness
in my travel book.
Now I rest safe in the arms
of my love.
I live again.

Wendell Robinson, Lobsterman
"When a gallon of diesel gas is cheaper
than a hard shell lobster rated keeper
I will dry dock my old fishing boat,"
he said with lumped throat.

"I once tried a hitch in the Coast Guard,
but found following all them orders hard.
I am barely keeping this old tub afloat,"
he said with lumped throat.

"They are paying us a few pennies a pound,
and there just ain't many lobster around.
I am feeling useless as a worn out coat,"
he said with lumped throat.

We climbed the hill away from the dock,
I tuned the car radio, looking for rock.
"Prices fell like a stock market quote,"
he said with lumped throat.

Jonesport isn't buying lobster anymore.
“Gas prices today fell," said News at Four.
"Looks like my death song has been wrote,"
he said with lumped throat.














Unopened Books
Tigers, bears, and lions
are locked in cages,
subdued and bound
upon printed pages.

Unopened books fail to yield treasures
to the inquisitive seeking eyes
of small children
who sail forth
on adventures of learning.

Wild sounds, tension,
and hair raising experiences
are swept aside,
knocked off tables
and entertainment centers
in favor of Nintendo,
Play Station, and gadgets
that take us further away
from stacks of unopened books.

Tigers, bears, and lions
remain forever out of mind
when we don't encourage children
to read what is printed on pages.











Twirling in a Field

"Ring around the Rosie?"
"You have never played?"
We reclined under a tree,
a brief rest in the shade,
Emily and I relaxing again.

"Hard to play with two though."
We started spinning together,
and we decided to give it a go,
clockwise, float like a feather.
Emily and I playing again.

"Ashes, ashes we all fall."
We tumbled in a mini heap,
then stand up big and tall,
with a not so mighty leap.
Emily and I having fun again.

"What do we do now Daddy?"
"I'm getting hungry, doll."
I would like a hamburger patty."
"Can we eat at the mall?"
Emily and I traveling again.

"Dad I had fun playing with you."
Thank you doll. You are sweet."
"Do you think we can go to the zoo,
on the way back after we eat?"
Emily and I planning again.

It was a great day together,
another fine memory saved,
of a field and fine weather.
Away from roads paved,
Emily and I bonded again.
















Tulips over Daisies

Red and pink roses with baby's breath
and decorative greenery wrapped in paper,
a dozen in a bunch?

She prefers tulips over daisies, its true,
she has a place in her heart for straw flowers, blue.

Not sure where this is going
or why I tell you,
but when you romance my baby,
don't bring roses of any hue.

Simple things will endear her to you.
She prefers tulips over daisies, it’s true.


















Trying to be Honest

...trying to be honest...

If I were honest with myself
I could know more love for you
if I were honest with myself

I guess I never stop to think or do
the things that make me wonder how
I could know more love for you

I can't see other than here and now
my imagination doesn't show me
the things that make me wonder how

I guess I could look inward to see
what you need, and how to find what
my imagination doesn't show me

I fear my heart will remain shut
I will wander asking the question
what you need, and how to find what

My feelings are my obsession
I will wander, asking the question
if I were honest with myself
if I were honest with myself.










Truth

Truth was explained to me at age six
by a very wise and old teacher of 37.
(She was older than my momma in those days.)

Standing up for, and before
the truth isn’t always seeing
what you want to see,
or wish that reality could be,
it is accepting life
and the truth as what it is.

Truth is telling what happened
no matter how painful the consequences,
which sometimes included a smack on the butt.

Everything was cut-and-dry,
black and white,
and right and wrong,
in a matter of fact way.

What is truth today?














True Cruelties

Fortunately my requiem is still in progress,
like the hypocrisy of a bit of grit
slowly being entombed by shining sludge
until it becomes a new pearl.

Like the hypocrisy of a bit of grit,
cultured and finished into earrings,
I glitter in the sun of perfection.
Fortunately my requiem is still in progress.

Slowly being entombed by shining sludge
in the city through which I ride,
where one day my name will shine bright.
Fortunately my requiem is still in progress.

Until it becomes a brand new pearl,
my life will not be complete.
I await a bit more irritation in life.
Fortunately my requiem is still in progress.














Traci’s Lament

I would not like a disease
Or affliction
Named after a chicken.
I do not want your pox,
For little red dots
Make me think
An army of ants,
(so mighty and militant)
With tiny bingo dabbers,
Have snuck into my room
Late at night
Without the aid of light.

So many B-7’s
And I-23’s
And free spaces
Scattered about
Have turned into
Angry inflammation
Upon my face
And the spot
Between my shoulder blades
That I can’t quit reach.

Doctor says the fever
Will go down.
Nobody wants
To hear me complain.
Scratching is a pain.
Mom won’t make me
Any more soup,
So here I sit and cry
All alone,
Wishing I could die.
If I had a choice
I would pass on a disease
Or affliction
Named after a chicken.




To the Dead Poets

"All the world is a stage," Shakespeare said,
his words await the voracious reader.
The great bard and poet lies cold and dead.
Walt Whitman wrote "Oh Captain" on a deck of cedar.
Many generations past, he breathed his last.
I behold his rhymes, timeless as a ship’s mast.
Three generations gone past.
Three generations gone past.
He left us with words and feelings, an ocean vast.

Tales of ravens and haunted houses, doom and dread;
much too soon you left us Edgar, retreating into your mind.
Why do all the best ones end up too soon dead?
When will amazing talent and long life be combined?
In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery Emerson lies, grass blowing merry.
Upon the land with Thoreau and Hawthorn he would tarry,
in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
lies many a man with writing and thoughts contrary.

Herman Melville wrote of the sea and whale chasing.
The great whale as you know always wins in the end.
Dickinson hid out writing, peering from a window casing,
thinking and loving, penning dreams, loneliness to send.
I raise a toast, to the departed scribes and their ghost.
May your soul be finally content with the Heavenly Host.
I raise a toast.
I raise a toast.
Happy you shared with me words that kept me engrossed.









Touch and Go
It's not touch and go crazy I miss.
It is not the touch that electrifies,
igniting passion deep within, leaving a hole
miles wide, unfilled and unfulfilled.

It is not the touch that electrifies,
intensifies, and screams in the night
that makes me miss you as I lie alone,
with gathering dusk and ceiling cracks.

Igniting passion deep within, leaving a hole
that hurts and cries out for fulfillment;
that is the story and question I pursue.
Unanswered, yet challenged, giving no password.

Miles wide, unfilled and unfulfilled,
is my primal need. Head back my Yawp
issues forth, and echoes in lonely corners.
"Where is the light caress that I need now?"
















Tonight We Dance

Tonight we closely dance,
deep within my fevered mind.
A slow and happy romance,
no ice, no cold to find.

All I want is a warm Spring.
Flowered faces starting to show
as the newly arrived birds sing
and green, beautiful grasses grow.

I shiver and turn up heat
thinking of a flowered field;
petals and stems grow neat.
Bees and the honey they yield.

I want a hummingbird's wing beat
not barren covered fields of snow.
Fresh flowers would be a treat,
pretty blossoms all in a neat row.

Nothing green in the cornfields,
just snow spots on barren ground.
Its slow cold ax, winter wields.
Burrowed, waiting Spring sleeps sound.

Tonight we closely dance,
deep within my fevered mind.
A slow and happy romance,
no ice, no cold to find.








Time

Minot Daily News: DON'T FORGET TO TURN YOUR TIMEPIECES FORWARD FOR DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME, WHICH BEGINS AT 2 A.M.

It amazes me
this tick tocking thing
I stare at all day,
falling further and further
behind.

Daylight Savings?
Who is saving time?
Does God have
a special pocket,
somewhere in His robe
to stow those
extra moments?

Not God,
but Congress
has decided
I must adjust
my day
three weeks early
to be more productive.

My natural inner gears
and cogs,
springs and metronome
slowly grind on.

Wake up!
Your cell phone updated,
but the rest of
your technologically advanced
devices need a hand
to remember.

It's just past noon
time to get
in the shower
and get out to base.
NASCAR starts in an hour
or maybe two.

It amazes me
this tick tocking thing
I stare at all day,
falling further and further
behind.

Tied to Me
Five more hours of work
And I can't concentrate.
The string on my finger
To help me remember
Seems to have come loose.

I am not sure what
Was supposed to stay
In the forefront of my mind.
All I can think about
Is getting home,
Holding my love tight.

Reports come and go;
Brown folders scattered
across my desk
In an untidy heap.
Budget and fiscal year plans,
Follow Order forms and demands.

Someone needs a weapons class
And I need to sign a document.
I struggle to understand
What the acronyms and jargon mean,
My mind far away,
At home again it seems.

Five more hours of work
And I can't concentrate.
The string on my finger
To help me remember
Seems to have come loose.







Through My Open Window

Floating through my open window,
the songbirds waken me to a sunny day,
floating through my open window.

"It is a bright morning, come lets play,
we can fly and soar, see many things."
The songbirds waken me to a sunny day

I yawn and stretch as my heart sings,
ruffle and preen my feathers carefully.
"We can fly and soar, see many things."

Hop from bed, push the window open fully,
stand on the sill and contemplate freedom,
ruffle and preen my feathers carefully.

Stand on the sill and contemplate freedom,
give in to dreams and flights of fancy,
as I contemplate rushing wind, flight to come.

Awakening I behold sun's intensity,
floating through my open window,
give in to dreams and flights of fancy,
floating through my open window.












Thirty-Two Days

Thirty two stones of memories in a circle
show the sad and tragic tale too well.
Lost young students and their teachers.
signs and messages, sadness and love tell.

None should have met this sad bloody fate,
for aren't we all indeed God's creatures?
Signs and messages, sadness and love tell,
lost young students and their teachers.

On a spring morning death's angel visited,
spreading blood, turned the campus to hell.
Lost young students and their teachers.
signs and messages, sadness and love tell.

