Days

Of burning toast

And crows

And the same door

Slamming

In the courtyard

Summer’s not quite here

Hence, no argument

About June, either

Nor any point

In debating God;

The children or the egg

Fins and appendages

Migrating whale plumes

Or the true intentions

Of birds–

You will be content

Or not

To smell

The neighbor’s lunch

Burning

And to wonder if

At only 12:45

She’s already drunk.

It started

As a short poem

But became longer

When beads of water

Crossed together

On the windshield

After a rain;

The pattern remained

Strands tied

Like religion

Or art

That no priest or artist

Could make;

A random glance

To another

Across a courtyard–one

Not accidental

That stays in the mind

As a promise

Or a door opening

To new belief

That another sees

When enough

Is plenty

The randomness of rain

Stained portals–beads

And faces; the mountains

Entering summer

And no longer green

But turning, then

The miracle happens

And you’re

Invited in.

Mercifully

The sun lay down

Behind fog;

Air remained

To breathe

And red leaves

To collect

To hide beneath

And appreciate;

The garbage trucks

Gather everything

We reject

Leaving the rest of us

To our pursuits

Turning hours into days

Sand to glass

Words into things

That may or may not last;

Building blocks

To better moments–

The hard wood

Of our tables

Chairs, bedframes

And roofs

What we depend upon

To make it all work–

Like the sun

And how much

We’ve taken

For granted.

If you all

Gang up on me

I will die

Out here in traffic;

Left stranded as

The light turns red

On the way

To the guillotine

In a crosswalk;

Worse–run over

By that speeding truck

Or left behind

By the oblivious bus…

Help! I cannot

Make it alone

Out here in traffic–

And you can’t even

Hear me honk.

Some old

Rusted wire

In circles around

The gate post;

A reminder

Of forgotten purpose

Not an homage

To fallen heroes

Or used to keep

The fence up

Or even for better

Water dispersal

In the garden…

Twisted tightly there

Where barely a soul

Can see it, except those

Who pause

To open the gate

On the way out

And notice, for an instant

The symbols of circumference–

Meaning nothing specific

But everything, if connected

To an original

Greater purpose.

Nauseating

Housing tracts, one after another

With their perplexing billboards;

Mind-numbing shopping centers

And strip malls; acres

And acres of shiny, brightly lit

New and used and new cars

On perpetual sale

A Harleigh shop next to “Golf ‘N’ Stuff”

New discount designer outlets

Being built, coming soon…

A mortuary on every other block

For your convenience

A sprawling camper and Winnebago lot

Within walking distance of Denny’s

Just part of the fun

In Ventura.

This is something new–

A poem on the back

Of an oyster list

Featuring Fanny Bays (from British Columbia)

Beausoleils (from Prince Edward Island)

Kumomotos (from Mexico)

And Blue Points (from New York)

And, as it turns out

It’s a poem with more information

Than you probably wanted or needed

To know–and by the way

All of them

Were quite good!

I WISH I HAD A LETTER FROM YOU

I wish

I had

A letter

From you

But I don’t

And this poem

Is no substitute.

 

SUPERNOVA (true story)

88 million

Light years away

There’s a supernova

Exploding…

Next door

Behind a makeshift fence

My neighbor’s dog

Is barking.

 

EVERY SECOND

With every second

Time takes on

New meaning

New worth

New value.

 

MIRROR

A face

In the mirror–

It’s yours

But it looks

Different

Every time

You see it.

 

HOT DOGS

What do you

Think they do

With the parts

Of the pigs &

Cows that nobody

Wants to eat?

Hot dogs–

That’s what;

Hot dogs.

 

WALKING ON PAPER

I saw a

Chinese mystic and healer

Walk on paper

Suspended in the air

On YouTube–

He really did it

The act was documented…

It reminds me

Of how much further

We can go

In life.

 

HATE IT WHEN IT’S OVER

Breakfast

Is so good

At Cafe Vida

I hate it

When it’s over.

 

GIVEAWAY

Give all the pictures

You painted

Away to people!

Now that’s

Genius distribution

You don’t make

Any money

But you really

Get the pieces

Out there!

 

DO FOR YOURSELF

What do you

Do for yourself

To make your life

Better and

More healthy

And connected every day?

You’ve simply

Go to do

Something.

 

GETTING CENTERED

It’s extremely hard

Getting centered

These days;

There’s so much

By which

To be utterly

Distracted.

