Penguin Poems

My old man

2012-02-07T09:30:00.000-05:00

To be honest, it’s not clear how you got this job.
Maybe you applied, maybe it just happened
to you like a piano falling out of a third story
window, jingling down black keys of destiny
on your incipient male-pattern baldness.

You try and learn how to love. For a guy that’s not
easy. Mostly all you have known is movies with
explosions and lots of cleavage. And now, all of a
sudden, you’re watching a tiny chest rising and falling,
speechless before one of the wonders of the world.

Over the years, you walk the wire like you own dad did.
Sternly setting your deckchair at strategic points on the
beach, sometimes for well-considered reasons, sometimes
just to prove that you are still bigger and wiser, and
that you do in fact exist and matter somehow in the universe.

But meanwhile there’s the constant undertow. The cloud
of unknowing pierced by unforgiving questions. The realization
that maybe you don’t understand at all. That all you have
succeeded in becoming is a carbon copy of your own father.
And in a way, you don’t mind. As long as the kid is okay.

But then comes the night. And you’re lying awake, listening.
Listening for the front door to open and close. Listening
for voices to tell you that actually nothing is wrong. Listening
to the vast silence. Listening to your baby crying, because
his whole body hurts and he doesn’t understand why.

Written for a prompt over at the wonderful Poetic Bloomings site.

To the plastic king we found upside-down in the tree outside our house this morning

2012-02-07T09:09:00.000-05:00

Were you exhausted from the journeying,
tired of the idle kingly chatter
or in your golden cups from a night out
a every inn in which they made room
for you and the boys to let your hair down?

Perhaps you just shut your eyes and let go.
Maybe that is what this whole gig was about,
finding yourself, as they say around here.
The star, the baby, the makeshift presents,
all that was just a happy accident.

Tomorrow you must turn the horses west,
sit straight, and begin the long return to
the steel cage of responsibility.
But just for now, sleep well your majesty,
for you may never get the chance again.

Synesthesia

2012-01-31T11:33:00.000-05:00

Daniel is a remarkable man (three point 14159265)
he has asperger’s and epilepsy (3589793238)

and has the wild gift of synesthesia (4626433832)
which means he sees numbers as colors (7950288419)

in his book he says numbers are my friends (7169399375)
always around me… each one is unique (1058209749)

days all have colors too. Wednesdays are blue (4459230781)
so is the number nine, and loud voices (6406286208)

today he’s reciting the constant Pi (9986280348)
he’s been at it for over five hours now (2534211706)

that’s over twenty-two thousand digits (7982148086)
I feel like I’m staring at the ocean.

In honor of author Daniel Paul Tammet, who on March 14, 2004, set the European record for reciting the digits of Pi, to 22,514 digits. Remarkably, this record ranks sixth in the world. The human mind is amazing.

Singin' in the rain - radio commentary

2012-01-26T18:53:00.001-05:00

Here's my latest radio commentary for our local public radio station, 88.1 WVPE. It's a fun piece about my first steps in the world of tap dancing!

click HERE to listen!

High art

2012-01-24T13:39:00.002-05:00

Did we really have to invite Pablo
to do our family portrait again?
It may be great art to you, but to me
it just looks like I have a double chin.

You and your favorite bohemians
will be the death of me yet, I swear it.
Like that time you asked your good pal Jackson
to paint the kitchen while we were away…

I will admit that the senior portraits
you got Mr. Mapplethorpe to whip up
for Bryce were unique – but could we send them
to my folks in Kansas? I don’t think so!

So how about this, Mr. Art Lover?
Next time, we make a trip down to Wal Mart
and let some teenage kid take our photo,
squinting cheek-to-cheek, like normal people?

(...a little midweek musing to share with friends over at the dVerse Poet's Pub)

Orlando's practicing

2012-01-17T15:32:00.000-05:00

Orlando’s practicing
a word he heard me say
last Friday at the store.
I thought I whispered it,
but now I’m not so sure.

Orlando’s practicing
and I can’t make him stop.
He’s having too much fun
at how folks choke each time
he lets his foul mouth run.

Orlando’s practicing
was cute at first. But now
the parents of his friends
won’t let us visit them
until this blue streak ends.

Orlando’s practicing
again tonight. I tried
distraction, but no luck.
He simply scrunched his eyes
and burbled, “Daddy! F***!”

A goofy monchielle for frends over at the dVerse Poet's Pub.
This may, or may not, be a true story...

What no one can understand

2012-01-10T15:51:00.000-05:00

We must not keep doing
this. The words spill slowly,
with my hand in your hair,
in some lost restaurant
sixty miles from nowhere.

