Standing

under the rear door of the car,

sheltered from the rain.

Joy.

March 24 2024

Took my wife to see the crocus.

We could spot it, small white dot,

30 feet away by the sidewalk.

Wondered, should we walk all the way:

chilly, sun hide-and-seeking in the cloud.

We looked at the orange fire

half-hidden in the cup.

You really had to be right there to see it.

February 26 2024

One sign of spring's birth,

an earthworm drowned by the rain.

Half; full or empty?

March 4 2024

Lexapro

Not as many days these days

when I wake up praying help me

help me

help me

to a possible God.

I am listening to dawn

in the yawning trees.

Calling him away from scents;

is it like making him skip pages

in his favorite story,

the one he rereads every day

because there’s always something new?

If books were like that,

if they changed overnight,

would you need only one?

I can spend these steps in idle speculation.

Chill and cloud.

First dandelion, first turkeys,

first snowdrops, first crocuses,

first running storm-drains

washing winter down to the ocean.

I can deal with this.

March 11 2024

listening to one of life’s deep tracks

and remembering why I became a fan

March 14 2024

They aren’t trees.

They’re vines

and don’t you forget it.

Over decades they green and die

pulling down god knows

how many fence panels,

biting gardeners with their vicious teeth

for which no one’s truly prepared

and showing forth voluptuous berries

that might be poisonous but who cares,

and all that death and regrowth

seeming to happen at once

so intertwined that you can only

stand, caught, and marvel at

the way they brought you here.

February 23 2024

Recalcitrant

I can't fight the good.

Helping strangers infiltrates my soul.

Inside men set me up

to shovel out stuck cars for the elderly,

and toss friendly greetings from my hijacked mouth

like leaflets from a plane.

Turning away's no answer;

they've drained my vitreous humor

and poisoned my eyes with hope.

The enemy’s within,

planting peace bombs

and spraying happiness,

and wretched beauty stains the thing

I hate to call a heart.

January 26 2024

Only after he left did I find

an old favorite on the high shelf.

I had wanted to bring one

the last two times I saw him,

and now here it was, too late.

He could have read it then,

or then later I could have read it to him,

but now the only thing I can do,

and you can be sure I will try,

is read it for him.

April 30 2024

Where is my mother now who told me once when it was the 1970s
that life is to be questioned but not necessarily rejected,
who showed me how to enthuse from a place of doubt,
who wanted only the best for me though she had less,
who laughed till tears came and never let me see her cry,
who was the careful editor in a storm of imperfections,
who asked and gave,
who wished and accepted,
who stood for the beacon of art that showed both her and me
the way to reach and stay, in some kind of peace, home?

 

August 1 2023

Teachings

 

Miss no chance to be still.

Lean against the sink while you brush,

don't roam

into the sickening maelstrom of sights

that remind you why you should fear.

Don't yearn for your worry stone.

Take it from the pocket where it waits.

Feel its softness,

Test its minor heft,

Smell the stone aroma,

Touch it to your tongue, if you dare,

and listen to its heart.

No far-off waves, just you.

 

August 6 2023 

 

 
Let's consider now the things
that no one must control.
I'm thinking particularly of leaves
on sidewalk maples.
Sure, the town must tend the branches,
but these green messages need no censor.
Ignore the half-built houses with so much left to complete;
that's not your job. Watch the gulls instead, because
you can't keep them from their errands.
All you can do
is admire the color of their wings.

August 18 2023

 
Like the silver of a mirror
peace has been there all along
behind the mad reflections
of all the riotous years.

August 12 2023

 
When winter comes,
I’ll need a replacement
for bird song on my walks.

(Ask me said the wind,
and I will bring you more.)

August 13 2023

 
Big hawk taking the turn
down past the shadowed trees to her impatient nest
doesn’t give a damn about metal bats
clinking in the field below,
so strangely mown with nothing on it but humans.
No chance for rabbits there till later,
and meanwhile the children yammer
for one more rodent
even a bat
she doesn't have right now.

August 10 2023

 
I need a new dog because
I can't live without a dog because I
can't live without a dog because I can't
live without a dog because I can't live
without a dog because I can't live without
a dog because I can't live without a dog because
I can't live without a dog.

July 12 2023

Taking Leave

 
He’s heading into the past
at twice the speed of time.
If two souls fly apart,
each at the rate of one moment per instant,
how long before they are too distant
to ever greet again?
d/(s1 + s2) = t
0/(1 + 1) = 0
It’s academic.
Even as he turned, it was too late
for me to carry him piece-way.
But maybe there’s a shortcut
in a book we’ve both read,
that I can take to meet him.

Note: According to my parents, to carry someone piece-way
in Liberia is to accompany that person for a short
distance at the beginning of their journey.
It is—or at least used to be—a common courtesy shown
to guests leaving one’s house.

August 19 2023

 
Walk, drive, or ride to the mountain.
You remember going there,
but not clearly what it was like,
and you saw only the foothills anyway.
You never reached the tree line
where the world turns into something other.
When the family at the high plantation welcomed you,
you lost your balance in the clouds
(did the hillside tip too far?),
and for a long time after you were cursed with vertigo.
You were unprepared then, and maybe too young.
Now at last you might be ready to climb.

September 8 2023

Train to NYC

Some back lots speak of empty afternoons,
the dark of dawn, and countless nights
scored by winter’s claws
and ravaged by idiot summer.
To live the desolation of those spaces is,
thank God, impossible;
the train keeps passing on to the next
and next,
and gone is each arena
where the barbarous hours murder.
All you can bear away is your own endurance.
Let those alien places stay
behind to bear their own.

September 23 2023

Yellow gingko leaves.
Together a sudden fall.
Earth is their heaven.

December 2 2023

Bird on slanted wire.

One flirt of wing, then stillness.

Morning, teach me peace.

December 29 2023

I would name all my dogs for the winds.

Sirocco, Khamsin, Buran, Gilivar.

I would name my cats the same.

Shamal, Alisio, Zonda, Coromuel.

There are enough to last me to my end.

Chinook, Nigeq, Bora, Leveche.

They are forces of nature,

and so are they,

and so are they.

August 25 2023

Crusoe

Right now I just want to drift.

Tomorrow I will go ashore,

walk up the beach,

and figure out how to build a cabin,

or a fire,

or eventually a library,

or just a way to get off this damned island,

but for now I just want to

                                                             drift.

October 13 2023

Here's the thing:

Waking with the sun,

rummaging in the fussy bottom drawer,

running out along the grassy drive

(cold dew numbing your feet to the stones)

and hoisting the raven flag

into the island breeze before

running back to breakfast

doesn't happen all that often.

Go back and tell yourself that

before you forget.

May 30 2023

I tell him I know,

I know,

but it isn't true,

any more than that he understands me.

He's an almost-gone dog,

a shawl of cancer beads shrouding a mystery

that tells me I don't know,

I don't know.

July 11 2023

Arriving

I wish I knew that memory more.

All I have is green beneath the wing,

rising as we made our final approach.

Were there really zebras

running beside the landing strip?

And then that taste of orange soda

in the British style hotel.

That’s it. But we were finally there

and that’s enough.

July 11 2023