Thirty-two days of healing
won't take pain away from survivors
sitting silently in the bleachers.
Signs and messages, sadness and love tell,
lost young students and their teachers.













The Wrong Side of the Bed

The jangling, wrangling phone woke me thrice.
I added cayenne pepper to Cajun Meatloaf twice.
It burned my mouth like an eternal funeral pyre,
two cups of water barely controlled the fire.
Not only that, but I choked on a salmon bone.
I sit here again, late at night and all alone.
I have to be to work in an hour and ten minutes,
my driveway is ice, snow, and frozen ruts.

They told me to see the silver lining in a cloud,
but I cursed all the happy people right out loud!
I am supposed to sleep when the rest are awake.
I am not sure how much late night working I can take.
They chide me for waking on the wrong side of the bed,
while I attempt to shake cobwebs from my head.

Is it yesterday, Tuesday, Wednesday or some other time.
Words, days, weeks, and sleep all roll into forgotten rhyme.
I try to remember how many days have passed this week,
while morning sun, after a dark shift makes me meek.
I suddenly realize it is Good Friday and a down day,
and wonder what The Lord God thinks of me acting this way.
I will pause and pray for strength and guidance as I often do,
and look to the heavens for the gifts that point me to you.












The Sound of Wings

Is the wind lonely and alone?
Does it remember the sound of wings
after the birds fly, fly south.
Over the barren fields the birds fly
South by south in stretched V’s,
Leaving us below
And somehow abandon in their wake.
Nothing is really left
Up there except
High stratus clouds
Against a clear blue sky.
Nothingness marks turning calendar pages.
I would cry at the loneliness
Except for a single white feather.
It really struck me for some reason...
Maybe because I am lonely and alone.

That's what caught my eye.
A single white feather,
Not the brown, brittle leaves
Blowing in swirls
Around dead blown-down limbs
And shattered corn stalks,
But a single white feather.
In my mind’s eye
I saw a single goose
flying across the cloudy sky in twilight,
and I thought,
he must be lonely all on his own.
He seemed to be flying faster than normal,
maybe trying to catch up to his flock...
But it really struck me for some reason...
Maybe because I am lonely and alone.






The Song of Progress

Blissful silence at 8 am is hard to find
When open bedroom windows bring
Construction crews working on a Sunday
Knocking down houses across the street.

When open bedroom windows bring
Wood smashing and back-up beepers
intruding upon early morning quiet,
Peaceful dreams are hard to find.

Construction crews working on a Sunday
Make me wonder at the sudden urgency
To demolish and recreate a neighborhood
In the image and name of progress.

Knocking down houses across the street;
They have fenced off neighborhoods,
Uprooted and transplanted families,
They call it is the song of progress.













The Jagged Wind
Fleeing the jagged wind
the flames leaped rivers,
roads, and boundary fences,
with no regard for houses,
farms, fields, or a state wide
imposed burn ban.

The jagged wind
pushed fire along
until prairie around three sides
of the Farstad Oil tanks
was engulfed
in a red sheet.

The jagged wind
carried police and fire
radio voices
pleading for helicopter support
and help to quell
the hungry flames.

The jagged wind
stopped to regain her strength
and the flames slowly died
only to be reborn
upon the promise
of a long dry summer.

Fleeing the jagged wind
the flames leaped rivers,
roads, and boundary fences,
with no regard for houses,
farms, fields, or a state wide
imposed burn ban.






The Color of Her Hair

The color of her hair
is as fake as her smile.
I wonder who the painter
is who made her to beguile.

The paint on her lips
cleverly conceals cruelty.
The swivel of her hips;
I'm another casualty.

I find none can compare
to her. perfect. fake. vile.
Like a cobra in her lair,
she smiles all the while.

What is left to alter,
head to toe and fingertips,
you are without falter.
Changed by magic potion sips.
































The Band-Aid


Torn from my skin,
Hair clings to adhesive.
Either fast or slow. "Youch!"

My friend wanted me
to write a poem
about jerking band aids free.
Boldly I sought to pen
An ode to plastic and gauze.
Nicely packaged and boxed,
Dozens await scrapes and scratches.

I guess this is what I get,
saying I can write about anything.
"You can't stump me." That is my bet.
Among my old poems I rummage,
"Indeed the words must be here...
Damn a paper cut! Now I really do need one..."

































Testifying My Love


Your touch
my skin remembers.
Your scent,
my nose recalls.
I hunger for you.

Your lips' sweet press,
like embers
burnt with the flame
of a thousand passions.
I call for you.

My body still feels your embrace,
my fingers hunger to trace
the lines of grace.
With my blinking eyes,
I remember your face.
I look for you.

My ears still hear your cries.
I yet smell your sweetness
in the folds of my shirt,
taste you in the corners of my lips.
I hunger for you.

I recall the flash
and sparkle of your eyes,
the curves of your hips.
All I want is you,
if what I want is true,
then I crave you.

Your scent makes
my heavy eyes close,
while my ink still flows.
I write for you.

Your touch,
my skin yet remembers.
Your scent,
my nose recalls.
I need you.

I am nothing
without you.
I am nothing
without you.






TENDER HEARTS BREAK EASY

"Tender hearts break easily,"
sounds like a line from Elvis
played on an old scratched 45.
The crowd hushed in anticipation
as he slowly walked on stage,
all leather, swagger, and sneer.

Tender hearts break easily.
A too rapidly plucked "E" string,
in the hands of one of
the backup band, Blue Moon Boys
let go with a resounding "Twang,"
as he slowly walked on stage
all leather, swagger, and sneer.

Tender hearts break easily
and vanish like a Fall's frost
before the breeze and sunlight
of an autumn morning.
I took the needle off my 45,
silence filled the stage,
not leather, swagger, and sneer.

Tender hearts break easy.
I sadly think of the King's death
and am haunted by his final moments,
alone and far from the house lights
and an admiring crowd's roar.
He slowly left the stage,
gone is his swagger, and sneer.













Tell Me Today

Tell me today
your theory of life,
something about
the eggs and chickens.
What came first
and why did that make humans?

It looks like today
I am the chicken
with egg on my face.
It seems to me
you won again.

Today,
I wanted perfection
but I am a little cracked,
like that breakfast egg.
Even being right,
I am a little wrong.

Today, I feel wrong,
like a cheek-grasped child.
I am the egg-spattered shirt
left in a heap
on the floor.

Today I stand,
wondering whether
this fragile egg hanging over me
will break
or hatch.

Tell me today
how your theory of life
and chickens and eggs
applies to the question
of why it is so inhuman
for me to crave you so.



TEARS OF PAIN

Teary words of anguish
Erupt in streams of sadness.
All the world as stage
Removed me from sidelines
Strait to spotlight; glistening tears.

Overhead the curtains descend,
Freezing me in time.

Pain; all encompassing,
All knowing
In my eyes,
No sight, just tears.
















Tears on my Pillow

I thought it couldn't be worse.
Sometimes I stand, fight and curse.
Sometimes I yell, blow and billow.
I am left with tears on my pillow.

I struggle to stand tall and strong,
days easier than nights, so long.
In a life where once passion did flow,
I am left with tears on my pillow.

I try to imagine you laying next to me,
but alas, imagination is all it will be,
unless we rejoin in heaven or hell below.
I am left with tears on my pillow.

I thought it couldn't be worse.
Sometimes I stand, fight and curse.
Sometimes I yell, blow and billow.
I am left with tears on my pillow.














Tattoo Song Too

Do I still think of you and I
as poetry laid unwritten
in an uncapped pen,
discarded on a Texan plain?

Lyle Lovett sang songs of pain
and boys from North Dakota
and whiskey and guns.
The lights of L.A. County
shot through a tattered
movie screen,
blank save for the memory
of James Dean.

Mostly I still think of you
as a sad broken family product.
You were my woman-child
who I piggy-backed
into my mythology.

We are searching,
still not having found answers.
We sit, saddened
upon the Texas plain.
You cannot leave here
and I can't understand why.

No matter how hard I try,
sometimes new poetry,
life, and familiar pains
come full circle.

Yes I still think of you,
and wish for our poetry,
left with a dried ink pen
and dreams of the Texas plains.





SUNSETS REMIND ME

The words on the postcard,
were printed all in caps
as if by some force of urgency,
like something screaming,
trying to get out of you;
SUNSETS REMIND ME!!!

Just those words,
blocked in blue ink
on the back of a generic
"ABC Store, Waikiki Beach" postcard
dated 27 July
brought back 100 memories.
Sunsets remind me.

We walked on volcano sands
and marveled at jagged mountains,
palm trees, blue water
and beautiful people,
while I worked up the courage
to ask you to my room.
Sunsets remind me.

At the end
of a long weekend in heaven,
we swapped cell numbers,
email addresses, snail mails
and a thousand promises
I left in the trash when I packed.
Sunsets remind me.

I half expected you to turn up
in 100 places between
the beachfront hotel
and airstrip where I boarded
a C-5 for a long flight
back to my frozen base.
Sunsets remind me.




Two years passed
and I avoided phone calls,
shredded letters
and generally tried to forget
lust and feelings
and warm clear evenings.
Sunsets remind me.

The words on the postcard,
were printed all in caps
as if by some force of urgency,
like something screaming,
trying to get out of you;
SUNSETS REMIND ME!!!
(sunsets remind me too)

















Sunset in the West

Sunday evening came down hard
Under a blood red and orange sky.
Night creatures and flying things awoke.
Sunset burned and shimmered above.
Eternal, long shadows came creeping
To the evening from the west.

In the firelight where we conversed,
No one lamented the death of another day.

The shadows gathered, weaving night's blanket,
Hiding empty cans, and washing away sour odors.
Entombing, enshrouding, enriching.

Westward, colors and lights faded,
Easily making way for the moon,
Stars, and the night that was coming
To join us beyond the fire's edge.















