Whatever and ever

the next thing

2011-01-08T08:27:00.002-05:00

my daughter sings jazz,
a capella
at almost 4 years old.
from the seat in the
shopping cart she
scats
out her alphabet,
smiling at passers by.
getting louder
as we pass
by the ham,
then finishing
with a smooth
jazz, "yeah."
I applaud
but she's already on
to the next
thing.

turning taillights to 2010

2011-01-01T11:55:00.002-05:00

chasing ghosts down the highway,
we pass the remains of a Model T
tethered to a flat-bed trailer,
heading, we hope, for restoration.
from the backseat, my daughter sings,
"we belong together," and the road
we travel moves into another year,
seemingly the same as it was.

why I used a jar, I'll never know

2010-12-28T08:17:00.002-05:00

unpacking memories
from a jar,
wondering why
the order is wrong.
why last year rests
on the bottom
while childhood
bubbles to the top.
find myself wondering
about the viscosity of memory.
so I try to turn the jar
as though it were an hourglass
but the jar slips
and shatters
and the memories flow
back into one.
whole again.

life in white

2010-12-06T08:11:00.000-05:00

relying on snow
and jazz trumpeters
to awaken my senses,
dulled from too much
anti-septic,
too many artificial lights,
too many princesses
who no longer seek castles
but build hospitals
treating the dragons.
life,
imitating life,
trying to understand
what understanding spills
on the ground.

what the street remembers

2010-11-30T09:08:00.002-05:00

someone sketched a scene
outside my morning window.
charcoal lines of trees
against a water-color sky,
gray light under gray clouds.
puddles on the street, reflecting
rust brick and umber buildings,
shadows of stories no longer seen
except in daguerreotypes.
a call to remember,
before the sun fully rises
and burns off the mist
and the memory that
what comes next
is not always better
than what is.
or was.

a space in time

2010-11-24T07:56:00.002-05:00

I wished the heat had gone out
as I padded out of bed
at dead o'clock in the morning.
The floor needed to be cold
under my feet.
The time needed to be
100 years earlier,
with gas lights
illuminating the streets
and fresh snow
falling from dark skies.
I needed to hear horses,
clomping off in the night.
I needed to smell
burning coal.
A hole in time,
opens quickly,
then closes
as the sound
of my daughter's
slow, even breaths
roots me here.
Now.

on a foggy Ohio morning

2010-11-22T11:55:00.000-05:00

the misty white backdrop
accents the small color
which remains.
through a small hole
in the fog I sense a path
which leads to melancholy,
and though I suspect
it is wrong
to enjoy
the final dance
so much more than the first,
I find myself
reaching for
Miles Davis
on vinyl,
asking fall for her hand
and taking one more dance.

a study in brown

2010-11-18T10:09:00.002-05:00

color
has been lost.
       yellow,
       red,
       orange,
       green,
all replaced
by shades of
       brown.
yet
the skeletons
of flowers
and grasses
hold their beauty
well into
the first snow,
when the cream
topping
highlights
found beauty
in divine design.

lost in frost

2010-11-18T10:08:00.001-05:00

Sunshine fools me
into thinking
the day has begun.
So I rise into a world
of quiet slumber
and walk
barefoot
onto frosted grass
wondering:
         how long can I stand
         still
before inertia overtakes me
and I become another
landscape fixture,
   found
only after erosion
works me free.

tell me why we ruin the day by starting it in the morning

2010-11-17T10:53:00.000-05:00

sunrise
is best viewed
with tired eyes
which warmly greet
the light
after hours of darkness,
then close
and sleep
and dream
of day.

taking the easy way out

2010-11-16T12:26:00.003-05:00

  stack
ing
  words.
   hope
   ing
   they
   do
not f
   a
   l
      l
      .

time again

2010-11-09T12:43:00.002-05:00

time
peeked around the corner,
then decided to sit this one out,
next to me,
nestled among the bushels of melons,
watching my brother,
wrestle my dad.
getting close to the old man
but still no match.
pure joy exists
in that timeless nothingth,
pure family,
pure focus
on what we live for.
then time taps me on the shoulder,
whispers, "sorry,"
and starts the machine
again.