We must not keep doing
such damage to ourselves,
and those we love. The lift
our souls gained at the start
has turned into a gift

we must not keep. Doing
anything together
now holds our life in thrall
to fear, muscles clenched for
the axe we know will fall.

We must not keep doing
this, dear friend. For freedom’s
found not in what we choose,
but rather in the good
we at the last refuse.

A monchielle, written for a friend in a long-distant cafe.
To share with friends at the dVerse Poet's Pub.

How I lost the Nobel Prize

2012-01-10T15:36:00.000-05:00

I invented a brand-new medical
procedure, tentatively christened as
the nasal-scrotal swappy-ectomy,

a completely life-changing surgery
for an as-yet unidentified group
of sufferers scattered across the globe.

The first guy we tried it on did just great
until someone at church said: “The milk’s off.
Give it a sniff and tell me what you think.”

Epiphany, 2012

2012-01-03T15:02:00.000-05:00

Light steals into the coffee shop

with sand-rimmed eyes still arguing
the route. A plain girl is watching

their confusion, coarse cloth on top
of her nursing child, soft singing
gilding the room. The strangers stop,

stunned, as at their journey’s ending
light steals into the coffee shop.

(an Octain Refrain, for friends in the wonderful dVerse community)

La frutta *

2011-12-20T09:56:00.000-05:00

(reading the paper placemat at Colombo’s)

Start at the heel of the boot,

at the sumptuously-named Lecce,

and run your finger around the graceful

toe, beaded with Sicilian heat.

Move slowly upwards, pausing at the knee

to genuflect at the Holy City, then on

to gaze in awe at the high-swept sinews

of the landscape leading up to Assisi.

Come around the thigh, taking time to

taste the savors of Bologna, Parma, Genoa,

circling over and round the graceful

inland swell of the northern provinces

and down, down again to glide

upon the glistening canals of

Venice, whispering softly as the

red wine disappears like a sunset.

[*dessert]

The moon is missing

2011-12-13T11:47:00.000-05:00

She is standing at the screen door again,
crying, as she looks up into the night.
The moon is missing.

Just last week she had friends and life was good,
but now she knows better. It is cold and
the moon is missing.

On the beach, the tide is rolling in, with
Venus looking on. It’s not true that
the moon is missing

but she won’t know until she learns to see
she is beautiful, and ready. Only
the moon is missing.

Runaway

2011-12-07T10:32:00.000-05:00

If a lineset gains so much momentum
that the operator cannot stop it,
that heavy load becomes a runaway.

Your instinct will be to grab the rope. Don’t.
If you are lucky, you will only burn
your hands as the rope races between them.

Much more likely, though, you will be carried
upwards by the rope – to be smashed into
the loading bridge, mangled by falling weights.

Should you survive this awful collision,
you will likely lose your grip on the rope
and scream back to the deck. This hurts like hell.

Learn this discipline, however unnatural:
When a line gets out of control, let go!
Don’t be a hero. Warn others. And run.

Setting goals

2011-12-07T10:23:00.000-05:00

Every year I set goals with my therapist.
Last year, we bought him a boat.
The year before, it was his time-share in Miami.
This year, we’re sending his youngest son to college.

When I finally worked up the courage to confront him
about the inequity of this arrangement, he complimented
me on my progress and suggested we make an appointment
for next week to discuss my feelings at greater length.

Union Church

2011-11-29T15:41:00.000-05:00

What if Jesus had been a union man,
and his twelve disciples had all been plumbers?
Or tool-and-die guys, or even
photocopier repair technicians?

Imagine the parables that might have been told
of leaking U-bends, and toner cartridges
found at the back of the supply cupboard,
right behind the post-its and motivational t-shirts.

His mother would have run the show
for sure – along with all the other stalwarts
who had paid their dues over the years.
You know the ones I mean – there’s always one or two.

In the end, the church probably would have been
better maintained, and letters and regulations
would always look just so. But you can be sure
the internal dynamics would be just as dysfunctional.

Twenty years

2011-11-22T13:23:00.000-05:00

Whenever I see her
picture, or hear a friend
describe what she
is up to now, I can
still feel her holding me.

Whenever I see her
name in print, or I smell
the sweet perfume she wore
for me that spring, the lust
I felt still shakes my core.

Whenever I see her
in a dream I know that
my heart’s still open to
her summons, and she can
crawl inside me where- or

whenever. I see her
breath on my window, I
taste her salt. I left, yet
still after twenty years
these dry bones won’t forget.