Sunken Ships

Monday's rooster crowed loudly,
keeping company with the dawn.
Morning shattered the serenity
unusually true and hard to find
in the sunken ships of night.

The day drew on.
The shadows of timbers,
water worn
and lodged in the sands of time
echoed our loneliness;
forgotten by all but sea gulls,
who came to pause and perch.

Together on the beach,
we lived
and laughed,
and loved
until the evening's mockingbird called.

Dusk descended heavily,
muting our emotions.
Soft, beckoning
the owl asks her eternal question.
"Who? Who? Who..."
will keep you safe
until again the rooster crows.









Stream

A stream edged by the colors of perception
Slowly flowed by,
Its dank water barely wets
Or whets
The appetite of the boy and man,
Who, locked in eternal struggle,
Slowly fish for the right words.

Defined by his dreams
And defied by the older
Dreamer of dreams lost,
The boy muses how his father
Could give him a proud hug
If he could just find the way to unlock affection.

Dreams slowly sneak away
Like the life of a Dripping Fish
Frantic to go back into the water
That is his home.
How like the silence of boy and man.













Steadily Dripping

Drip. Drip.
Dripping, slowly.
Steadily.
Maddeningly, dripping.
This may be where Poe
found inspiration
for his Tell-tale heart.
Another mid-winter thaw
makes water run from the garage roof.
I listen to the water drop
as I struggle to write.

The canted driveway
becomes puddled.
Mid afternoon sun shone,
then evening's cooling came,
and yet the water
slowly, methodically;
drip, drip, dripping away.
I woke up this morning.
fourteen below zero,
to trump Global Warming experts.
I sure would love to hear
Drip. Drip. Dripping.












Soul’s Reprieve

"Stop? I haven't even started yet."
So, seduction was never my strength.
I am more human than animal sadly,
holding onto all that is left of me.

So, seduction was never my strength.
I don't understand your desires,
you tell me, wishing my ways
were sweeter and more understanding.

I am more human than animal sadly.
The beast you want is not one of cruelty,
but more honey, mixed with animal need.
You dream of me as a wild thing.

Holding onto all that is left of me,
your body trembles like a spent machine,
panting and straining. I read the signs,
fearful of souring this moment.

The proper reply is in my mind.
I slowly awake to your passion.
"Stop, I am trying to drive."
"Stop? I haven't even started yet."












Sometimes The Sun Blinks

Sometimes the sun blinks.
Overhead the geese were flying;
Magestic V's headed north.
Eastward, the sun-painted horizon
Tinted a cloud bank
In the red-oranges of morning.
More light crept along
Early, quiet streets.
Sometimes the sun blinks.

The magic of dawn's light
Has invaded my writing nook.
Every second should be this beautiful.

Sometimes the sun blinks.
Under it's warming light
Nocternal silence gives way to day's voice.

Blue skies overhead beam;
Lit by days rays.
I watch dog walkers,
Neatly stepping in morning air
Kicking through last Fall's leaves.
Surely The Son looks down upon mornings with favor.












Snow

The snow begins slowly;
a sprinkle and dash here and there,
carefully and softly
upon the sleeping countryside,
then sneaks away on a sunny day…























Sitting On Benches

We walked across the old Memorial Bridge,
cool afternoon sun bathing mountain valley ridge.
We stopped at Perry's Variety on Congress Street,
green awnings, shades, and painted trim so neat
for a copy of the weekly Rumford Falls Times.
I bought candy for my boy, counting his dimes.
We trod back across the cement and steel span
laughing and chatting, dad and son, hand-in-hand.
I made jokes from a child's story about a troll
and billy goats tripping over the bridge he patrols.

Perry's Variety, was the place for a seventh grader,
I remember playing Pac Man and Space Invader
on the beat up machines crammed in the back
while smoking Marlboro's from my brothers pack.
One day my buddy Mike and I stole Koolaid mix
only to find that 'unsweetened' can make you sick.
These were my musing thoughts as we walked along,
my childhood memories made me sing a song.
"Don't throw your trash in my backyard," it went,
"Don't throw your trash in my backyard," was the extent
of the words I knew, but the song amused my boy,
but we walked along caught in a net of joy.

After a visit the little brick Rumford Public Library,
we read surrounded by fallen autumn leaves from trees
on a stone legged bench in the quaint little Chisholm Park
down where the Androscoggin flows by signing like a lark.
I perused the small hometown newspaper, and he a story.
While scanning headlines, sports, and pictures of Old Glory,
he read the antics of Curious George that crazy monkey.
It felt like a bit of heaven, this relaxing park, to me.
The evening shadows crept along, shading and chilling air,
but we were ready to go, thankful for our time there.

Such is the hometown saved deep within my memories
and the dreams I look to when my mind's eye sees
where I come from and where I long to draw near.
These images last but a moment before returning here.
It seems that the only thing left of my hometown for me
is summed up in this stark and lonely current reality;
Broken benches of concrete with no wooden seats
stand alone in this place that used to be so neat.
I long to come home and nap while the boy reads,
I shall pray the idea called 'regrowth' sprouts seeds.







Sirens


The blare of sirens
supports my theory:
Silence truly
is not made to last.

Home is sweeter after
a hospital stay they say.
Though in my assessment,
I would rather couch-sit
and dream of sailing ships
than be at the helm
in a northeast blow,
or at the wheel
of an ambulance shattering silence.

I remember being nine,
making my brother Dave fourteen.
Burst appendix and evening
hospital trip gave way
to the silence and perfection
of emergency room professionalism.

The staff hustles and bustles
with charts, frowns,
and sugar sweet support
for family members who fear
hospitals as the place
where baby was brought to die.

This I remember as the blare
of sirens passing
jars my mind.












Shut Your Eyes

Shut your eyes and join me.
In the bed of my illusions
you await me.
Your warm body
and slow smile
are heat to me.

Shut your eyes and join me.
If your love is an illusion,
I long to be
forever trapped
in this dream world.
No thoughts of escape.

Shut your eyes and join me.
I long for you to be with me,
away from
the world,
a concrete
killer of dreams.

Shut your eyes and join me
here in the bed of illusions
I created when you left with
your warm body
and slow smile
that used to mean love to me.

























Share a Smile

I called my daughter on the telephone
her mother is getting ready to have baby number five
so their house was in turmoil.
She felt lonely and alone,
though cheer for me she did strive.

She burnt her hand on the stove she says
trying to make dinner,
though she's only ten.
Someone called her stupid and worthless, it's true.

To California my thoughts and anger flew.
I sought to right a wrong
and make her mother and step dad
sing a brand new song,
courtesy of my anger and hurt
at them treating my precious girl that way.

In the end I just had to pray.
When others want to use hurtful words
and treat loved ones with contempt,
Lord please send them your light
to brighten what must be darkness
that turns their days to night.
Make them share a smile wide
instead of the hurtful words
they have often cried.











Shadows of Seeing

Sometimes when I blink
into the sun-cast
shadows of dawn
I think I see you coming,
far off and indistinct,
yet getting closer.
I rub my eyes
to be sure,
but that wipes
you away again.

Sometimes when I think
Spring is coming,
the blues that wash over me
go away, and I smile
letting warmth and sun
and memories like
country cornbread baking
slide in to where
loneliness lived.

Sometimes I blink,
not with tears
at the shadows where you live,
but with memories.
No you are not gone,
but getting closer
to the shadow
I dwell in
with you away.








Shadows of Darkness

Pain comes creeping back,
No matter how I wish
And pray it away.
Tears of crystal sparked
For a minute
in dull kerosene lantern light,
Before mixing and mingling freely
With the dirt and grime upon my face.

I was ten,
Once again in trouble and dinnerless
After a day working in the hot sun.
"If you can't remember to fill the woodbox
Before it's too dark to see in the shed
Don't come skulking in here
Crying about boogymen and monsters."
Shadows of darkness.

Not every day in my childhood was bad,
But some keep flashing
Powerfully in my mind,
Nearly 30 years later
As I contemplate recent failures.
The slow march of time
Pauses longer in gloom
than in the light.

I was sure I received more hate than love
Until I was old enough
To break free and start building
My own memories,
Far away from shadows of poverty.
No one could call me stupid and worthless
Besides the man in the mirror
Frowning back at me.

In the flickering light
The shadows of darkness
That were my past
Are sometimes rekindled,
To haunt the dark recesses
Of my mind,
No matter how I wish
And pray them away.
Sensual Memories

If it hadn't been for red-high heeled shoes and a bit of cloth,
a red ribbon tied at your throat, you would have been totally nude.
I found dried rose petals while cleaning, soft like a winged moth.
If it hadn't been for red-high heeled shoes and a bit of cloth...
Ah, the memories bring smiles and sadness. Time flies, it doth.
Memories so sensual, thoughts so warm, last forever, I conclude
If it hadn't been for red-high heeled shoes and a bit of cloth,
a red ribbon tied at your throat, you would have been totally nude.



















Sea of Heartbreak

I remember the words
as if a message in a bottle,
uncorked like Pandora's Box.

"I love you,
but I can't stand the pain
of being with you."

I was on Lookout Point
in St. John's,
by the sea.

Everything in that
damned place is by the sea.
Fog and crashing waves
and unseen fears.

The same girl
who said she knew
we would last forever
was abandoning me.

I was a bottle,
intended to be
tossed into the sea.

Instead of floating forever,
I am dashed upon the rocks.
as my heart drowns.









Sand Through My Fingers

The sand poured on my hands
slipped through my fingers.
Seven little shells
And a lighthouse figurine
are all I have to remember our vacation.
Here I sit in your room,
head down and sad,
awaiting your return.

The sand poured on my hands
slipped through my fingers.
Eleven is years away from four.
Maybe a million miles or more
have passed between us
since we walked on rocky beaches
by the Maine shore.