all of the magic

2010-11-05T08:23:00.001-04:00

I thought pumpkins were magic.
A shovel in the earth,
my small hand
reaching in to a sack of seeds,
expertly offering
the seeds to the earth.

great green vines,
so strong and full,
brilliant yellow blossoms,
good enough to eat.

small green gourds,
slowly painted orange,
growing larger
as the vines
begin their collapse.

harvest time,
I would run my hands
over their faces,
as they all had faces
if you knew where to look.

roasting the seeds,
greedily eating,
hoping
a little of that magic
would make its way
into me.

shipped fresh or Has Anyone Seen a Newtown Pippen?

2010-11-04T10:06:00.000-04:00

mechanically produced,
mega-farm apples
populate the store shelves
at the height of apple season.
bred to look good under the lights,
Hollywood apples,
style over substance,
over taste.
I long for the ugly apples,
russeted and real
unrestrained by what
someone thinks
an apple should be.

have you seen me

2010-11-04T10:04:00.001-04:00

there is always a line
which can be crossed.
and once
on the other other side,
the path back
recedes from view.
no amount of struggle,
no amount of searching,
will yield the way.
vision has altered.
what was once
plainly in view
now moves just outside
the periphery
always
just out of view,
except for a nagging
doubt that something
is missing.

flatlander

2010-11-02T07:48:00.002-04:00

in the dim morning light,
a line of clouds
take on the look
of a mountain range
off to the East.
I am not ready
for the sun to rise
and rob me
of my illusion.

Confessions of an Unrepentant Michigander

2010-11-01T10:33:00.000-04:00

I don't know
if it is simply
the weight of years
but somewhere,
some
time,
I began to see myself
as from Ohio,
a definition I never
would have chosen.
and as trite
as it sounds,
it occurs to me
that my heart finally
followed
and the whole me
is an Ohioan.
imagine my surprise.

what I love about mothballs

2010-10-27T08:29:00.000-04:00

the strings were cut
so I could never
see you change.
the memory of you,
boxed and preserved.
ready
should I choose
to root around
in the attic.
knowing
that soon
the odor of the past
will overwhelm
and the past
will again
pass.

mellow joy

2010-10-25T10:33:00.000-04:00

I find mellow joy
in bleak landscapes.
rust colored trees
against a gray sky.
bare branches reaching
high, asking for snow.
mottled leaves
coating the ground
offering brief warmth
before frost sets in.
I breathe out,
hoping for frosty
vapor trails
but the chill
in the air
only touches my cheek,
telling me to wait.

the new unfamiliar

2010-10-20T12:00:00.002-04:00

lost the thread
of conversation
so I nod,
like I understand.
but the connection
to those people
and those places
has been severed.
newly unfamiliar roads
lead to a spot
on a map
that was, once, home.

cliché

2010-10-05T08:26:00.000-04:00

picture
a straight line
running through time.
a connection uninterrupted.
we two.
the line moves
as the end points travel
in and out of chaos.
and I like to imagine,
over the years,
that line has drawn
a wonderful tree.
with us as the roots,
she stands
and reaches for the sky.

days like today, I wish I could paint

2010-09-20T12:47:00.001-04:00

base thoughts
happen without words.
translation
into language
moves them closer
to
misunderstanding.
which is why
a tree can be painted
but not described.

maybe I'm amazed

2010-09-03T08:55:00.002-04:00

the word of the day
is inertia
or perhaps
simply sloth,
as it is my action
which has led
to this spot.
trapped in a maze
of my own design.
amazed
at the creativity
that has been expended
only to keep
nothing
here.

it's on the top shelf, get a stool

2010-08-23T12:00:00.000-04:00

we are conductors
of truth
as it
flows through us
but does not stop.
it moves at
the speed of life
and is changed
by what is next.