Trinkets

2011-11-15T17:02:00.000-05:00

(a kyrielle)

A shadow hidden at the back
of her dresser drawer caught my eye
the day the movers came. I thought:
we keep things though we don’t know why.

A hundred foreign coins, a stack
of travel documents signed by
some long-dead border guard who fought
to keep things though we don’t know why,

a broken pocket watch, a black-
and-white shot of a compound high
in India, crammed in a box
to keep things though we don’t know why.

Tracing the alligator track
around this lid, I think of my
own collections, what I just bought
to keep things though we don’t know why.

Time stands still in keepsakes. We track
our past with trinkets that defy
every explanation sought.
We keep things though we don’t know why.

*** Terms and conditions apply

2011-11-15T15:58:00.002-05:00

*** Listen, we know everyone likes a
good deal, but good grief, we couldn’t afford
the rent on these posh New York offices,
or the mural in the executive
washroom, if we actually paid out
on this outrageous offer. So get real:
you are not eligible if you are
bald, foreign, introverted or stupid.
If you’re a chef or a plumber, no way.
Pro athletes need not apply. Same for cops.
We love hunky guys named Cole. (Just kidding).
Actually, unless you’re a drug lord,
you are willing to bonk our CEO,
or you have a lawyer on six figures
you can lean over and kiss your tuckus.
It’s time for our massage. Have a nice day.

What won't wait

2011-11-08T16:14:00.001-05:00

What won’t wait for you tonight? Take the car
and drive like Jehu through each stop sign far
across this sleeping town. Out of the mist
you carom down main, but draw no interest
from the wayward souls spat from Louie’s bar

too late and too far gone, their minds ajar.
No time to ask permission, or to spar
with strangers over places on a list;
what won’t wait

is screaming at you here! Nothing can mar
such perfect clarity – the morning star
is crowning now. Now! Tonight you exist
only to be held by one tiny fist.
Leave the rest: the things we cannot plan are
what won’t wait.

The hand you are dealt

2011-10-25T12:12:00.001-04:00

A good friend will cause you pain today. She
will not see why even if you try to
explain. You will think you are going mad.

You will wish to kill someone. Try not to.
Your other children will suffer enough
without you compounding things. Suck it up.

Try to avoid awards ceremonies.
Jealousy is ugly. Schadenfreude
is also to be frowned upon. Mostly.

Church will become the worst hour of your week.
You will spend the whole time praying no one
turns around. God will appear not to care.

There are no trophies for surviving.
You will not sleep well tonight, or ever.
You would not trade places with anyone.

(a fortune-cookie poem, originally written for a prompt from Robert Lee Brewer over at Poetic Asides)

England's great tradition of painting

2011-10-25T12:04:00.000-04:00

They were an hour late,
three likely lads in white shirts
with five cans of paint,
three drop cloths, brushes, rollers,
and, of course, a tea kettle.

Don’t mind us, Missus,
the blue-eyed leader declared,
patting my mum’s arm.
We’ll make ourselves right at home.
You won’t even know we’re here.

I watched from a chair
as they brewed a pot of tea
and surveyed their task.
"Looks a bit dodgy, dunnit?"
one said, and they all nodded.

That decided it.
“Back in the morning, sunshine!”
the oldest one winked,
and quietly handed me
the cards from the tea packet.

Hope Barn

2011-10-17T18:54:00.000-04:00

(a rhyme royal)

A hundred Chinese lanterns cross the sky

with whimsy as the sun melts in the west.

Here in the field, our hostess wipes an eye

then throws her arms around each welcome guest

to whisper secrets she has cherished lest

they disappear like mist. She is alive

tonight, amazed to see such crowds arrive.

(for the beautiful Hope Barn, who holds her history with grace and dignity)

Nuns and bacon

2011-10-17T18:40:00.002-04:00

I’ve got shaving cream stuck on my

earlobe and a strand of dental floss

clinging to my right shoe. That faint

smell of bacon comes from my briefcase,

where I absent-mindedly stashed what

I was supposed to give the dog when the

phone rang with a reminder of the doctor’s

appointment which I seem to have

forgotten in my confusion following the

unfortunate incident with the street sweeper

and the crocodile formation of

pre-schoolers crossing the divided highway.

CD seven of my new box set from the

library was playing at the time, something

about accepting life as it comes, so I

didn’t lay on the horn and instead smiled

at the gigantic nun waving her hands in the

central reservation. The word “wimple”

got stuck in my mind and I spent the rest of my

drive thinking about rhymes for it, of which

there are precious few, which may partly

explain the paucity of decent nun poetry,

and also attempting to undress her in my

imagination, only to be thwarted at every turn

by a gleaming steel under-habit with a

big sign saying “For God’s sake, keep out!”