The sand poured on my hands
slipped through my fingers.
A shining copper penny
catches my eyes from amid
a pile of shells,
driftwood, and sea glass.
Inscribed upon it are the words,
"tears like tides
shall come to pass."

The sand poured on my hands
slipped through my fingers,
and I let it go,
knowing that sadness
can never last.







Sea of Heartbreak

I remember the words
as if a message in a bottle,
uncorked like Pandora's Box.

"I love you,
but I can't stand the pain
of being with you."

I was on Lookout Point
in St. John's,
by the sea.

Everything in that
damned place is by the sea.
Fog and crashing waves
and unseen fears.

The same girl
who said she knew
we would last forever
was abandoning me.

I was a bottle,
intended to be
tossed into the sea.

Instead of floating forever,
I am dashed upon the rocks.
as my heart drowns.








SAND IN MY HANDS

Seven little shells
And a lighthouse figurine
Near a small bit of sea glass
Drop from the bowl onto your bed.

I paused from cleaning your room,
Now I remember our trip to Maine.

My daughter, then four, skipping and exploring,
You collected treasures to save forever.

Here they sit in your room,
Awaiting your return.
Now you are nearly eleven,
Dad's memories not the center of your universe.
Sand crumbs cling to my hand like you once did.















Sand and Water

Surely, like a fish in a tank
I live, trapped in a box.
I can look out,
others can peek in,
leave fingerprints
and dirty smears
upon my world.

Tiny flakes; orts of food
dropped in,
give me sustenance
and life.
Is this living?

Sorely like a fish,
I am trapped in a tank
(box.)
I crave sand to lie on,
sun to warm,
freedom from imprisonment.














Sad Summer Day

In New York,
on a late
summer's day,
death's blanket
ashes, steel,
smoke, and fire
raining down.
Covering streets, cars,
innocent victims of
cowardice and jealousy.
Did God forget to protect them
in New York
on a late summer day?

I try not to cry
when I see the list of souls,
smiles wiped away,
lives blotted out.
Suddenly the whole world
seems as cold and dark
as the falling ashes
and twisted steel
that is New York
on a late
summer day.

In New York,
on a late
summer's day,
in the park
where we played,
suddenly fears
of mugging,
or rape,
or normal city life
would be better,
than the fears and tears
and praying to a god
who forgot to
protect and guide us,
in New York
on a late
summer day.


In New York,
on a late
summer's day,
I realize maybe
God didn't forget us,
we forgot Him,
and I wonder,
I hope,
pray that no more
death comes
to New York,
on this late
summer day.




















Russet Hues of Sunset

God bless Texas one more time.
The smell of chili
comes wafting into my writing room,
distracting me from dreaming.
My thoughts,
a million miles away
slowly come back
to the lifeless drizzle
pounding upon my windowsill.

Chili powder,
frijoles,
and the tangy bite
of habanero peppers
washed down with Dos Eques beer
warmed me in a border town.

Slowly the clouds part
to reveal flooded city streets,
immersed cars,
and stricken buildings.
The russet hues of sunset
light the devastation
with a soft red glow.
It is almost magic,
but truly hell and sorrow.
God bless Texas one more time.









Running Solo

Gray and primer colored pickup.
"Three-on-the-tree,"
they called the shifting pattern.
Big screaming, gas guzzling,
oil leaking engine.
Cruising up and down the road
from work to home and back,
six days a week.
The tires were bald
and the exhaust system leaked,
but it would go 110 in third gear,
and the body wasn't bad.
I would slam the accelerator down,
Running solo, on the highway.

Nickel and dime maintenance
and dreams of rebuilding carburetors,
adjusting timing,
and boring out piston jugs
kept me from thinking
how dejected and sad I was,
living alone, newly divorced.
The tires were bald
and the exhaust system leaked,
but it would go 110 in third gear.
My body ain't so bad,
I'm running solo, on the highway and in life.










Reflections

Reflections in the mirror;
empty coffee cups.
Waxed cardboard;
talisman,
lies on its side.
Tim's best brew,
shared with you.
A Loonie and a quarter
apiece.
It's 3 a.m.
I love you.



















Red, White, and Blue Cake

Eternally they danced
atop the white wedding cake.
Her veil flowing from red hair,
his blue uniform pressed and neat.
The guests watched entranced,
this eternal love of which God spake,
floating through the summer air.

The cake still leans a bit,
double wrapped and frozen
in a Schwan's ice cream pail
awaiting first anniversary dinner.
Slowly, carefully we open it
in the house we have chosen,
hoping the remainder was not stale.

The last wrapping removed
we behold the topper's couple
still dancing in loving embrace
to the same silent musical strain.
The icing dance floor smoothed
movements sinuous and supple
creating smiles on their face.
They dance the steps again and again.

Carefully handling the plastic duo,
we covered them in tissue paper,
tight and snug, to reside
in a box for wedding memory.
Now they slowly waltz I know,
and sometimes play and caper
forever at each other’s side,
molded twins of my wife and me.

Eternally they dance
atop the white wedding cake.
Her veil flows from red hair.
His blue uniform is pressed and neat.
They are frozen in a trance.
Love left in their wake
floats through summer air.











RED

Red as:
a Cajun moon,
the color of your hair,
and the sunset.

Red is;
the roar of fire,
blood coursing through veins
power, sweet power

Red tastes like;
kisses
cayenne pepper,
and hot sauce.

Red feels like;
crushed velvet
searing pain
sun burnt skin.

Red helps my heart remember
real emotion
when the world
blunts feelings.

RED




























Recycled Promises

They say recycling will save the world.
Next to the trash on the curb bins of green,
sorting metal, glass, paper is our routine.

When I was a kid, into the dump all was hurled.
Tin cans, coke bottles, newspaper, no sorting,
heaps of garbage were left for gulls on the wing.

Around dumps, brown polluted rivers curled.
Runoff from these huge piles left by masses,
crawled down to the seas, thick dirty molasses.

Another promise of forever around our head swirled.
If we continued to love each other until forever,
nothing would come between us, our commitment to sever.

Our commitment of caring will save our world.
We look out upon a world bright and green,
living and loving each other every day, our routine.


















Queen Maeve

The land still echoes with memory they say.
You can hear the clash of battle axe and cries of dismay.
In the mists, you can see the ghosts of swordsmen.
Some claim you can feel the power of the men
who came to fight and die at the command and bide
of the Warrior Queen who laid to waste a countryside.

Long ago in times mostly forgot
in the Irish kingdom of Connaught,
equality and rights were on display
more prominent than most places today.
The land passed to a queen named Maeve.
Her King was only royalty gave
after being taking by her as groom.

The good queen more than lacked in morality
what she made up for with beauty and sexuality.
Most of her lovers commanded her warrior groups,
striking a balance between loyalty of the troops
and distention but not sexual tension in the ranks.
Brave warriors were granted sexual favors as thanks
between Queen Maeve's willing thighs.

One morning after vigorous lovemaking,
the King and Queen basked upon waking.
He began claiming she should be his vassal.
She would not have near as much fortune
if she had not married into the boon
of wealth and power he carried to the castle.

Maeve laughed and called him her kept man.
The quarrel escalated and got out of hand,
with bragging and tallying of riches and might,
all through the day and long into the night.
Wealth, assets, and influence were the facts.
They matched one another with land tracts,
controlled serfs, and all that makes royalty
on display for one another to see.




The queen discovered Ailill, her king
possessed the finest bull in the land.
It made Maeve's heart and pride sting
that Brumis was a superior breeder,
the likes of which she could but dream.
The King after all had won it would seem.
Would he dominate his queen?

The fighting spirit came alive in the Warrior Queen.
She knew she must better the king or lose face.
It was not in her to be second place,
so she sent out pages and knights to see
where she could find a bull of better quality.
There was a majestic and virile bovine
owned by the King and Queen of Ulster.

Queen Maeve electrified her army's zeal
with prizes and sensual promises
of nights of fulfillment in the royal boudoir.
For that treat they would fight near and far.
The men's charge; invade Ulster land
and take the prized beast in hand.

At the head of the battalion,
the queen astride a red stallion.
Clad in a vest of chain mail bright,
o'er a flowing gown, shimmering white.
Maeve could outrun the swiftest steed.
The enemy soldiers fell to the ground
in fits of desire and sexual need
after a mere glimpse at her beauty,
forgetting their avowed duty.

The red knights of Ulster met the charge well,
led by their mighty defender, Cuchulainn.
They were willing to cede no prize bull,
nor an inch of the kingdom's land.
The battle raged over hill and valley deep,
dead scattered on green field
and near the breached castle keep.

Bodies from both sides strewed the earth.
The Ulster fighting spirit did not tide the dearth,
and they were forced to quit the fight,
the great bull at last was brought to Maeve.
When it was finally penned with the King's
beast, the two killed each other,
unceremoniously dumped into a single grave.

After the deaths of men made to compete
over one single farm animal was complete,
Queen Maeve and King Ailill were equally rich,
but neither commanded more power
though they had strove hour by hour.
Ailill eventually chose to leave Connaught,
live in the shadow of its Queen, he would not.

I would like to believe she died in the bedroom,
doing what she loved best, as they say,
but that is not how she met her doom.
It appears the good queen just faded away,
another chapter in the pages of history,
leaving behind many a provoking mystery.
Was she a mere mortal or part goddess,
I know not, nor shall I guess.

The green hills still echoes with memory;
the clash of swords and battle axes.
When the Irish moon wanes and waxes,
You can see the ghosts of swordsmen,
who came to fight and die at her command.
The Warrior Queen who laid to waste this land
walks with her prized bull, proclaiming victory,
her spirit still not resting easily.













Progress
The dangermen came
with chain link fences
and double locked gates,
hardhats and "keep out"
"construction zone" signs.

Bulldozers, backhoes,
jackhammers and dump trucks
grind and roar
on the next block.

A big steal claw
grabs walls and roofs
of abandon houses,
slashing, tearing, rendering
all into a pile of boards,
lead paint, and old wires.