from a level
where you may see
all of humanity
truth can been read
and understood
but here
it must remain
out of reach.

hit the ground

2010-08-06T09:54:00.001-04:00

today is
a day which feels
as though it were pulled
from bed, like
a sullen teenager,
already bored
with the world
and too self-absorbed
to notice
life
is a participatory
sport.

by way of apology

2010-08-03T08:42:00.000-04:00

paralyzed
by the need
to over-think
everything.
like a simple
thank you
could have
far reaching
repercussions
and I would
end up poorer
because of
a human interaction.

once bitten

2010-08-02T09:23:00.002-04:00

snow white dogs
lick my fingers
as golden corn
peeks from under
green husks.
red tomatoes
seduce me and
yellow peppers
tempt me
with hidden heat.
but, secretly, I
long for orange
pumpkins and
red apples, kissed
by the sun
and bitten by fall.

Life under melting Arctic ice

2010-07-07T10:23:00.000-04:00

a midwestern smog
clouds the horizon
as heat radiates
off of everything,
forcing my mind
to cool down,
think slow, languid thoughts -
mint juleps.
linen suits.
my breathing slows,
try for slow deep breaths
but it cannot be, not today.
so I cough out poor ideas
and eat
strawberry and cucumber salad
as visions of autumn nights
ping the back of my eyes
and pollution and pollen
prick the front.

Greta bug

2010-06-30T12:24:00.000-04:00

under the leaves
of the Sunday morning paper,
she buries herself
in her cocoon
(which she calls a racoon).
only to emerge,
smiling in the sunlight.
hatched again.

the meaning of leaves

2010-06-23T10:51:00.001-04:00

curling around my ankles
as they are blown by the wind.
a small vortex.
I imagine it growing larger
and carrying me away.
but calmness prevails
and I pluck a single leaf
from the maelstrom
and claim it
as my idea for the day.

bite sized beauty

2010-06-10T08:02:00.000-04:00

the world
is cropped and framed.
bite sized windows
into beauty,
captured
by people whose thoughts
I'll never know
but who must share
something of me
as our eyes
see the same.

the stitches that bind

2010-06-07T08:23:00.001-04:00

the image of blood,
seeping from her split lip,
running into her mouth
as she cried,
as I held her down,
is not one which will fade.
so I tell her
my first stitches
came at four,
she beat me by a year
and I smile
but I can't escape
the uneasy feeling
that some of her childhood
is already gone.

stumbling in to light

2010-05-20T12:19:00.000-04:00

perhaps it was the photograph.
both of them in one chair,
like kids. smiling.
her hand
resting gently behind his neck.
I smiled with them,
then noticed the date
printed in the margin.
and I knew.
this young couple
had four kids.
and I stumbled for thought
but none came.
but now,
there was light.

a sudden outbreak of melancholy

2010-05-18T10:40:00.000-04:00

and I blame the weather
for blowing in wistfulness,
since despair rises,
then falls with the rain.
it puddles at my feet,
after passing through
and leaves me dry.

Mr. Hyde

2010-05-12T13:39:00.000-04:00

always remember
to blame the potion
for bringing out
in you
what was always there.
smile through the headache,
the morning after.
all is forgiven,
but forgotten,
never.

May Morning

2010-05-10T07:31:00.000-04:00

I've come to appreciate morning,
when the shadows play
a different game
than their evening counterparts.
They entice me outside to dance.
My toes,
cold and wet from the dew.
The birds chitter at me,
their day well started.
A deep breath,
head inside.
start mine.

why. asked

2010-05-05T09:55:00.001-04:00

found thoughts,
lying on the ground,
sitting in trees,
floating on puddles
and took them in,
trying to hoard all.
finally, cast them
back out
into the wild,
hoping
someone else
might shelter them
too.