Felt a little better by the time I got to work,

especially when the receptionist winked

at me, but then I couldn’t stop imagining her

as a nun. Weird. Maybe if I’d gone to

Catholic school this wouldn’t be a problem,

which actually might just be the best reason

I have heard so far for supporting school vouchers.

I wonder if Jesus was ever late for work,

probably not while carrying bacon, and if Mary

Magdalene ever let him look under her robe.

A bit of stream-of-consciousness insanity to share with friends at the fabulous dVerse Poets Pub.

To have and to hold

2011-10-12T06:57:00.000-04:00

To have and to hold, from this day forward,
for better, for worse… Glowing words uttered
haltingly, like lines from a high school play,
learned by heart, yet still alien. Today
is a necessary burden, offered

to assuage the desires of well-mannered
society. A photo-op prepared
with eight-by-tens for all to take away
to have and to hold

forever. But in truth, what just occurred
in this place, the flowers, lace, high-collared
dress, unity flame, champagne toast, DJ,
first dance, are but the entrance toll they pay
for life to which they have not yet matured,
to have and to hold.

Senior day

2011-10-04T09:37:00.000-04:00

Today was Senior Day in town.
Everywhere I went was awash
in blue rinse and that thin brown whiz
they offer up as free coffee.

At the Goodwill, the checkout girl
said without looking up, “Do you get a
discount?” Then flicked her weary lashes
towards me before saying, “I guess not.”

At the grocery, an elderly acquaintance
bellowed across three aisles that I was
looking far too thin. And the line was clogged
with hearing aids unable to read the self-serve screens.

Out in the parking lot, my way was blocked
by a perfectly-preserved 1980s Buick
straddling two spaces while its near-sighted
owner struggled with the gear shift.

Strangely reassuring, then, to arrive in the plumbing
aisle of the hardware store, and have a grey-haired
woman stop pushing a giant ladder just long enough
to yell, “There’s some young man here who needs help!”

Do not use this product

2011-10-04T09:30:00.000-04:00

Do not use this product
if you have heart disease,
liver problems, high blood pressure,
persistent cough or chronic
breathing problems.

Also not a good idea if you
are pregnant or breast-feeding,
taking drugs for depression,
psychiatric or emotional conditions,
if you have Parkinson’s disease,
or if you just want your kids to go to sleep.

If you do decide to take this
product, do not drink alcohol,
drive, or operate heavy machinery.
Try to avoid people with whom
you may be tempted to get into a
fight, as you will be darn irritable.

Keep out of the reach of children,
both you and these pills. Do not
take more than directed. If you do,
contact the Poison Control Center
right away, at the number unfortunately
obscured by the price tag on the right.

Then again, if you have managed
to read this far, you’re probably
going to pull through.

Diving

2011-09-20T13:53:00.002-04:00

At bedtime you shed your skin and dive
deep into dark blue sheets. You dream
and everyone is acting strangely, eating your food,
telling you things you know they don’t believe.

In the middle of it all, you finally recognize you have
always really loved shoes, hot women, and nice
haircuts, and you don’t want to shave your armpits
anymore because you are not that kind of girl.

In the corner, a tiny baby is crying. You walk
over to cradle that fragile life, as the rainbow cord
stops pulsing. It is scary to stand on your own, you say,
and you realize you are comforting yourself.

To share with friends over at the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub.

Sharing the love

2011-09-20T13:43:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, when two people love each other
they want to share that love with the whole world.
It’s quite natural. And so late at night,
or even at lunchtime, they go to work

(and don’t kid yourself, often it IS work,
especially if you are on the porch,
or the patio, or at a camp site,
places you have to be extra careful).

For some couples it is really easy,
others have trouble, some even give up.
There can be showing off and jealousy
which is really hurtful and doesn’t help.

But most of the time, the hard work pays off.
They come out to you, sweat-soaked and aching,
still sticky from all of their exertions,
to announce: It’s here! Mint-Chocolate-Chip!

The banality of evil

2011-09-11T13:06:00.002-04:00

(Hannah Arendt has a quote about the banality of evil. A piece under that title on NPR this week, by Dina Temple Raston and Robert Smith, described the final day of Mohammed Atta, before he hijacked one of the 9/11 planes – so ordinary, staying at a Comfort Inn, getting cash from a Wal Mart…)

The banality of evil

(An Octain Refrain)*

The banality of evil

Furrows the soul more than the flow

Of blood from monsters we don’t know.

It’s the neighbor who pays his bill

Washes his face, then takes his place

With those he is about to kill.

