Into
the clumsy
morning I go
wondering what
happened to Elsa–
every girl I see
reminds me of her;
striped dresses
beads and tassles
where did I go wrong;
when did I think
I could change her
from what she was
already, into
my own?

The poem about
the crow on the cross
which slowly turns
(astonishing in moonlight)
will not be written
has to wait–started only
to linger unfinished
left to the imagination
like so much of life;
for instance
the candy wrapper
in whose torn corner
sits the eye
of Mona Lisa, or
the discarded, overstuft
chair in the alley
that looks like a throne
missing its king
And I imagine that lady
with her walker
who appears every day
at two–that she
will one day walk again
unassisted…
It is true, I’ve seen
that crow up there
go ’round and ’round
on the rotating cross
and not fly off–one time
I even called out to him
in his own language
and he looked at me
for an instant
like one of his own.

I will write
half a poem
then put the pen down
I will start a short story
on “motherhood”
and lose interest
two thirds of the way through
I see a dead gnat
on the stark bathroom floor
and wonder why his wings
have stopped working;
recognize his plight further
with a little ritual of tissue–
into the toilet
his lifeless form goes
I don’t mourn long;
dawn has come quickly
not mercilessly but hard–
in decisive taupe, then blue
through the stunned tree limbs
I have a funeral to attend
(but I will not leave prematurely)
there’s a house to view
and work to do
that is sincere and waiting
there is no point
exercising half-measures
it is the last Saturday in September
and Life is in session.

The darkness outside
at 5:04am–and its silence
are no consolation–
you might’ve done things differently
but you didn’t
And now there is only pen and paper
and confession; the desperate honesty
that flows from this ink
like one final deathbed admission
written fast, so as
to get it all out–
said with a defiant smile
There is no holding back
the Truth–the Dead can’t talk
scattered as they are in ashes
on mountain cliffs and trails;
each got a life
each got a chance
and now it is left to the wind
to stir them all towards
final configuration
If anyone is thinking at all, about
these small particles of
once-upon-a-time existence–
Certainly, the flowers in the spring
will know something, but they
are not even born
and what that exact knowledge
will be…of that
I’m sure they will not
soon be telling.

The last bit of light
falls on the window
And I remember your smile
so lasting, indelible
If it were not for all
our tomorrows
and the fact that sometimes
tomorrow never comes
But…instead…stays in the heart
with its sad and lasting resonance
The goodness that should’ve
been forever, but wasn’t–
ours only for a few
precious instants, like
afternoons to night, normally
dependable dawn
to morning and onward…
the good natured friends
and loved ones we try
to call our own
but they belong
to someone–something else
a greater God and embracing universe
Waiting in earnest for their return…
Here and gone–one season
a handshake and your hug
I WILL remember
I cannot forget such goodness
genuine grace and decency, as
the last bit of light
lingers at the window
and I will always remember
your smile….

Clearly, death is a trickster
and waits in autumn shadows
at the edge of sunlit
palm fronds–while revelers laugh
on the playground below–
pushing children in swings
slightly too high–
the shiny crows watch
from wary perches;
await their moment
to scavenge scraps
like the doorman
in his patient corner
someone’s always watching
whether you know it
or not…in the sandlot
a child has fallen
from the swing;
scraped knees–no sign
of blood–practicing for
the afternoon–studying
for tomorrow.

Luck is
sun, un-
hindered blue;
warmth, least
expected
another
smiling dog
who know some-
thing I don’t…
Luck is
breath in
and out and
in again, glorious
repetition, source
to source, and
a full life
in between
all the moments
going slowly
so luck
remains
lucky.

Tremulous September
it wasn’t my decision
but you went anyway
and I never heard back
except via someone
later on that
you didn’t make it–
Soon, the trees will turn
almost imperceptibly
but they will shed their leaves
and prepare for the subtleties
of a new season
we will move forward a day
a month, a year
and miss you, as
we miss everyone who departs
prematurely–becomes a memory
too soon, and then
almost nothing
but a fact;
an irrefutable aspect
of life and passage
no matter how far
along the timeline
one may go.

She wasn’t
going to a funeral
or picking her kids up
from school–
just a woman
with a strawberry
ice cream cone
looking satisfied
by the old Sav On
and that was her moment
in the sun, not letting
one sweet drop
drip away from her–
chasing each little
pinkish red escapee
on down the cone
with her adept, darting tongue;
she probably thought
she was alone
in her blissful cocoon
and it would have been true
except for me looking on;
wanting some–envious
and admiring her delicious
obsession…here in my car
watching her, feeling
totally unloved.

The winter can’t arrive
without its downside–
a grey on horizons
we didn’t notice all summer;
the release of gentle blues
into a new and harder season
I could ask you, but
there is no reference
other than change–less resistance
and still–the pain
of knowing time’s passage;
the watch I never wear
the telling shadow at my feet
life like a sundial
progressing intensely;
I walk towards the beach
but it vanishes into purple fog
like an evasive relative
saying “Go On Home…”