wet and incomplete

2010-05-03T07:45:00.000-04:00

a thought tries to form
but it is swimming upstream,
against the current
of an interruptible life.
concessions made
to the modern world.
the idea that I am available
at all times takes root.
through all of this noise,
one thought manages
to emerge, wet and incomplete--
I am not any closer to you
and you are not any closer
to me.

and suddenly strange

2010-04-29T09:32:00.000-04:00

they wore bathrobes in McDonald’s,
because they were young,
because they could.
trying to shock, perhaps.
trying to get you to think
naked thoughts
at lunch time.
then they were gone.
cold feet, I suspect,
from the lack of
shower shoes.

ask not for whom the bell tolls

2010-04-28T09:43:00.000-04:00

I hear the church bells ring
and allow myself the fantasy
that there is a bell ringer,
gleefully pulling
the ends of lines
to create the sound.
but, truth, there aren’t any bells,
just recorded sounds
played with amplification
and I am saddened,
for a moment,
that I live in this time.

one can hope

2010-04-27T08:19:00.000-04:00

you can
personify the rain,
if you wish.
some find it a weakness
to believe that the rain
is trying to change your day.
but it is a strength
to believe
that the world is not
the result of a million accidents,
but a whole,
struggling to pull itself through.

evening ritual

2010-04-24T10:11:00.000-04:00

as the sun began to sink,
I would make my way
to the hillside
and find my favorite
patch of grass,
which wasn't so much grass
as it was clover.
facing the sun,
I would try to detect
the moment that yellow
became orange
and orange became red.
then I would wish I could
move to the other side
of the hill and wait
for the show to reverse.

puddle-wonderful

2010-04-23T08:10:00.000-04:00

for De Jackson

I have dirt envy.
she gets down and digs
without a trace of self awareness,
no consideration of what
someone else might think
as she discovers a worm
and carries it around, like a pet.
slime-tastic sensations,
all new and wonderful,
for fun, just add water.
stomp, splash, run.
I’m exhausted just watching.
finally she runs down,
wet and muddy
we track all of the outside
inside.

no chance

2010-04-22T10:10:00.000-04:00

I plunge my hands into the earth
and instantly feel younger,
recharged,
reconnected.
floating back to the time
when getting dirty was
the natural order of things,
not a Saturday task,
sometimes scorned.
and I know
something has been lost,
part of me,
the little boy in the trees.
and I wonder
who he grew up to be
since there is no chance
it would be me.

for Greta

2010-04-19T09:56:00.001-04:00

morning light finds me reflective,
as I wait for quiet footsteps
to announce the end of quiet time
and the beginning of the day.
trying to think back to when I was three
but knowing there's nothing there
and fearing, if I was gone today
she would never know who I am,
but for a few photos
and misremembered stories.
she would never know
there are pieces of me
only she can see,
reflections that only exist
because she is there to witness.
and I know, now, that were it not
for quiet footsteps
in the morning and a call for Daddy,
I would be incomplete.

to capture a moment

2010-04-18T11:31:00.001-04:00

to capture a moment
under glass
and preserve it
for eternity
works the same
as cutting flowers.
for a time
they thrive
then, slowly at first,
they degrade,
until what is left
is a bare
representation
of what a flower
is meant to be.

scientific discovery

2010-04-17T16:44:00.001-04:00

sometimes
our ability
to do
outpaces
our understanding.
yet we don't ask why.
but believe,
how will lead us true.

it's funny, until it isn't

2010-04-16T10:12:00.000-04:00

I first heard death laugh when I was 15,
up until then, it had been a mere chuckle,
but, at 15, I couldn’t toss it aside.
and I couldn’t laugh back.

laughter rung in my ears
as I struggled to understand
the connection between
laughter and tears.

two sides of the same emotion,
the membrane which separates them
thins more with each passing year,
until I can see through.

until it tears
and death laughs at me.

my every day

2010-04-15T10:13:00.000-04:00

time slows down
as the deadline approaches,
eyes open wider,
breathing more even,
focused finally
as the adrenaline
rush kicks in.