The things we share in common show

The banality of evil.

* credit to Luke Prater for this wonderful form

Never skip breakfast...

2011-09-06T18:42:00.002-04:00

(a villanelle)

How many animals are there
Teeming before my hungry eyes?
By this point, I don’t even care.

Just cause I’m single, it’s not fair
To choose me. Don’t you realize
How many animals are THERE?

All I’ve done, all day, is to stare,
Then name each beast. I can’t disguise
By this point I don’t care

If the names make sense. I might dare
To skip some! Tell me, O Most-Wise:
How many animals are there

That I can grill medium-rare?
Names can wait! Just serve ‘em with fries.
By this point I don’t even care.

There’s only so much I can bear
Before I start to fantasize.
How many animals are there?
By this point I don’t even care.

To share with friends over at the marvelous dVerse Poets Pub.

None of us are ready

2011-08-30T16:09:00.000-04:00

None of us are ready
Tonight. We float in a
Sea of Tranquility
As the tide washes us
In, inexorably.

None of us are ready
And yet it is time. We
Travel after midnight
One hand upon the stars
As a new voice sings bright.

None of us are ready,
Our arms still tangled in
Each other’s hair, we lift
This wet thing to our chest
And say, “This is a gift

None of us are ready
To receive.” And it’s true.
Our swift humanity
Is chastened before such
Responsibility.

None of us are ready,
We are all newborn here.
But there is grace, and soon
Joy as we stumble home
Kissed by the mother moon.

The grammar involved in "none is" vs. "none are" makes my head spin. I ended up sticking with "none are" though "none is" might work better in some people's eyes. Hope you can get past this issue to appreciate the sentiment of the poem! For friends at the marvelous dVerse Poets Pub.

Astronaut

2011-08-23T16:56:00.000-04:00

My father was a famous astronaut,
A hero from the bright comics I bought
On Saturdays. Sometimes I heard the key
Turn gently in the lock long after we
Had gone to bed. And then my parents fought

Like lovers in my mother’s sheets, but not
Out loud as they might wake the baby. Caught
Between embarrassment and lust to see
My father was

Still real, I clutched my rocket ship and fought
Back tears. His only letter is what got
Me through those years – to know God and country
Might come first, but he always cared for me
No matter what our friends and neighbors thought
My father was.

Don't ask me

2011-08-21T19:16:00.000-04:00

Don’t ask me where it is I am going
Tonight. Some things go best without knowing
Every detail. I am a small shell
Whispering the waves, wishing I could tell
You who I am. The surf song is calling

Me inexorably, its tide writing
My name on some distant shore. This gnawing
Sense of being “not-from-here” I know so well.
Don’t ask me

How, but it has always been there, lying
Nautilus-curled within my stumbling
Soul. I want to love this red land as well
As you do, but I cannot fall under its spell.
Someday I’ll say, but for now I’m begging,
Don’t ask me.

Rules

2011-08-16T20:38:00.000-04:00

A honeymoon poem, to share with friends over at the marvelous dVerse community.

This house is smaller than the brochure made
It look. There is barely room for our bags
In the front hall as we sign the guestbook.

Breakfast is between eight and eight thirty
We are informed, and would we prefer
A fry-up or just the continental?

Our hostess has a typewriter. The walls
Are filled with neat signs telling us things like
When we may use the bathroom (no long baths)

And that the lounge is open after six
For us to watch the TV or peruse
The two shelves of Mills and Boone romances.

But this is our first night, and thus we have
A romance of our own to consummate.
Pinned above our bed is a note that reads:

Guests are requested not to talk after
Ten p.m. We obey, shyly, taking
Our time, trying not to break any rules.

Walking

2011-08-14T20:08:00.001-04:00

Love

Walking

On the sand

Watching the water

Extend to the blue horizon,

The awesome sense of infinite possibility

That descends when I am barefoot

Tracing a fresh path

As the waves

Wash my

Steps
New

Late afternoon in my room

2011-08-09T15:45:00.001-04:00

Why is it so sensual
To wash a lover’s hair?

Is it the scent of blossoms
Borne away on fingertips,
Or the gentle lapping of
Small waves at the water’s edge?

Is it the deep stillness that
Descends slowly on the heart,
Or the final yielding
Of control, the gift of trust?

Perhaps it is all of these
But this much I remember:

She bowed her head at the sink,
Letting the warm water run
And when she looked back at me
I knew I could not refuse.

Posted for the weekly Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.

You took a risk

2011-08-08T10:01:00.000-04:00

(a monchielle)

You took a risk last night
Standing up there alone
Where you slowly allowed
Your pure voice to strip bare
Defenseless to the crowd.

