I saw the number 19

On a random wooden pole

At Gladstone’s

And I wondered

Where was I

When I was 19?

A sophmore in college

Taking English courses

Writing poems

And “in love”

For the first time–

How about the song

“Hey 19″ by Steely Dan

And, if there were three more

In the Procol Harum classic

It would be

“19 vestal virgins”

But it’s not

In 19 more years

I’ll be 70

The very last of my youth, now

Slipping away

Like 19 will soon

Be 20 and never

18 or 17 again

Progressing as life does–

As, after golf, golfers go

To the 19th Hole

Where they might have a drink

But not unless they are

At least 21…

19–a number

That makes me wistful

Nostalgic, desirous

Of being young again

Or of flying back to Bali

In 19 hours

Or having a kid

Who will someday turn 19

Or putting 19 candles

On a birthday cake

And lighting them

For someone, anyone

Who won’t be 19

For long.

The stained sky

Reminds of purple fog

Or the dim color

Of bunched bank notes

In a pocket full of holes;

A meager bankroll insufficient

For any final amount–

A moment that confirms

The inability

To get things right;

Stumbling on the village walk

Feet caught by a crack:

“They don’t make shoes

Like they used to” is my excuse

Somebody should fix this pavement

Permanently, so we can walk

Like we once could; freely

Uninhibited, without worry…

But then, no point in blaming others

For oversight, for habitual lateness

And the fact

It’s always someone else’s fault–

Even the fog

Doesn’t roll in equally–

Sticks in some trees, obscuring them

And leaves others exposed

I am not unscathed

I wish you’d take all of this

Including the unpredictable weather

To heart.

It’s a work

In progress–this life

From seed

To flesh to ashes

And back to time

Itself, alone

In the emptiness

Of the universe–

The state

In which nothing

Is ever finished

And where everything

Is simply a study

For a final piece

That will never, actually

Be completed.

Here on the promontory

Of our lives–stacks of wood

Rotting and left

To black widows, shadows

And decay–

Just the way you left it;

A blue sky devoid of everything

But retaining

Its fragile hint of moon

a pink rind

Like a promise made…

You’ll not return

To clean up the piles

That will grow flowers

In the spring–lupine

Poppy, even Indian Paintbrush

With its crimson color

Nothing human could duplicate

But you were only human

As are we–prone

To mistakes and frailty

And age–the kind

Of reasoning that looks out

A stained glass window

On a hundred years of firewood

And says “Oh–

I could burn that

In a day…”

This existence

Stretched thin

Between days and hours

And meaning, like

Accomplishing something worthwhile

In the space

Of a traffic light–

Red to wait

And green to ignite

The yellow of continents

Simmering in grandiose isolation

Like people might

If it were not for love

And competition; existence

And fitting in–making sense

Of a largely absurd situation

Putting pen to paper–

The ripples resulting

from a rock thrown in

Well water, sinking

To an uncertain conclusion

But you always make

Your wish.

What?

A shadow for no reason…

As if it wasn’t backlit

By the sun, like

The existence of Sasquatch

UFO’s and the elusive serpent

Nessie–that something

Might not have

An explanation;

A sudden glint of purple

Against the wall

Possibly some Sixties hallucination

And why that man

In the silver van honked

With no discernable obstruction–

It’s smoggy–or is it haze

Of a different origin–

Something agricultural

Or having to do

With evaporation?

And the sea is confusing

With its boatlessness and calm

Making me wonder

About the Lost Squadron

And how I’ll end

This poem–what about

7 blue recycling bins

Lined up like soldiers there

About to die

For no purpose?

The approach

Of an old lady

On the stairs

This morning

Signals nothing, exactly

Of the day, except

One who has been there

Before–careful of step

Carrying something

That will be put

To good use

Later on

In the coming hours;

Out to the street

And onto the 7am bus

She goes–

Wary of strangers

But saying a warm hello

To everyone she knows

Rounding a corner

Like a small painting

In the making

Her singular goal

To get to work

And do her job

And return home…

What does she tell us

Of our own hope

And future?

Nothing, exactly

And everything–

If you give it

Some thought.

The water dried

On the silver spoon

Balanced on the counter

Leaving us confused

As droplets evaporated to nothing

About time or purpose

And what it is, exactly

That we’re doing here, other

Than survival–

With all theses implements and artifacts

Except to say, the tea

Was perfect in its way

From the Ali Shan mountains

Of Taiwan; a golden greenish tinge

When steeped–rich and nutty

As Montrachet

Whose small grapes, when ripe

Resemble jade pearls;

The flower of evening in pagodas

A thousand years ago–of fragrant mists

Approaching temples in Nepalese foothills

Where bare feet have walked

Red earth trails through centuries of silence;

It’s the stillness

Of Canyon De Chelly

Where a hawk hears something

And circles back, hunting

The spoon has stirred all of this–

I dare not move it

For fear of lessening

Its potency

As a tool

Of the imagination.

The sky

Is full of lies

Or, at least, hope

That can’t be realized

But this is just

An opinion

On the unreachable;

An ode to men

Who watch the vastness

With immense lenses, straining

To see something other

Than dust fragments

Bunched together brilliantly–

Colonies we see

But can never reach

A bit like

The candle you light repeatedly

That melts slowly to the plate

Or a bulb changed

Every few hundred hours

There’s a limit to light;

It throws shadows

At every object–

Provides life

And is so easy

To misinterpret; sometimes

You wish you could live

Forever, but you know

You won’t.

This is not

A year shy of water

But last year was–

With mountains thirsting for sky

The creeks dry, revealing old bones

Of years gone, of animals

Humans too, for all we know;

Arrowheads there, if you looked hard–

Stone drills and ancient tools…

But now, water pure

Courses through those culverts

Past flower colonies the color

Of rainbows–lupine

Poppy, paintbrush, others

Whose names escape like birdsong

And there are plenty of those–

And bees announcing

With their signals that this

Is indeed the day–

     Yes–there were dreams

     That did not come true;

     Lands we never visited

     Elusive tunes we only imagined

     Playing in the night…

But this is not

A year shy of water–

We know our luck

Disrobing by the pools–

And we dive in

Without waiting

For any further encouragement

Or proof.