Mackinac Island

2010-04-14T09:27:00.000-04:00

I was kicked off the lawn
at the Grand Hotel
for playing frisbee
way back when.
but nothing has changed
from the fudge,
to the lack of cars,
it’s always
somewhere in time.

the last thing I ever thought I would say

2010-04-12T07:50:00.000-04:00

watching my daughter play,
I recognize that I have lost
the wonder of the physical world.
dirt
and worms
and grass
and the flowers that we now call weeds.
beauty we strive to kill
as we remake our world
into exactly
what we said we would never.

my, you're looking thin

2010-04-09T09:55:00.000-04:00

if you’ve ever seen
my face on the internet,
a line drawing,
dashed off in a moment,
then you know
all there is to know.
hiding, most of myself.
but given to fits
of introspection
like what would I
look like on the funny pages.
trying to make up
for my lack of substance
with words.

chisel

2010-04-08T10:59:00.000-04:00

from life
laid down over generations
and allowed to morph
through heat and pressure
we arrive at marble
by way of limestone.

a simple chisel
applied with skill
and vision can morph
it again, back to life, of sorts.
as beauty
is life.

until the wind makes up its mind

2010-04-07T09:44:00.000-04:00

I love the way
the wind
notices the imperfections
in my house.
rattling that loose pane of glass,
flapping that weather stripping,
howling through the small fissures.
giving a small notice -
I can take this place
any time I choose.

viewing "Pocahontas” by Annie Leibovitz

2010-04-06T12:53:00.002-04:00

"Pocahontas” by Annie Leibovitz

change is on the water,
the center of an idyllic scene,
which starts to lose
focus
at the edges,
as though
already sensing
this world
will never be
the same.

a Coke and a comic book

2010-04-05T10:42:00.000-04:00

it's foggy in a way
which suggests it's not true,
but something in the air
turned my eyes to the past.
when I was five,
at the most,
I set out on an quest
for a Coke and a comic book.
wandering miles
along country roads
to the village drug store,
my pockets filled with
all the money in the world.
settled down on the
sidewalk, I'm surprised
to see my mom
pulling up in our dark Chevy.
my comic half read but my Coke
already gone, she hugs me
and puts me in the front seat,
before seat-belts, before
safety, I ride home with the
window down and my hand,
out the window, pretending
to be an airplane.
I remember it true
but I wonder
how much of my world
I created, and how can I tell.

what water wants to be when it grows up

2010-04-02T09:26:00.000-04:00

like water,
he started on the path
of least resistance,
looking for cracks,
places to hide.
then the flood
made him sit up
and see what
water could do
when it admitted
it didn’t just wish
to follow
along.

the sound of one

2010-04-01T07:15:00.000-04:00

nothing there,
save the envelope.
the photograph,
long since mislaid.
yet the postmark
paints the scene.
vivid and sharp.
torn open in haste
and anticipation,
the envelope
resembles nothing
so much as broken glass.
dangerous and beautiful.
funny how time
colors in some memories,
increasing the contrast,
while it allows others
to fade slowly
into the background
noise.

The Ballad of the Monster Bunnies

2010-03-31T10:36:00.001-04:00

I like to hunt for monster bunnies,
I see them all around.
I see them in the bathtub
they barely make a sound.

They’re still all warm and fuzzy
but their teeth are sharp and long.
they tear apart my books and files
it’s really, really wrong.

I try to make them leave the house,
with trails made out of food.
but they always make it in somehow.
it’s oh so very rude.

I like to hunt for monster bunnies,
I see them in my dreams.
Where everything cute and fuzzy
is not quite what it seems.

and now a word from the shameless self-congratulations department

2010-03-28T10:48:00.002-04:00

The previous post here (Crimson) represents the 100th post to this little poetry blog. It's an older poem, written last year during the Poetic Asides April Poem-a-Day Challange. I picked it for number 100 for a couple of reasons. First, it's one of my favorites. Second, it was written during last years PAD Challange. If it hadn't been for Robert Lee Brewer and his excellent community for poets, I doubt I would ever have written it or the rest of what is on this blog and over at Poetic Asides.