You took a risk last night
Wearing that shining dress
That caught each colored glint.
You could not help but shine
In that dim firmament.

You took a risk last night
Turning your face to us
As your soul fell apart.
You became translucent
Singing your broken heart.

You took a risk last night
And we loved you the more
For letting us hold you
Even for a moment
As a lover would do.

Beautiful women make me nervous

2011-08-02T20:12:00.000-04:00

It was a great pickup line, if I say so myself:

     What a fabulous feeling!
     You’re too lovely for my eyesight.
     But tonight, I’d say my love is big enough to handle it.

Unfortunately, I got flustered:

     My, my, I say! What a lovely sight.
     Your fabulous feeling butt is big enough for two.
     I’d love to handle it tonight.

Damn.

Laundry day

2011-08-02T14:00:00.002-04:00

A simple laundry-day sonnet, to share with friends over at the wonderful dVerse community. Welcome, and enjoy!

A line of laundry baskets snakes around
The living room, as if about to shed
Its skin of cotton blends, in sleek casts found
By herpetologists beneath the bed.
Some days this house is full of mystery,
The mundane rendered beautiful, each small
Activity transformed for eyes that see
But do not judge too rapidly. I call
This attitude a discipline of grace,
Embracing imperfection with a smile
That lets me love the serpents I must face
In every daily task. For all the while
I long for past success, I must confess
There’s much to learn in cleaning up a mess.

Thank you for calling

2011-08-02T13:55:00.000-04:00

What pain I endure every time that I say,
“We apologize unreservedly:
Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day.”

Your son cut his hand when he started to play
With the chainsaw you bought? Well, duh! You see
What pain I endure every time that I say

We’re sorry to losers like you, sharks who prey
On flesh like lawyers? When I gush brightly,
“Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day,”

What I mean is, “Get lost, you leech-head, and stay
Out of my way or I’ll show you clearly
What pain I endure!” Every time that I say

How I feel to my boss, he turns me away
With, “The customer’s right, just make them happy.
Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day!”

Well, he’s wrong – there’s no way we should have to pay
For your stupidity. It’s killing me
What pain I endure every time that I say,
“Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day.”

Passion wagon

2011-07-26T16:47:00.001-04:00

(Hey, the lockout is over - here's a villanelle for the NFL - for friends over at dVerse, a great site to check out if you haven't already.)

You wonder what it is I’m thinking of
As we are locking lips here in the car?
I have to say my heart is filled with love

For all creation – the bee, the wood dove
And giant men in spandex near and far.
You wonder what it is I’m thinking of

As you fumble with the seatbelt and shove
Me backwards, inflicting the biggest scar
I have? To say my heart is filled with love

For you is true, but it is not enough.
You know how my libido seems sub-par?
You wonder what it is? I’m thinking of

Owners and players standing hand in glove
Proclaiming peace like buddies in a bar.
I have to say my heart is filled with love

For you, but mostly ‘cause you’re splayed above
Me like you caught a touchdown from Bart Starr.
You wonder what it is I’m thinking of?
I have to say, my heart is filled with love.

The world without coffee

2011-07-24T11:19:00.000-04:00

(a rather loosely-informed sestina on my second-favourite vice)

According to my newspaper the time
Of greatest flowering in European cultural life
Coincided with the advent of the coffee
House in cities like Vienna. Poets lost love,
Philosophers thought deeply, Shrinks shrank, and great new
Symphonies soared above the pervading creative buzz.

Surely it was not always so. The buzz
More generally heard before that time
Was the gentle snore of citizens tanked up on new
Wine or local ale. Such widespread alcohol slowed life
To a crawl beyond mid-morning, for who does not love
To lie down when half drunk anyway? Imagine, then, coffee,

On its introduction from the east. A single cup of coffee
Could rouse a person with its distinctive buzz
To new heights of creativity. Quite soon, the love
Affair with this dark stranger from the shores that time
Forgot had spread from cup to saucer, transforming life
For the noveau-jazzed across the continent. The New

World, similarly, benefitted from the new
Caffeinated order. The Thirteen Colonies made coffee
A staple to accompany the westward spread of white-faced life
Swarming native land like a great cloud of queenless bees, their buzz
Stinging like a pickaxe blow in railroads and then in factories, where time
Triumphed over human scale, and simple love

Disintegrated into commerce. The love
Of money, wide-eyed, unblinking, brought a new
And harsh reality to bear – a far cry from the time
When agriculture and its rhythms reigned. Now coffee
Represented all that served to amplify avarice, that buzz-
Cut every wayward tree, and scythed through individual life.