 

THE PROBLEM WITH LONGER POEMS

The problem

With longer poems

Is that people

May lose interest

Before they get

To the end.

 

NO DOUBT

There’s no doubt

That reading

Makes you

A better person;

I just

Don’t know how.

 

COMMITTED

You’re committed

To life–

Is there anything

Better

To be

Committed to?

 

PICTURES THAT MATTER

I paint and sketch

A lot of pictures;

I don’t know

If they are

Pictures that matter

But I am going

To keep it up

No matter what.

 

ON OPIATES

I was on those

For a while–

Black tar and Vicodin

And I feel

Just as good now

Or better

Without them.

 

RON

Ron’s sitting

In the corner

Staring at me

How do

I know this?

Because I’m over

On the side

Of the room

Staring right back

At him.

 

ANOTHER THOUGHT

I had

Another thought

But I forgot

What it was.

 

LOSE THE GAME

Does it make

Any difference

If you win

Or lose the game?

Nope.

Nobody

Really cares.

 

MY FIRST POEM OF THE DAY

It was surprising

When I went to clean

My small teapot

And a black spider

Climbed out

Of yesterday’s

Green tea leaves–

What was he doing

In there?

That’s my first poem

Of the day.

 

TO DO LIST

I thought

Of writing

A to-do list

On a dollar bill;

I haven’t

Done one yet

But I think

It’s a good idea.

 

SECOND POEM OF THE DAY

This is not

My second poem

Of the day–

It’s my third–

I didn’t think

I could

Get away

With the lie.

 

LIKE THIS ONE

Bali is a

Long way away

And it seems

Like an exotic

Remote world

But it’s just

Another rock in

The sea, with

Millions of people

Living on it

Under the same sun

Like this one.

 

A DIFFERENT HISTORY

A yellow

Hamburger wrapper blows

Across the street

Deciding the fate

Of mankind

As it cartwheels–

Birds jostle then dip;

Erratically positioned

On the unruly breeze

(Which some might call

A wind) but the trees

In this quadrant

Are used to it;

Have weathered

Worse storms

In their day, and they know

It is not ours

To remake anything;

Hammering steel

Into civilizations

For slaves and their kings

Building better time

Altering genes…

The paper

Blows back

Across the street

Not content

with the refuse

It found–forlorn

And destitute

In what remains

Of its role, longing

To be reborn

As the papyrus

It might have been

And on which

A different history

Was recorded.

 

TWICE, YESTERDAY

It’s a dangerous world

For spiders, like I

Can come along

In my own home

Move a plate

Or a bottle

Or a box

And one runs out

Revealed

In plain view

And vulnerable

To sweeping

And wiping down

Counters

Or dusting–

Or worse, caught

In sinks with

The water running

And that big

Black hole

They try so hard

To escape from–

But most often

Down they go, to

Darkness and drowning

Or squashing

Or being stomped on

Unless, of course

I make the noble effort

And let them out

Which I did

With the same one

Twice, yesterday.

Why not taste

The wine again?

The irony

Of uneaten bread–

Tear it, and more

Will appear; not servitude

Or obligation, but love

Of duty, as if role itself

Is joy…& evening

Following day, in faith

To night, as grapes

Are true to wine;

That slight suggestion

Of rind, and orange

Marmalade on toast

At dawn, a nuance

Of tea leaf

And the absolute

Finality of concrete floors

A distance

Between oceans

The wrinkles in evolution

Bringing us to now

And empty bottles;

Laughter

A morning after.

In existing days

Sometimes, even

Benign finds; veins

In a leaf, for instance

Or a pink tinge

In a winter sky

Give pause…

The loose sand

Beneath walking feet

Impacts–gives in

To each step

Like a thought, later on

Of worlds colliding

Fireside with you, once–

Discussing life

In the blackest moment

The bays and estuaries

Of summers past;

Near noon, like a canvas

We imagine and recall–

Along shell paths

Trails of granite

An invisible line

To the open market

Or a reef offshore…

I can hear the clock

Ticking onward

Hear you speaking

Feel the imminent sip

Remember a fangled smile

From a dog, paused

To consider tidbits

In the rutted street;

What are these incidents

We retain–sequences

We repeat, friends

Better to forget?

Words, boughs, the small hand

On seven then eight…nine

Time travelers, determined vintners

The harvests we’ve left hanging

Or none at all, to reap

I’ll see you in the morning

In the uncertainty

Of familiar obligation

Begging us from sleep

Calling out, across the square

Yelling towards forever

To this instant

Of another hello.