The swinging boom
of a Caterpillar diesel
knocked down the old pine
on Singletree Circle.

All in the name
of progress and modernization
the dangermen came.











Post-It Notes

A hot pink piece of paper
on the dry erase board,
across my grocery list;
"Pineapple soap and blueberry candles"
obscured "Bacon, Strawberries,
tea bags, oranges, lint brush..."

"Pineapple soap?
"What do you need that
sissy smelly stuff for?
You already have
oatmeal and lavender soap
and some kind of green stuff
that stained the bathtub
and your toenails."

"How much did you pay
for the quadruple edge
fancy handled razor blades
you needed last week?"
"Well, they have a glide strip
that makes my face so
soft and smooth..."

"Pineapple soap
makes me feel good too,
and the candles help me relax
after a long day with the kids."
I snatched up the post-it,
and went mumbling, grumbling
to the car.
"What about my needs...?"







Portrait of Fall

It was a perfect portrait of Fall.
Trees lacked yellow leaves, that's all.
At 5:30 am it was only 46 degrees,
promises of noon heat and sun a tease.
We met in the darkened parking lot
where days before it had been blistering hot.
"We are going to run a mile or two
to start the day right for you.
It isn't going to be up hill both ways
like in the Commander's younger days!"
I smiled and grimaced a bit as I stretched
thinking of leaves colored and frost etched.
We started with a command of "FORWARD March,"
after the first mile my throat began to parch.
In a wide loop around the base we double timed,
I prayed for warmth in this hour before the sun climbed.
The sweat on my face chilled as we slowed to a crawl.
On the morning of 26 August, it sure felt like fall.














PLEASE DON’T GO

Pleading isn't heard,
Lies have no effect,
Everything is brushed aside.
Another day is spent begging,
Silent tears upon my face,
Endless promises in vain.

Denying the reality of forever,
On and on I plead.
"Never again will I hurt you."
To change is my promise.

Gradually, an outgoing tide;
Our separation is final.
















Planter’s Moon

Like the harvester in balance, sewing what he reaped,
I am waiting the sunrise's first yellow light.
Collected seeds awaiting soil furrows heaped.
I will work, thanking God for his gifts until night.

Royal Corn planting time starts early this morning,
and I pray for the essence of enough rain and no blight.
Man cannot plant a garden alone! Stand by this advice.
I will work, thanking God for his gifts until night.

One last sip of coffee, then I grabbed my lunch pail,
casting a wary eye at haze and the red sky warning sight,
no matter, any man laboring in heaven's splendor will prevail.
I will work, thanking God for his gifts until night.

















Paper Tablecloth

"Quick put a potholder down
before you burn a hole in it."
It was just a printed paper sheet,
but we were poorer than I admit.

Mom had bought it at Four Corners,
and we thought it was so neat,
brightening up our poverty a bit.
It was just a printed paper sheet.

At the end of dinner it was folded,
and carefully into a plastic bag fit.
The next night, the chore, repeat.
Be careful, it could tear and split!

Paper fancies are not made to last.
Keeping the tablecloth whole was a feat,
but we were poorer than I admit.
It was just a printed paper sheet.














Once Upon a Park Bench

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
beneath the long, straggly branches of a willow tree.
Disillusioned by my life I had good reason to frown;
the world's burdens were intent on dragging me down.
If my troubled spirits weren't enough to ruin my day,
a young boy approached my domain, tired from play.

Beneath the long, straggly branches of a willow tree,
this sanctuary of quiet, I had reserved as hiding for me.
A bedraggled towheaded boy came skipping along,
dragging a dirty little puppy and singing a song.
"Mr, can we sit on your bench a minute and rest?"
I tried to ignore him, my set jaw and chin tucked to chest.

Disillusioned by my life I had good reason to frown
and look for these quiet moments with no one around.
My stacks of bills were outgrowing my ability to pay
and I seemed to get only silence when I knelt to pray.
My fears were compounded by daily news headlines,
everywhere I looked were depressing future signs.

The world's burdens were intent on dragging me down,
weighted cement shoes in which I slowly, surely drown.
When all else is lost except fears, failure, and self-doubt,
I sneak off to a place of solitude, alone with no others about.
But now I am saddled with a dirty kid who intrudes.
This definitely will not improve my grouchy attitudes.

If my troubled spirits weren't enough to ruin my day,
along comes this sad sack kid who can't stay away,
leaving me with my sadness and troubled thoughts.
I wonder what attracts them to my lonely spots.
He is chattering along and speaking directly to me,
while his puppy sniff-sniffs and licks at my knee.

A young boy approached my domain, tired from play.
"Mr., why do you look so sad on such a nice day?"
So, despite myself I told him about bills and rent due,
and how not finding a good job makes me so blue.
He told me he had learned to be happy no matter what.
I thought about it, sharing my lunch with the boy and his mutt.


OFF TO WORK ON A RAINY DAY

Off to work on a rainy Monday;
Forty degrees and overcast,
Fog and mud cling to all I see.

This isn't singing in the rain
Or dancing in puddles weather.

Weathermen may forecast snow
Or sun for tomorrow or Wednesday.
Right now we are blessed with rain,
Keeping me wishing for March's end.

Off to work on a rainy Monday,
Nasty weather compounds gloom and misery.

Another rainy day washes away the heavens.

Rousted out at four a.m. by the alarm,
A green grass and sunlight dream
Is slashed by sound and awareness.
Now the vision I generated of you
Yields to a gray day slowly dawning.

Doubtlessly warm weather awaits,
Away from these rainy cold feelings.
You wait for me at the end of a cold day.











OCEAN LIFE

Of all the wave-tossed rocks,
Churning and tumbling,
Eternally washed by ocean
Along my seashore,
None compare to your smooth beauty.

Little did we know,
In casting each other away,
Freed like a skipped stone,
Eventually the tides would carry us home.


















New York Fireman

A tear
slowly rolls
down the dusty,
ashy, dirty face.

Head bowed,
troubled, scared,
shell shocked eyes
focused on
worn, weathered boots,
covered by
the residue
of death and destruction.

A barely legible
fire department logo
on the back
of a once blue,
now smoked gray shirt,
rides tempest-tossed
upon waves of
body racking sobs.

His massive, muscled
shoulders can dig,
and pull, and toss
chunks of twisted steel
all day but never
uncover the burden
placed on his heart
from finding the crushed
fire department crest
pinned upon
a dead brother's chest.

A tear
slowly rolls
down the dusty,
ashy, dirty face.



NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION

New opportunities to change and grow,
Emblazoned upon my soul in red marker.
What will I do to make 2006 better than 2005?

Yearly I compile a short list,
Easily discarded after the Champagne corks
And noise makers are swept up and disposed of.
Read more, write more, learn more, and lose weight.
So many promises left undone.

Resolves came and went
Easily, like aging without even trying.
Six days until New Years and I must make a new list,
Old and obsolete behaviors must be cast aside,
Liberating loving and caring,
Useful traits that should carry me through spring,
To fortify my summer, and cast sunshine upon fall.
I put pen to paper, to solemnly swear,
Others will see and love the new me,
Not last year’s slovenly grouch,
Sitting here making empty promises again.














Never Would Have Thought

Before your tears fell,
In that brief instant
Between my words
And their impact
I should have paused,
Come clean, and engulfed
You with hugs and love.

I never would have thought
That being alone
Would be so much harder
Than making small concessions.
I guess it goes to show,
an open mouth
Makes a beautiful receptacle
For an errant foot.















Needs and Trees

Never have I thought,
Easterly facing and waiting
Early morning sun rays;
Does the sun need the trees
So it may happily shine.

A tree was planted today,
Near the breakwater,
Down the street from my shack.

Tenderly it was carried.
Rich soil shoveled aside,
Eased into the spring damp ground.
Easily the sun shown upon it
Sharing its warmth.

















Natural Prayer

Dear Lord thank you so much for this day,
that I am alive to see the snow fall,
a beautiful covering of nature's display;
praises from we creatures meek and small.

Sixteen inches of pure driven snow or more
comes in on a cold front's powerful wall
drifting with the wind around my door;
Praises from we creatures meek and small.

Inside our fire burns bright and true
as I kneel in my thanks for all.
I know that the giver and gift is you;
praises from we creatures meek and small.


















Mother’ Milk

Sometimes I wish
life were as simple
as mother's milk,
when the saddest sound
was that of a child
in need of comfort.
That learning to walk
was the most important thing,
not learning to exist
without you.

Sometimes I wonder
what life would be like
if love was just a
vague notion,
something one dimensional
and adult.
Sometimes I wish
life were still as simple
as mother's milk.













MOONLIGHT IN MONTANA

My GP's said 46°00′23″N, 112°31′47″W
On a rolling meadow we pitched a tent,
Overlooking valleys and a clear lake.
North of us loomed mountain peaks.
Light breezes made us shiver
In the evening so we snuggled close.
Gander Mountain tent and LL Bean sleepwear
Heated us a bit and our bodies did the rest.
The night was dark, no moonlight in the meadow.

In our cocoon we were happy and safe.
Night sounds outside made us move closer.

Moonlight found our small glade.
Once pitch black, now reading lamp bright.
Never is the night so pure in town.
Thank God for places man hasn't spoiled.
Another night and day we tarried in the meadow.
No other humans did we see to disturb this Eden.
A careful search for litter, then we headed home.














Mirror

My face reflects
in the silvery semi-mirror
of a Diet Coke can.
The infamous logo
encircles one eye
in a red "O."
My head becomes
freak show transformed;
all stretched and comical
disproportionate.
Long here, short there,
my frozen smile
drags across the surface.
I am a twin,
evil and good combined
to delight and scare.
I am both sides
of the mirror
that my face reflects.