It seems there is a rule in life
That we must pay the price for all we love,
And surely we have paid in full for the buzz
First tasted many centuries ago. Those pioneers knew
Not what they were playing with, and their coffee
Dalliance has robbed us all of a simpler time.

But then again, with the buzz of life I get each time I grab a venti toffee nut caramel white mocha frappuccino double blended with no whip cream and extra caramel drizzle, my love for this beautiful drug is brewed anew – The world would be so much less poetic without coffee.

Never sit with your mother at a funeral

2011-07-24T11:01:00.001-04:00

In the slightest movement of a trembling hand
My mother slid the watch around her wrist
So that she could glance down at it without
Other mourners noticing her impulse.
Not that she was disrespecting the dead,
But I guess there’s only so much pain a
Classically trained musician can endure.
Do you hear that rumbling noise? She whispered
Nodding at the speaker of the tiny organ
Wreaking havoc on “Sheep may safely graze.”
It’s the sound of Bach turning in his grave.
A moment’s silence fell between us, then
Suddenly overcome, we bowed our heads,
Shoulders shaking, while sympathetic friends
Gave us tissues to wipe away the tears.

Mr Paganini goes on the tiles

2011-07-18T22:44:00.000-04:00

(A silly fable written to a prompt over at the wonderful Poetic Bloomings site.)

As Paganini stumbled
Through the ancient stable door
His haughty countenance crumbled
Before the congregation on that floor.

A dozen stallions strong and fleet
Were breathing on his nose
While all around his trembling feet
Stood arching rows…

Of cats! Their green eyes blinking
With a look so fierce and bright
That Paganini started thinking
They were spoiling for a fight.

The atmosphere grew bolder
As a Siamese stalked near
And jumped up on his shoulder
To whisper in his ear,

“It’s come to our august attention
That your musical career
Has caused too much pain to mention
For the members gathered here.

The bow you boast is magical
To spin music without fail
Is only fully functional
At the cost of a flowing tail,

While the singing strings you love to stroke
To drive the ladies nuts
Can only really be baroque
Thanks to someone’s mother’s guts!”

A noisy chorus raised the roof
Of that bucolic dive
Presenting him the awful proof
He’d not escape alive

The violinist trembled
And sank down to his knees
Before all those assembled
Mewing pitifully, “Please!...”

But the angry crowd came forth in packs
With cries of “hiss!” and “neigh!”
And on a hundred hairy backs
They carried him away

Ten miles, before they cut him loose
With a note clear and nefarious:
“Leave off your animal abuse,
Or we’ll bust your Stradivarius!”

Next morning he awakened
In an empty country lane;
His night had left him shaken,
He swore he’d never drink again.

But just as a matter of careful course
After this nocturnal spat
He lavished sugar on his horse
And was nice to every cat.

To a certain bird

2011-07-09T21:46:00.003-04:00

A rush of silver
Was your final gift to me.
Then awful silence.
On the step, your eyes slid shut
As my heart begged you to stay.

Pumping Iron

2011-07-09T21:36:00.001-04:00

We started pumping iron on the porch
The summer that our river burst its banks.

He stood in the driveway with his shirt off
Glistening like a sword drawn from the sea,

Shouting, I am strong now. What have you left
To offer, old man, before I slay you?

Eye-to-eye we fought to keep our balance
Two strangers astride the Leviathan

Each one thrilled and yet terrified. It was
Blood-lust and it was hubris that tossed us

Until we washed up on our backs, arms raised
And flexed and raised again without talking.

Something’s blocking the sun, I said at last.
Your pride, he spat. No, I smiled, your biceps.

Recital

2011-07-03T15:10:00.000-04:00

I don’t know where your black shoes are.
We don’t have time to curl your hair
At this point, my dear, I really don’t care
Just grab your stuff and get in the car.

Why do we do this to ourselves each May,
This ritual humiliation we call the recital?
Can this two-hour battle of flesh versus machine be as vital
To our children’s development as their teachers say?

Leave your sister alone, you unrepentant brat!
Can’t you see she’s having nervous fits
About the middle section of this piece? It’s got her scared to bits.
And don’t say that dress makes her look fat.

Look, I love soccer, but I wouldn’t love it more if you made me
Take a penalty in front of a thousand people, for crying out loud.
Why can’t these poor frightened souls be allowed
To play for fun at home instead of out where everyone else can see?

Oh gosh, there’s your grandma in the second row.
All her friends from church have come along
To hear you play your two-finger version of a patriotic song.
You’d better stop your tears, or all the makeup stains will show.

