Eric…Malcolm–
you’re right about that;
“Life IS good…”
And the leaves
are still turning red
in the neighborhood
in fact–crimson, orange & mauve;
As well, you two remind me
“A dime may no longer
be enough for a phone call
but it still buys
six minutes of time…”
And if I give it to you
in earnest, from the depth
of my pocket–
it may not be much
but it’s entirely for you–
It remains true, that
in any spare interlude
One can look around
and remember
that the village trees
thriving and green
All have their responsibilites–
to leaves, birds and squirrels–
that life is good, too
In all parallel worlds…
But mostly, today
How I simply want to thank
Eric and Malcolm again
for getting me thinking
as I should.

You object to me
sleeping in my clothes
while I’m opposed
to all the world’s wars…
Ne’er the twain
shall meet…Tonight
on Christmas eve
a woman lept
the partition at
the Vatican
and knocked down
the Pope–she
was taken and he
was righted and
continued Mass
straight faced, unshaken.
I do not believe
or disbelieve his words
(written by others
and recited for the sanity
of many and the
common cause) And now–
after midnight in
this simple house
there are dishes in the sink
crumpled dollars on the desk–
which just recently
belonged to someone else
and keys to almost everything
that opens, drives, or closes…
I am fortunate–
I will consider
my good fortune
and go back to bed
in all my clothes.

The leaves
outside the house
still speak
that strange
gutteral language
with little breeze
(if any)
to stir them;
a life of their own
out on the cement walk
talking, after death
of eternal separation
from mother trees
and life, in general;
turning quickly
from red to brown
neglected by everyone
but me–stepped on,
crushed, swept aside
put in piles
and burnt to cinders
But not before
I accord them
this testimony;
this tribute–
I love them
and always will
as though
these itinerant leaves
on their way to oblivion
deserve far more
than this poem.

A dusky island
with nothing but open doors
curious brown children
guarding their pyramids
of severed fruit
staring along alleys
to the beach–littered
with rinds; a language
of those having eaten…
Then, the faded green stairs
to beds of crushed pink shell;
A boat to another coast
and home–that island
“Isla Mujeres” was 30 years ago
But I still smell the ripeness
of its melons, and feel
the powdery sand
giving in underfoot.

The other side
of the door
is like another side
of the world;
shadows there
along the hall
in their changing
light parade, the sun
as it drags along
in a sinking trajectory
as if to look
for someone through
every open window–
it’s a different picture
than one you might
have seen last winter
when the orb and all
its angled arrows
were my friends–I guessed
the time, more or less
like a sundial across
the faded rug with its
greens, yellows & reds
where collected rocks sit
awaiting change–hands
to move them…
and for dust–in just
the next room
it’s another continent
or planet; I am not
fully aware of what
goes on in the confines
of my simple home–
let alone, myself;
its only tenant.

I don’t know you–
the color of your sky
the look of your clouds
I taste your air–opaque
like lemon tea
and it is not familiar to me–
Nor the overgrown copse
of trees in the gully
by the old beach gate
Or the suddenly sullen sea
when it was once
Just a placid day…
Your coastal moods
are like wind swirls in the dirt–
little, menacing tornados
coming my way
And there are faces
in the rocks where I hike–
not the empty sockets
hollowed from sandstone
by the elements and time
but those of lost souls
and evil ancestors…
It is hard to look around
this landscape and feel
at home…my town
which has changed so much
it is no longer
my own.

The leaves still made
harsh, scraping sounds
across the cement–
it’s true; they were almost
all green and red
Like beautiful, fake fall colors
you might have seen back east
(in a place like Vermont or Connecticut)
two months ago, but
there was no season
like theirs on this coast
in this town–and no one
for that matter coming through
the old iron gate yet–
with its distinctive, unsettling
double “clang” on the open
and the close, which
for whatever reason
stayed closed–and so
the leaves on the cement
with a little orange and purple
to them also (if you must know)
A feeling like the end
of the year was near–
and so much more
obvious and undetermined
that would have
to be met.

It was special–
the way light fell
through the window
onto our table
in such a way;
angular then dappled
like a candy coating
on everything we touched
and often, we’d talk
about that light
ethereal a subject
as love–
which we did not discuss
kept separate
from the pretty sunlit plates of food
and fruit or flowers
on that summer table…
Now it is winter;
you have gone
and the light is different–
grey and ungiving
harder to find–leaving me
more alone than ever
unwarming, unwelcome
such that sometimes
I shut the blinds
and turn on the house lights
But they are no substitute
for what was
once special, and now
is so plain
and simple.

Here, I wrote you a poem–
it’s not like any other one
You’ll get today–
I promise, take it,
a block of verse featuring
a green and yellow tree
over there, by the square
a sneezing baby, closer by
And a glazed donut
I just saw
behind the CBTL glass
display counter (which will go
uneaten by me for fear
of too much sugar and calories)
But I think about that donut
in all its temptingness
and the temporal bliss
it would offer–
bite by bite, like
this poem might be
if you could eat it
line by line; the poem
I wrote for you, a gift
I may or may not give;
I’d like to just finish it
(the poem) and hand it
to you, across the room
a spontaneous gesture
but then, in truth
I’ll probably chicken out
before the final act.

Spareness;
that’s what
you need–
fewer words
more meaning
So I say
“Stop Writing!”
but they come
these deft darts
with letters
and sounds
across the page
like animals tracks
some wild
some tame
to put them down
and make sense
of silence
and space
is the
game.