Merely a Myth

Part I

The author is killing off
her star character,
according to a news story.
Everyone is up in arms.
Readers by the thousands, millions,
and in droves,
lament they can't buy any more
750 plus page Wizard tales.

Other writers are posting
petitions, and making declarations,
to save young Harry's life.
They will march in protest,
and ask actors to join.
Keep him alive for at least
three or four more installments.
Imagine the billions
in revenue and subplots.

She's an author,
he's a character in her books
and movie screen plays.
No more or less real
than the pirates,
Superman, and
a thousand other stars
with painted on faces.

The author is killing off
her star character,
according to a news story.
Everyone is up in arms.
All the world is a stage.
Harry, merely a mythical creation.
Let's learn to care more
for real people first,
and novel wizard boys less.



Part II

Now my wife and daughter,
they are reading
and watching movies
about young Potter,
and I sit and stare,
learning about Hogwarts
and longing to join Him there.

JK, thank you so much
for getting people to read,
and use their minds
for fantasy and creativity.
I owe you an apology
for not giving your stories their due.
Ma'am, my hat is off to you!
















Melody at Night

Does anyone remember
Hot night air
Filled with millions
Of peep frogs?

Katydids called their names
And responded to their own echo.
We sat In the creaky wooden swing
Grandpa had shaped by hand
And stacked piece by piece
Into the back of a Pinto
For a 350 mile trip
Up from Hartford.

"Don't rock me too high
I get sea sick from moving."

The old mongrel dog
Beneath the willow
Chuffed and snored
At a dream rabbit he chased.
We whispered love words,
Careful not to be overheard
By my parents
On the other side
Of thin tar paper covered walls.

Every night
Was a new melody
Created by God
For us to enjoy
And gently intrude upon.
Do you remember
hot night air?





Magical Faeries

Not all fairies are happy,
not all magic makes me glad.
I am no frantic thought machine,
laying here in the
afternoon's dying sun rays.

I am trying to paint
your portrait in my memories,
but something is missing,
like a magician with no rabbit
in his dented black hat.

Armed with nothing but garbage;
a dried tea leaf
and old orange peels to divine
a future with my love.
I am a magician with nothing magical.

Holding tight to the empty can
that was my last meal,
I put it to my ear,
waiting for a reply,
like the magic tin can phone.

A home for one lonely man
awaits my tear stained eyes.
I look slowly about,
not seeing, not hearing,
missing the magic that is you.

Of pain and cries, I know.
Of lost love and craving,
I am aware.
One day I long to look up
and magically see you there.

Not all fairies are happy, no.
Not all that is magic impresses.
I still need you
to warm me,
like the sun's dying rays.


LYING EYES

Looking out from within a prison,
Your eyes strive to send warmth.
I can see the deception,
Nearly hidden in their depth.
Gray eyes reflect gray skies.

Every question is answered;
"Yes, I am happy, why do you ask?"
Every smile is automatically returned,
Sincerity masked by lying eyes.


















Lost Legend

Little did you know
While looking for Atlantis
You would find far better treasure
Amid vine-covered wonders.

While looking for Atlantis
On a summer's sojourn,
Streets of gold and diamond
Were not found beneath seas.

You would find far better treasure
Than mystical lost lands
If you look carefully within
Your beautiful heart.

Amid vine-covered wonders
And hidden Grecian urns
Waits the soul of a lover
Of life and love herself.













Looking For Green Pastures

Sleep worn clothes
greet one more morning;
greasy hands wipe away
last night's cheap meal
on stained dungarees.
I work a mouthful
of shame around
and spit out the remains
of one more whiskey jar.

I have lost the green pastures,
like memories of bacon and eggs frying
in the morning's quiet
where I come from.
I straighten near pauper's rags
and stumble forth from an alley
where I spend my nights,
hiding from sirens and thieves.
I wear my wrongs and failures
like a crimson badge of honor.

I ignore the rumbled demands
of an empty belly,
wander and wait,
wishing for one more
soup kitchen meal.
Where I come from,
every day the sun shone
in the sky bright.
Now morning rays
reflect on broken whiskey bottles.








Living Well

They say if I sit
in my rocking chair,
I can grow old and healthy,
sitting right there.
Another look at living well.

Living seems to me
more than chair rocking,
more like running free.
Relaxation seems boring,
so much for living well.

In New York on a summer night,
we went Time Square bar hopping,
in and out of smoky joints
where you could feel danger sing.
That isn't living well.

Fast driving, dirty taxi riding,
fighting and fun loving stirs my mind.
Wildness flying on a flimsy wing.
Life is made of and for living,
and not just living well.

Living on the edge you see
keeps my chair rocking.
That's living to me,
when all is wild and daring,
I drink deep from life's well.

They say if I sit
in my rocking chair,
I can grow old and healthy.
If that is living well,
keep it and let me
live to raise hell!





LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND

Leaving it all behind,
Easier said than done,
As the cliché rolls.
Vows are made and broken
In the same courtroom.
Newlyweds kiss and sign
Guardianship over. Finality. Divorce.

I strode away with a tear.
Tall-walking, my boots echoed
Across polished, tiled floor,
Leading me to freedom
Leading me to the gallows.

Behind my determined expression
Emily's face lingered.
How could I leave her?
Included in the divorce,
No more family time.
Doubtlessly I left happiness behind.













Keyboards and the Net

Over keyboards,
through the net
I pound out messages
to family,
friends,
loved ones.
"It's cold here,
decided to stay inside..."
I could be cleaning
or cooking dinner
but I am here instead.
I stop for a minute
open a web page.
Sometimes two or three.
Then I find
comments, questions,
emails that tie
you to me.
"I have missed you,
how is your brother,
mom, son and sister too..."
We all have a life
we live
in the concrete world,
but look to on-line friends
to relieve daily pressures
and escape from reality
for a few minutes,
hours or days.
I type a few words more.
"Good bye and God bless
you and yours,"
from my keyboard,
comes a hug,
through the net.





Just Another Day in Paradise

June's winds blow in the window,
tousling my hair, scattering words,
as I struggle to write.
I know no deadline,
just a minor annoyance
at not being able to create
a masterpiece worthy of applaud
and acclaim.

It seems writer's block
has slowly and surely
sneaked into my life;
freezing keyboards,
stealing writing tablet and ink,
dulling keyboards,
so I am blank paper and screen bound.

I try for prose and rhyme,
something epic and monumental,
comparable to Poe and Dickens,
but I am left with
only fleeting thoughts
and dreams blown
as sure as the fluffy clouds
holding a far off promise of rain.

I could write a thousand words,
it is true, but I would rather
sit in deep thought,
with windblown hair
and tears clouding my eyes of blue.
You see words and poetry
don't easily come
when I am missing you.






I WISH YOU LOVE

If you wish me Ill, I wish you success.

When sadness comes, I will offer glee.
If fear, I will be your courage.
Smile toward your frown.
Hate? I respond with love.

You seek to carry old grudges,
Offenses, and half remembered slights.
Umbrage, I replace with caring.

Love is easier than hate,
Of that I can be sure.
Value in burying the hatchet.
Earnestly I wish you good will.

















In This Box

It wasn't really much I guess,
just a Nike shoe box,
orange and brown with a flip top
and corporate "Swish" logo
on the side,
urging us to "Just Do It!"

I was cleaning the basement
the day after I had tripped
over clutter while manfully
carrying a drier into our new house
for my loving, doting wife.

Piles of green zipped canvas bags
held 17 years worth of military
paraphernalia, worn uniforms,
lace-less black boots
and innumerable left hand gloves.

I re-stacked a pile of boxes,
retrieved from an attic,
closet and crawl space
of the house that we never unpacked
the last time we moved.

"Hmmm, I wonder what is
in this dusty shoe box?"
Inside, nestled in tissue paper
I discovered treasures beyond belief;
My daughter's birth certificate,
first portrait, pacifier,
and dried umbilical cord
in a folded Ziploc bag.

It wasn't really much I guess,
just a Nike shoe box,
orange and brown,
but under the flip top
emblazoned with corporate "Swish" logo
was a surprise more beautiful
than any found treasure could be.


Imprisoned by Silence

In the dark of a steamy night
my mouth makes yours
prisoner of passion.
Red lips imagined, envisioned
in my heated mind.
Seeking the warm wetness
of our kisses
Now exploring tongues share moisture
easily and happily.
Deftly they move over one another.

Beneath the silent moon,
your body yields to mine.

Silent clouds skim by above,
ignoring lovers locked together,
letting lose bounds,
eagerly giving into lust.
No one sees, no one hears,
coo's of love softly breathed into ears,
eager to break the silence.












Immortal Eyes

Surveying the world below
I wonder who is truly better;
the owl or the crow.
One is called scavenger,
comes calling in the day.
One wise but haunts the night,
when light is kept at bay.

Immortal eyes of yellow gleaming,
Roving crow comes along,
poking and pecking at trash
left upon the sidewalk.
Fallen seed and shiny buttons
were discarded and left behind.
"Caw, caw," is his rusty cry.

Old owl hides in a tree
inquiring "who, who,"
softly to you and me.
Winged death comes to mice
in fields among hay bales.
Orphaned pink babies
and destroyed families, his legacy.

Surveying the world below
I wonder who is truly better;
the owl or the crow.
One is called scavenger,
comes calling in the day.
One wise but haunts the night,
when light is kept at bay.








Ice and Sunset

As sure as Jack Frost comes creeping
Iced fog was carefully, softly painted
upon bare limbed trees as I lay sleeping,
dreaming of peace so sainted.

My morning woken eyes viewed perfection,
as my puppy sniffed and got acquainted
with white ground in every direction,
dreaming of peace so sainted.

I shivered and pulled my jacket tight,
thankful for such purity repainted.
The entire world should see this sight,
dreaming of peace so sainted.

















Human Machine

Human Machine
Under florescent light stands
Microphone in hand.
Another story-poem to tell
Nods to accept applause.