I just wanted to say thanks. And April is only a few days away.

Crimson

2010-03-28T10:47:00.001-04:00

it's 2 AM, maybe 3.
an 8 yr old boy stands
at the top of the stairs.
quietly.
he listens as his mom
and dad come in.
very drunk.
very angry.
doors slam,
voices rise.
finally quiet.
he holds his breath
as he comes down the steps.
his dad is passed out
on the couch.
he creeps closer,
looking at his old man's hands.
there it is.
the cigarette is still lit,
burning crimson.
he fashions his small
fingers into pinchers
and expertly plucks
the cigarette from between
the fingers.
he stubs it out
in an ashtray,
then heads back up
to sleep.

notes from a rounding error

2010-03-26T11:51:00.001-04:00

me,
divided by
the population of the world,
is nothing,
or as close to it
as I care to be.
yet, here I am,
somehow imagining
that these thoughts
are traveling the world
and finding someone
who sees them
and says, “yes,
that’s right.”

excise tax

2010-03-25T12:56:00.000-04:00

feel compelled to use my time
as it becomes more compressed.
lazy days have been excised.
time filled with purpose.
but the ends remain the same.
can this moment just be.

before I knew about antacid

2010-03-24T11:40:00.000-04:00

the kitchen floor was my salve.
the days when my stomach would burn,
I would crawl under the table
and press my aching belly
against the linoleum
and let the cool
work its wonder.
but never say
why it burned.
or that it did.

it could have been you

2010-03-17T07:57:00.001-04:00

it could have been you.
if I had stood up
and met you halfway.
you must have been nervous.
our eyes locked,
there was no doubt
you we’re making your way,
across the room
for me.
it could have been you.
I had snuck in to hear you sing,
again and again.
but I sat, frozen in the moment,
unable to believe,
and your nerve broke.
you turned
and I hung my head
and sat on my heart
and it could have been you.

save the other half for Walt (a half sestina)

2010-03-11T07:24:00.001-05:00

Ernie Harwell is talking in my sleep.
I hear the crack of the bat, the crowd roar.
“from the corner of Michigan and Trumbull,” he says.

“but Tiger Stadium is gone,” I say.
and the scene changes as I continue to sleep.
2003, the year the tigers couldn’t roar.

behind home plate the hot dog vendor roared,
“more entertaining than the game,” I say.
my brother nods and I know he’s heading for the long sleep.

“sleep well my brother, maybe they’ll roar this year,” I say.

it depends on your definition of here

2010-03-08T07:59:00.000-05:00

imaginary ailments
play with my mind.

a tightening of the spine,
which prevents my head
from swiveling left or right,
preventing me from seeing the world around.

an inner eye disturbance
fractures the world I do see
and creates a mosaic world
from the shards.

here, I live.

Still squirrelly after all these years

2010-03-06T09:01:00.000-05:00

(for Marie Elena)

one of my strangest memories,
an essay written as a child,
"what animal would you like to be?"
I can still see the lower left corner
of the paper, curling up.
my handwriting, getting smaller,
as I struggle to fit my vision
on this single sheet.
in my mind, I've already transmogrified -
I'm a squirrel, leaping from branch
to branch, tree to tree -
I already lived in the trees,
my secret place,
where I retreated to stash
my fear
and pain
and where I wondered
how love worked,
when all I ever saw it bring
was pain.

