“The blaze

Of late Fall color

Lingering…”

Remarked by one at coffee–

Will do nothing

To dissuade oncoming Spring

Its yellow assault

Then red and purple

On coast and canyon

Bluffs ablaze

With Coreopsis flame

Torches to the day

But now, the grey legions;

December storms

In their march through History

Start the week

An hour late, and rain

That will not come

Soon enough to fill

Our empty vessels

And the inexplicable thirst

Of Lips at glass rims–

Not here, inside

With the friends of caffeine

Tea and scones

And mineral water’s tingle–

The leaves outside the window

Like little blemishes, motifs

And clear reminders

Of all

We cannot see.

The curmudgeons

By the door

Hold up the wall

Of the room

With their backs to it;

Obdurate, cemented postures

And faces as long as a war

Life to them

Is something that happened

Reality occured

And it must be dealt with

Accordingly; potent scowls

Steadfast refusal to believe

Bitter, biting remarks

An arsenal of acidity

Like a sports team

On a winning streak

That won’t be denied victory

At any cost

The sour attitudes win out

Greeting the sunrise

With their grimaces–certain

Of a sky about to fall

I shake their hands anyway

Aborbing the lack of warmth

The chill void of the atheist’s blankness

A cave where monsters crawl

And I offer back a smile, sometimes

Knowing my optimism

Is considered weak, naive

And all for naught.

It didn’t have
To be that way;
The kite in the tree
The bicycle leaned
Against the wall
With a pedal missing;
An upside down shoe
In the picture
Which my Greek ex mother in law
Once said was “bad luck”
She died of emphysema in 2001
At Cedar’s, asking in the end
For one last Carlton;
It didn’t have
To be that way
Ordering veal
And then feeling sorry for the cow
Armies marching to oblivion
The desert sands that swallowed them up
Monuments disappearing
In the distance, read incorrectly
On star maps upside down;
It didn’t matter, anyway
To the reinterpretation of time
And history, Odysseus
Found his way across the Mediterranean
By guessing; staying away
From the singers on the rocks
Those female killers who slaughter
Their only chance at rescue;
Remain stranded in life
As in myth to all
That remains unresolved…
It didn’t have to be that way—
Children left in a car
With all the windows up, or dogs
Or astronauts in faulty spacecraft
In final orbit;
But it was.

While placing flowers
In a vase
The stems wouldn’t fit
Got stuck
And in a burst
Of unwarranted outrage
At size and shape and vessel choice
I ripped the tops
Off the flowers in one gesture
Scattering red petals
Across the countertop
Like little puddles
Of still blood
From some Christmas mishap
An avoidable accident, due
To a lack of patience;
Intolerance run amok
Or was it something deeper?
Whichever it was
I decided to take
The incident no further;
Cleaned the event up
And salvaged
Whatever flowers I could
Put them in a small cup
(In which they looked nice)
And placed
The final statement
On a shelf.

Things weren’t always
This smooth–
Like pine needles stepped on
By bare feet after dark
Crossing the lawn
Or the thorns of a cone
To children’s fingers—remember those?
At once, such inviting orbs
To reach for
In an ornamental world—
Then sharp as blood itself…
Christmases past, I looked
For presents large and small
In the glow of rainbow bulbs
And lost in deep socks—
Found them, rejoiced
And left them on shelves
In houses we moved out of
30 years ago;
Cashmere Christmas
Things weren’t always
This smooth
Low tide beach walks
With heart-shaped rocks
Cabochon moonstones
And simple garments
To keep me warmer
Than I ever expected

It goes around the table
Inaudible or too loud;
Poorly phrased and brutally articulate;
Making excuses for the world
“I shouldn’t have; it wasn’t my fault
I didn’t know the weather
Would be inclement; his driving
Was intolerable…”
Between truth and reality
There lies an interpretation
A Grand Canyon distance
Or imperceptible grain of sand;
Either one distorts the perspective
Of what’s really happening;
Wilts the simple joy
Of a sun going down—
Why are there so many clouds?
No straight shot
At the horizon, to witness
The green flash phenomenon
Making excuses
For a life poorly lived
Or done half-heartedly
Or not at all; excuses that
Don’t help anyway
When it gets dark in December
Almost right after lunch.

Infinities within infinities

We ask—is that all

There is? Apparently—yes;

The Earth seen

From a spacecraft

Near the moon—itself

A moon around the sun

And that, only a small part;
There it is—everything we know

An infinity of possibilities

Contained on one stone ball

All the answers and the questions

History resolved and Future spread out

In pillowy clouds of beautiful uncertainty

Blue and red and green

Turning in the light

Circulating in the ancient given dark

There is nothing we cannot understand

And nothing we will ever know

Seeking permanence

In the inherent limits

Of a majestic, puzzling existence

We continue on;

“That’s what you get–

Make the best of it…”

In spite of all

That you might question

And what remains unanswered.

Dogs don’t bite people

For no reason—

They have to be provoked;

After three years and 8 million dollars spent

A team of 15 investigators

In London and Paris

Concluded Diana’s death

Was an accident

And not a murder conspiracy

As some have speculated—

IE, Britain trying to stop Dodi

From having children

With the princess—

How sinister

Would that have been?

And how strange would it be

If dogs began their day

With the express thought

Of finding someone to bite

For no other reason

Than they don’t like humans?

Maybe it was

An accident.

People look
Across the room
With the indifference
Of a continent slipping
Into the sea
Or a glacier melting;
Trees growing in a forest
Or sand being made
On all the world’s beaches
Every star
That has ever looked down
From the void
And the influence they will never have
On our thoughts; utter
Complete and total distance—
Then a squeaking chair
Jangling keys
And talk of sex & infidelity
And we’re back
In the riotous moment
Spiked by adrenaline
Delicious expectation
And dollops of drama…
Indifference has no place
Here, under
These startling conference room lights
Like it does
In the rest of the Universe.

This paint I use
For garish heads
And landscapes
And abstractions
Doesn’t stain my hands—
It’s not lasting
Transient blots
Or pink, green
And red
That make it look
Like I fell onto
A paint pallet accidentally
When I didn’t–
I’m just a sloppy
Impetuous painter
And I get the pigment
On things that
Already have
Their proper hue—
Fingers, clothes, arms
Wrists, until
I just look like somebody
Trying to get attention
Like a dressed up
Circus clown or mime
Or poorly made up actor…
Paint doesn’t stain
My hands—it got there
On its own
And only washes off
One rinse at a time
With strong soap.