Machine-like he turns back on the words.
Another rambling rhyme
Called forth from a poetic past.
Human machine,
In the spotlight performs.
Nearby the crowd waits,
Earnestly he begins another tale.


















Holiday Joy

It is the season for
being with those we adore,
holly and ivy hanging up
and something wet in every cup.
The children are gathering
Leaves and red berries for decorating
the windows and doorway.

A candle is lighting the way,
for The Holy Family,
so they can see
their way to our table,
not have to sleep in a stable
like they did centuries ago,
under Bethlehem's stellar glow.

Smiles and bright eyes,
“Oohs” and “aahs” of surprise.
Gifts and toys bright,
We are truly blessed tonight!
It is the season for
being with those we adore.












Hey Shanty Irishman

Hey there Irishman
you sit down to your dinner
of corned beef and cabbage
all the way across the ocean
in your snug, smug American house.

You share stories and tales of my land,
laying claim to heritage
like you invented the mix of Irish
and ancient Celtic blood in your veins,
never spilled in defense of queen and crown.

You tell stories of men,
wars, and Irish Saints
to your daughter with
a gleam in your eye
as if they were the Holy Trinity.

Did you tell her of death,
famine, and the damned IRA
who tried to assassinate graddad,
or was that not part of your
Emerald Isle romance?

Did you explain that what is right
and revered to a Catholic
isn't the same to a Protestant,
but blood is the same color in Dublin,
rather your shirt is orange or green.

Hey there American,
despite corned beef and cabbage
you have lived forever
in your snug and smug house
and you will never be an Irishman.





Green Words

Little did I know,
when I was a child
that we were saving the world,
one seed dropped into the ground
at a time.

I grew up on an organic farm,
and although at the time
doing things by hand
and the hard way
seemed crazy
when others had more
and my clothes were worn,
I'd like to go back now.

I find myself waking
to lights and coffee pots heating
and letting the water run
so showers are steaming hot.
Preheated cars
and work-centers
with 24 hour lights
and climate controls
rule my days and nights.

I am a member
of the take and take more
society that populates
and overpopulates
our dear Mother Earth.
One day I fear
that all the green
will be replaced with sludge gray
and life and growth
with death and blight,
until even sun rays
are precious memories.





I remember farm life,
back breaking toil,
and a home-made meal
fresh from the garden
with nostalgia,
for we seem to have lost
the simplicity of a green world.
I'd like to go back now.

Little did I know,
when I was a child
that we were saving the world,
one seed dropped into the ground
at a time.


















Grace O’Malley

On Achill Island they still say,
"hide your treasures well,
Pirate Granuaille is coming
to steal them all away."

Hiding up in Kildavnet tower
she still looks to the ocean
the banshees scream,
yet telling of her power.

Along the Co Mayo coastline,
she controlled the waters
and woe to any merchant,
plying Ireland's western sea line.

For pennies and a promised pension
upon a husband's untimely death
the ships could have had safe passage
instead of a Pirate's detention.

"Dare you disturb a man's dinner?"
The lord of Howth Castle refused to see Grace.
He had no time for a lady's problems,
especially a pirate and surely a sinner.

Grace spirited the lord's young son away,
exacting a ransom of open castle gates
and an extra plate set at the table for dinner.
The current owners keep this promise still today.

And when they came to hang Grace
she stood proud and defiant,
strong, tall, and ladylike
and looked the Queen in the face.

"Send me to die if you must,
for I am but a lady of the sea
instead of a scullery maid
I fear no law if it be just."

"You came into the Highlands,
challenging our laws and rights.
You destroyed our traditions,
branding our kinsmen as brigands."


"When we fought back we were outlaws,
tried and hung; thieves and murderers.
We wouldn't bow to your crown,
and give up our island and cause."

"Dear lady please forgive me,
and take my nephew if you will.
Your laws do not apply to me,
I am going back to rule the sea."

The ships have all sailed away,
the castle stones slowly fall,
and no one comes calling
to keep the banshees at bay.

The clans and chieftains are no more,
swallowed up and beaten down
by the crown, tides and time.
Thus go the tales of yore.

Grace O'Malley's spirit's roam,
crying for those far off high hills
and the Ireland she misses;
a pirate longing to be home.

On Achill Island they still say,
"hide your treasures well,
Pirate Granuaille is coming
to steal them all away!"











FRAGRANCE OF YOUR HAIR

Friday night, friends want to go out,
Red painting the town,
And bar hopping.
Generally I do not look down my nose,
Rip-roaring good times I often chose.
A quiet evening in though,
Nuzzling against my wife's neck,
Clinging to her in a powerful embrace,
Enlarges the smile upon my face.

Of all her beautiful charms,
Fragrant peach scented hair is my favorite.

You may dwell upon statuesque perfection
Or a lady's eye popping beauty,
Used in a clever and sensuous way.
Really she possesses those too, I must say.

Here we lay in a warm summer's twilight,
Away from the hustle and bustle our friends' chase.
In our version of heaven we are richly clad,
Radiant tresses of red with peach scented embrace.













Four Lines

Four lines that rhyme,
scrawled on a pink card.
about a love for all time,
that makes hearts beat hard.

I will love you always dear.
Little hearts surround words you wrote,
no more loneliness and fear.
I will always keep this note.

Tacked on the fridge of our home,
taken down and carefully placed in my pack.
Wherever in the world I had to roam,
your love carried me away and swiftly back.

Today I found it on a closet floor.
Pretty pink paper had lost its hue.
Not comforting and loving anymore,
just words time has made untrue.















FORTY FLAKES OF SNOW

"Four or five inches
Of new snow?
Right. It's May!
The weather man must be wrong again."
Yesterday that was my wife's claim.

For someone born and raised in New Orleans,
Louisiana's temperate climate And North Dakota winter's clashed.
King sized flakes filled evening air.
Earnestly, she rubbed her eyes,
Sadly the vision didn't go away.

"Of course it will turn to rain,
'Fore the morning comes."

Snow covered the ground and trees,
Not just a dusting but two inches
Of heavy wet white everywhere.
"We should move back to the south."















Fishing Week Six

I took some kids fishing on a hot June day.
Their dad is deployed somewhere in the Indian Ocean.
Over there every day becomes everyday.
Thomas threw rocks in the water.
Angel sat and read.
They call the place Lake Darling.
I look back and call it heaven.






















February Days

With but a glance
through frost-etched windows,
I knew Four February
was a cold day.
Electronic thermometers
and televised wind-chill warnings
confirmed my suspicions well.
It was as if the weak-willed
winter sun refused to allow rays to leave
the security of cloud bound skies.

The week of thirty below zero
weather was on the list
of "coldest winter days since..."
Well, obviously since before global warming.
I was waiting for Monica to call
from sunny New Orleans.
Something about her needing to be home
for the celebrations
made Mardi Gras seem
distant and wonderful.

She was sure I would freeze,
left alone to fend
in this frozen land.
A close personal inspection
revealed my health
was actually fine,
as I shivered, alone and sad.

I rang her cell number,
once at eight
then at ten-thirty,
and eleven-twenty,
only to give up and tell
the impersonal voice mail
to send me boobs, beads, fun,
and sun, lots of sun.




There really is
no physical need to reply
to loneliness and cold,
but sometimes venting
raises your temperature
a few degrees
when you miss your love.

On four February,
I smiled into the weak sun,
and winked at the north wind
blowing strong and cold.



















EVERYWHERE I LOOK I FIND YOU
In the hazy reflection of a dirty car window,
I suddenly see shadowy, a face I well know.
In shapeless clouds covering a sky of blue,
Everywhere I look it seems I find you.

Trapped in the shimmer of a sprinkler's arc,
making beautiful green grass in the park,
I see you as a rainbow, pure and true.
Everywhere I look it seems I find you.

Does my loneliness conjure your face,
make me see your image every place?
I no longer care if what I see is true.
Everywhere I look it seems I find you.

















Emerald

Emerald and Opal lived down the street,
twin sisters who had never married.
They had a house so small, with yard so neat.
The world spun fast but they continued unharried.

Twin sisters who had never married,
free with advice, and sympathy.
The world spun fast they continued on unharried,
with common sense and a smile for you and me.

Free with advice, and sympathy,
Opal or Emerald leaning on a rake,
with common sense and a smile for you and me.
"come tell me what's wrong for pitty's sake."

Opal or Emerald leaning on a rake,
They had a house so small, with yard so neat.
"Come tell me what's wrong for pitty's sake."
Emerald and Opal lived down the street.














Doves

The doves flew slowly away,
heeding the calendar well,
before the last leaves fell.
No more do they come to play.

I miss their cooing at dawn,
seeing them pose and preen
in the shadows and shades
of opening morning glory's.
The day will come when snow
and ice greets me instead.

I found a fragment of broken shell,
while out walking yesterday,
and a soft feather of gray,
where the doves yearly dwell.

I wonder what they do all winter
while I shudder in the icy wind.
Do they think of me up here
bundled and shivering, shuffling,
waiting for welcome warmth
to signal their arrival again.

I heard a cooing call today,
I didn't need the calendar to tell,
Spring is in the air where I dwell.
The doves are back to play.

Oiseaux gris, je t'aime.
Revenez s'il vous plait à moi.








Dirty Quarters

I have a bag full of quarters
and a mountain of laundry.
It is a dirty Saturday.
Dirty laundry.
Dirty mud, ice, and slush.
A dirty squat building
with dirty people
cleaning their
soiled lives.

I join the procession;
dirty thoughts
behind a dirty brow.
So goes another day
spent on the dirty
rat wheel of life.

I listen to Ozzy Osbourne
on an Ipod as sheets,
pillow cases,
jeans, and socks
swirl and spin
in dirty water.

I remember when rock music
was a dark, dirty force
designed to ruin the purity
of children's life.
It's a dirty world.
I am out of quarters.