Spring again

2010-03-03T08:14:00.001-05:00

waiting,
as always,
for the first sign
that the nap is over
and all that is green
can overtake
all that is gray.

new March

2010-03-01T10:24:00.000-05:00

used to be
March was the start,
the beginning of the year.
and so it can be
again. after all,
sometimes it takes
two starts
to finish once.

spring deficit disorder

2010-02-26T07:30:00.000-05:00

eyes open
only by force of habit,
missing the chance to see.
was the sky gray
or grey.
attention
wanders
a-
way.

spring

2010-02-23T07:01:00.001-05:00

from the gray ordinary
she sprang.
a violent spatter
of red. smearing
herself across
the landscape,
promising nothing,
but insisting that
sometimes closed eyes
can see
more than eyes open
only by force of habit.

please send sunshine

2010-02-22T10:26:00.000-05:00

working hard to ascribe
grand motives to
the most insignificant
of events.
trying to push
and bend
and force
them to fit into
the world I want
to see,
rather than
just watching them pass
and seeing them as
they are -
dull moments on a gray
and ordinary day.

butterscotch

2010-02-19T09:53:00.001-05:00

she tasted like butterscotch
the first time we kissed.
lips, chapped in the cold
of a February night.
hiding in the shadows
behind the school,
unable to touch much
through our winter clothes.
a stolen moment,
candy coated
and mine forever.

and love

2010-02-12T13:16:00.000-05:00

my eyes are open
because she is there
to see.
a world, which
had started to close,
blinders affixed, moving
straight ahead.
then.
she forced herself
into my view
and never left
and now the periphery
is alive and
I see
and love.

watercolors

2010-02-08T09:54:00.001-05:00

winter's beauty
startles me awake.
frosted tree tops
against a foggy canvas.
the blue of day
just bleeding through.
a watercolor world.

more fun with geography

2010-02-03T12:11:00.000-05:00

travelling East
on West North Street,
moving up river
to this town
down south,
I spin-out turning
toward downtown
on Uptown Drive
and fall through
a wormhole, back
in time where I
curse Mr. North
and his sense
of humor.

groundhog day

2010-02-02T08:56:00.001-05:00

poke my head
outside of my
comfort zone
to see if
creativity
is on the way,
but it's six
more weeks
of same old.

only the strong make February

2010-02-01T07:19:00.000-05:00

green is clamped
to the ground,
hundled in close
for warmth.
red flitters on by,
riding the breeze,
no longer held
fast to a tree.
yellow shivers
and barly shines.
no fan of winter.

state of nothingness

2010-01-27T09:43:00.000-05:00

amazing,
how it comsumes
everything,
yet leaves no trace
of itself
but a dull ache
you can't
identify
or explain.

yet another new year

2009-12-29T13:13:00.000-05:00

the calendar,
our attempt
at shackling time,
since our poor
3-D selves can only
see time
in one direction.
though we sometimes
try to look back,
what we see is colored in
by the present
and our unwillingness
to let yesterday
slip into the aether.

me and Joe

2009-12-10T13:17:00.001-05:00

put tape over the
face of the clock,
today time stands still.
grey clouds and snow
rob the sky of its
timepiece.
no obligations,
no such thing as
an appointment.
just me, Joe Cocker
and this wintery day.

physical anthropology

2009-12-08T07:12:00.000-05:00

eleven years have passed
in a flash, feeling
ossified, waiting
for the excavation
crew to discover
my bones, and wonder,
what was life like
back then.

my great weakness

2009-12-03T08:17:00.001-05:00

are we allowed
to saunter anymore.
or has the idea
of a leisurely pace,
a moment to think
or observe, become
archaic
and we now must
move, forward, at
all times
since reflection
must be weakness.

I think in noise

2009-11-23T11:22:00.000-05:00

I think in noise.
great guttural bursts
of hisses and claps,
starts and stops,
horns blaring,
children crying.
music invades
and takes over,
making me spout
lyrics as though
quoting Shelley.
then, somewhere,
in the midst
one clear thought
happens
and quickly
fades

and then I asked for directions

2009-11-20T13:47:00.000-05:00

we sat in traffic,
on a hot day with no
air conditioning.
as we sat she spoke
and told me of
her dreams.
with each sentence
she felt further
away so I asked
where she saw
me in all of this
and she said
she didn't.
so I turned around
and headed
back toward
my life.