Dimensions Collide

Dimensions collide every now and then,
In the strangest places and in city parks.
My love for you was larger than life.
Enormous and scary and all encompassing,
Neanderthal like, I claimed you as mate and mine.
Somehow I felt that was the way to keep you.
I didn't know subtlety and tact where better,
Or wine and sugar beats vinegar and salt.
Now I must face reality like frames in an old movie,
Slipping, flipping, and hard to watch.

Colliding dimensions cause new pains.
Old wounds ripped open, bandages torn off;
Little pains and slights, suddenly magnified.
Left alone we become bitter and sad,
Isolated like a caged, wild thing,
Deadened by apathy, looking out with dull eyes.
Earnestly we love despite and because of differences.















Destiny

I guess you never really see
what destiny means
until you look closely
at the crystal ball,
broken from contact
with the sidewalk.

I like to sleep late on Saturday
after drinking late on Friday.

I fear turning into my old man,
or any old man really.
I just fear turning old,
alone and forgotten
by the next generation(s).

If my life were a canvas
and a work of art,
I wouldn't fear the Louvre,
or theft from those bent
on making a fast, cool million dollars.
Alas, my canvas is stretched thin.

All the world is a stage,
but my spotlight is dim
and the footlights
present a tripping hazard
in the dark and shadows.

I guess you never really see
what destiny means
until you look closely
at the crystal ball,
broken from contact
with the sidewalk.






DECEPTION

Detailed by a world
Encoded by 'who, what, where...'
Conceit and avarice hide my face.

Everything is a lie,
Painted glowing colors
To mask a rainbow of deception.

"I love you," become mere words,
Over and over spoken,
No more than another illusion.



















Darkness Where I Roam

You may think I write
about sadness, depression,
or being a friend of the night.
That isn't meant by the expression
'darkness where I roam.'
I instead speak of family and home.

I grew up down a dirt lane,
with a simple country family
in the state of Maine.
Thinking of home, memories come to me.
We lived away from electricity,
where darkness runs free.

Instead of glaring lamp's light,
we had sun to brighten day
and darkness to rule the night.
In the house by seven was the way,
less you stumble in the dark,
lit by only moon and star's spark.

There is no darkness where I roam,
because the modern bustle and life
have taken me far from home.
Surrounded by hassle and strife,
I long for a return to a simpler day,
twilight's fall keeping the world at bay.










Coyote Moon

Tonight's moon
is a hungry coyote
running, prowling through inky snow drifts;
the dark clouds of my mind
jealous of the coming day.

I am Coyote,
black as a moonless night.
I run prowling the night
howling, a midnight wind.
I can sneak and slink and scare,
howl and scream
at dawn's first colored streaks.
I am Coyote

Coyote moon,
sliding, slowly sliding
through the night's hollow cloud canyons.
He takes his place
ducking from daylight.














Comfort

Headlines scream and cry;
War, high priced oil and labor shortages.
Somewhere, somebody didn't have to die
so young, without a name or love.

The world is spinning fast and crazy
and we can't last, if we keep denying God;
living in defiance of His laws.

We take and take from Mother Nature,
leaving ragged holes, filled with
disposable diapers, empty cans,
and our own avarice and greed.

You shudder at the thought
of waking in the morning.
Cover your head,
shut out the world,
and all the sadness
that can't really be covered
by a down comforter.

I still love you.
I will protect you,
because I need your protection too.
I pray it is enough to save us
when headlines scream and cry;
War, high priced oil and labor shortages.










COME TO STAY

Cans and bottles into plastic bags
Or recycle bins if they bear the proper logo;
My Saturday chores while writing.
Early morning is quiet as Monica still sleeps.

Ten lines written, I start on kitchen cleaning:
Old newspapers bundled, coffee grounds into compost.

Sacks of trash and debris I set on outdoor steps.
Tuesday is trash day, but today I must sort into bins.
A 'meow' from the kitty alerts me to an intruder.
Yellow porch light shows the resident black squirrel tearing into a bag.



















Clouded Dreams of Harsh Reality

Silently we sit together dreaming
in the quiet meadows around an old farm house.
We walked through silent green clover,
entwined hands carrying a picnic basket.
Now lunch finished, we lay watching clouds.

In the fluffed white bunches we see
all that we wish to see
and nothing but what we long to be,
a world constantly changing and creating,
much like the world of reality,
waiting when we step outside this meadow.

Over the mountain shapes roll darker clouds,
Under a locomotive engine shape cracks lightning.
Downpours force us to abandon these dreams.
With a scramble we pick up blanket and repack basket,
Run to get in our car and return
To the world our dreams and white clouds hid from us.















Cigarette Smoke and Perfume

Can you imagine the angel of North Dakota
In a camouflage parka and black boots?
Greeted by a wreath of smoke
And the scent of sweet perfume,
Right away I know my day was going well.
Early morning cold had again descended;
The ground white, covered.
Too cold to think, but I was at work again.
Eight hours of boredom starts slowly.

Sweet perfume awakened me from lamenting.
"Mac, do you want to go smoke?"
"Okay." They wander out while I sipped coffee,
Kept doing nothing but thinking;
"Endless bad weather makes days go slow."

Another cup of coffee, fresh and robust
Not only doesn't carry Katie's scent away,
Doubtlessly it just adds to the mix.

"Perfume, sweet perfume," I muse to myself.
"Everything the girl does is perfume..."
Red packed Marlboro's used to be my poison.
For some reason I have traded them,
Unaware, for unbidden thoughts of her.
Maybe I shouldn't share these thoughts;
Everyday infatuated by cigarettes and perfume.










Brand New Day Dawning

Doubtlessly, it is a good trail
to be on as I walk,
smiling past the green-lawned
perfection of a cemetery,
laid out like God's golf course.

I am overjoyed to be alive
on a sunny day. I walk
seeing birds ground poking
and children puddle jumping.
Today's sun, God made of course.

I smiled through shadows,
feeling alive as I walk
in the quiet of early morning.
My way is plotted and laid out
trying to follow God's course.
















Bitter Brew

Little better than a hateful secret;
you lay your clever trap for me.
I have heard it said
we are little better than dead
when chained
and entrapped by a master
who controls our day so well.
Without you dirty brown bean,
I have no energy, no life.

With the alarm's morning scream
I hear you call.
Not gentle, promising, persuading
but demanding and forceful.
"Come to me."
"Come to me!"
"Come to me now!"
A bitter brew awaits me
as I grab my dirty cup,
scalding my mouth.
Coffee, my addiction.














Becoming
What have you become?
Is what you are what you want to be?
I cannot redress my deep need to confess
that sometimes what I am is what I never wanted to be.
I stop to listen to the message spoken
by the wings of honey bees,
fearing the world, and a tornado created
by the whisper of a butterfly flying.
Tears of loneliness crack the plain
that is the plain solitude of my face.
Winter covers her pale body in snow
to hide loneliness and disgrace.
Is this what I want to be?
What have I become?



















A Time for Healing

Following the slow
tick-tock of that old clock,
day turns into night
and back to day again
in that old familiar circle.
Loneliness comes and goes
and comes back again.
The rise and ebb of tides
follow the rise and fall
of my chest
as I lay here
contemplating loss.

There is a time to be born
and a time to die.
I am sure you know the rest,
as it is written
in a biblical way,
but when death comes,
unbidden in the night
to claim a formerly
hale and hearty child,
we are left with the pain
that memories bring.
I contemplate loss.

Slowly, ever so slowly,
like a healing wound,
drying and clotting,
from the edges inward
my heart begins to mend.
Some days, small things
bring you back strongly
and the twisted flesh
is rent again.
I know it is time for healing
but right now I am
contemplating loss.




A Path to You

The laces of my hiking boots
are knotted and worn through.
They carry me away from disputes,
guide me upon a path to you.

My feet wander to many a place,
thousands of miles they accrue.
but the journeys they trace
guide me upon a path to you.

These mended ties have supported me,
when snow came and bitter wind blew,
When the golden sunlight shows free
guide me upon a path to you.

The laces of my hiking boots
guide me upon a path to you.
















Always Dreaming of You

It may not seem concrete and true,
like leaves and falling snow
and things in the real world do,
but when I dream I dream of you.

I get up and put on my uniform,
tie my boots and out the door I go,
ten hours a day at my job I perform,
but when I dream I dream of you.

I hate being away from you for so long.
I should be used to it by now I know.
Throughout the day I strive to be strong,
but when I dream I dream of you.

I guess in the end it makes sense,
when I hold you and see your eyes aglow,
I can cover up emotion with pretense,
but when I dream I dream of you.















Alice Springs, Meg Cares

I am riding in a car to Alice Springs in my mind.
Good night my dear friend,
I am praying for you.

God never says, "I'm busy.
Go and have a beer and call me later when I have
time for your trivial little pleas."

I remember your smile and say, "sleep well m'lady!"
For you have taught me many things.
The least of which being,
Prayer does have more benefits than beer.

I can't really crack open a beer at 3 a.m.
but God doesn't seem to mind
what time of the day or night I choose to annoy Him.
I must try and get some sleep,
Now that the day has grown old,
And I don't seem to get any younger.

I am riding in a car to Alice Springs in my mind.
Thanks for your ever welcome company and cheers.
Maybe later I can join you.
For beer and prayers in the dusty Outback.

Oh I do wish you were my doctor!
Your treatment sounds so much better
Than plaster and casts and Physiotherapy.

What a lovely thing to say my dear lady.
I will certainly hurry to recover quickly
just to write again for you.

I am riding in a car to Alice Springs in my mind.
My head feels a little mushy at present.
You smile tenderly, I imagine,
"Well, I hope you are back to fully recovered soon,
so you can write me as your masterpiece.
I may be a bit selfish, but I miss your words!"




The only thing that surprises me
is that this car to Alice Springs
has seat belts to keep me from floating to heaven,
where God never says,
"I'm busy. Go and have a beer.
Call me later when I have
time for your trivial little pleas."