slow is the new fast

2009-11-18T11:55:00.001-05:00

I wish for slow.
lazy days.
even a lazy hour
to sit by the river
and try to catch
the moment when
the limestone gives
up its struggle
against the rushing
water and tumbles
in,
subtly changing
the flow.

orange crush

2009-11-17T15:34:00.000-05:00

nature collapses
in on herself,
leaving a brown hole
from which
no red
or yellow
or orange
can escape
until spring
explodes
again.

shadow puppet theater

2009-11-16T14:20:00.000-05:00

clouds obscure thought,
memories which were
etched in stone,
thought permanent,
have eroded over time
(time our great
friend and nemesis)
are now mere
shadow puppet
theater.

centerpiece

2009-11-15T22:39:00.000-05:00

the lines on her face
seem deeper today,
like she's drawing
attention to how long
it has been since
your last visit.
her hands sit
on the table, not moving,
and you know the
arthritis is bad today.
the notebook
you remember always
being open is closed,
sitting in the middle
of the table.
"all of the beautiful
thoughts I have in
my head," she says,
"my hands won't let
me turn them into
lines of poetry
anymore."

renew

2009-11-13T10:47:00.001-05:00

it's simple, really,
just walk outside
and open your eyes
and ignore, for a
moment, all that we
have done to change
the world. instead
let the world
change you.

home again

2009-11-12T07:44:00.000-05:00

contruction
changes the face
of my home town.
knowing I'm a
wanderer with
little right to
complain, I shrug
and move on
but the alienness
sticks and
trite axioms
flood my mind, then
a smile crosses
my face as I recall
a line from
Grosse Point Blank -
"you can never go home again,
but, I guess, you can shop there."

should the wind

2009-11-09T09:51:00.000-05:00

should the wind,
were it to blow,
hard and fast,
carry away
all you fear.

should the rain,
be called out
of a clear
blue sky
to wash
it all
away.

should the stars
align and be
read like a
dime store
novel just
to spare
you pain.

for you know,
the wind can
blow in too.

mallowsweet

2009-11-07T22:45:00.000-05:00

mallowsweet,
sweet mallow,
burned to refine
the efforts
of the centaurs
as they divine
the future from
the stars.
though I wonder
if it's maybe
through the
inhalation
of the fumes
that they see
what they see.
after all,
even Carl Sagan
enjoyed a
magical herb
now and again
to gaze at
the stars.

growing quiet

2009-11-05T14:15:00.001-05:00

amidst the cacophony
of life at the speed
of now she sits,
quiet and reflective,
on the grass near
the stadium.
as the students
rush past she smiles
and holds up a sign
which reads, "nothing
to say."

maybe you can

2009-11-04T14:33:00.001-05:00

working on my blindspot,
that part of me
I've trained to tune out
those whose life is
filled with "no."
no you can't.
no I won't.
no.
so I turn my blindspot
to you and have
the audacity
to say "yes."

alternating current

2009-11-03T12:14:00.000-05:00

somewhere along the way
the poles reversed.
what was once positive
is now negative.
like alternating current
I can't stop the flow
from one pole to the next.
no wonder I'm confused.

will the last person out of Michigan . . .

2009-11-01T22:37:00.001-05:00

the sign that welcomed
me to Ohio was not too
far back when the engine
started sputtering,
the rain making it gasp
for air. I remembered
my promise to myself
that wherever the old
car died was where I
would stay and I
silently prayed -
please not here.

the edge

2009-10-21T09:57:00.001-04:00

it's at the edge
where you see it first,
the gremlins in the
recesses of your mind
that make you jump
at a flit of light
just out of your view.
so you look up and
feel the sand rush
past your face
and you know -
someone turned
the hour glass again.

the interrupt-able

2009-10-19T15:57:00.001-04:00

the pose was one
of peace, meditation,
as he sat in the grass
that beautiful fall day.
wandering closer, I see
the phone in his lap and
I allow myself to envision
that icon of the interrupt-able
life pulsing in tune with the "Om."
perhaps though he was simply sleeping.