I’m all for music lessons, please don’t get me wrong. I’m quite aware
They teach us discipline, which is of course right and good.
But somewhere I think we crossed the line, and what could
Have been encouraging to kids has instead become a collective nightmare.

There she is, under the lights. She looks so innocent
Sitting on the piano stool, preparing to do violence
To America the Beautiful. In her defense
The outfit’s pretty, even if her playing’s only twenty-five percent.

You show me a gifted pianist playing Chopin out his mind,
I’ll see your smug little prodigy and raise you
Five hackers lurching sweat-drenched and distraught through
Fur Elise like a drunken typing pool. Full house beats one-of-a-kind.

Oh, well done, you were divine, a taste of heaven to the ear!
These flowers are a token of my love and great esteem.
You are so talented and brave. Let’s go get the largest ice cream
We can find, and forget this charade until we have to do it all again next year.

Blink of an eye

2011-06-27T21:04:00.001-04:00

Hi, love. Sorry I missed your call – I know
It can get lonely at the hospital.
It will be great to have you home tonight.

I was out at Penney’s with our newborn
Buying him a birthday suit, extra long.
He looks so cute, you could just eat him up.

He’s been eating constantly, back to his
Birth weight, and then some. He does like ice cream,
Especially the stuff your mother brought us.

Nap times are good, he’s getting lots of sleep
But his days and nights are all turned around.
It must be from all that time in the womb.

Oh, and the driving instructor called us
She said there’s a spot for him next Friday,
Now that he’s learned to walk, and read, and shave.

When I asked the woman at United
If they would take care of him on the plane
There was an awkward pause, before she said

Sir, your son is sixteen – he’s an adult.
She’s right – he is the best of both of us.
And it happened in the blink of an eye.

The naked truth

2011-06-27T09:02:00.002-04:00

(Hendrickje bathing, by Rembrandt, 1654)

I swear by all that’s holy
If you keep stepping on there
It will steal your soul.

When you lose, you feel uneasy
When you don’t, you feel worse
And all the time you look the same to me

Stepping radiant from the shower,
Torrents streaming from your hair
Like a goddess at her bath.

Hendrickje never had a bathroom scale
Neither did Venus on her half-shell
And you surpass them both.

Attraction

2011-06-18T21:00:00.000-04:00

Some days we
Are magnets
Dancing spikes
Of iron
We quiver
Unable
To embrace
Until one
Suddenly
Turns their back.

Salt

2011-06-18T19:42:00.000-04:00

(For my father)

It’s time to mow the grass for the first time
This spring – the tousled dandelion heads
Bobbing above great ragged waves of green.
Next to the street, the lawn is struggling,
Burned under mounds of salt thrown down by plows
Last winter. Nothing can live with that much salt.

My father told me once how they used salt
In the ancient world, as fertilizer,
Spreading it on the fields to make crops grow.
Too much salt in one place damaged the soil,
Scorched beyond use. But when spread thin it was
Golden! Life and death in each farmer’s hands.

The good book says: you are salt for the earth.
And I think of how we all get piled up
In great toxic mounds of long-lost goodness.
We poison our own back yards, when we could
Be scooped up and scattered to the fresh winds
Helping wheat and weeds grow up together.

Written originally for a prompt at the wonderful Poetic Bloomings site.

Postsy Toodey

2011-06-12T18:42:00.001-04:00

I love nicknames – everyone should have one.
It shows you are loved and special – J.Lo
A-Rod, The Gipper, Deep Throat, Mack the Knife.

Maybe certain movies would be improved
If they had fancy nicknames to go by.
The Sweet Smell of Success would be Smelly

The Lord of the Rings just known as Ringer
While the Return of the Body Snatchers
Would be Rot B.S. – appropriate, eh?

Anna Karenina would be Russky
E.T. would be Mr. T, and King Kong
Could choose: K-Kong, Special K or Big Guy.

Pirates of the Caribbean 2-D
Would be Potsy Toodey, and in 3-D
It would graduate to Potsy Threedee.

As far as I can tell there is nothing
You could do to improve Casablanca.
Great art should be left alone: Play it Sam.

Old Gasoline

2011-06-12T18:38:00.001-04:00

Old gasoline smells nasty when it spills
All bungee cords aren’t created equal
It is possible to have too much string
Chipboard doesn’t make a very strong ramp
Teenagers love to prove how strong they are
Especially to other teenagers
Truck rental places lie – get over it.
Leftover rolls and coffee taste like dust
When you’re standing in an empty garage
Watching one of your best friends drive away.

3:05

2011-06-04T18:30:00.001-04:00

It was three-oh-five
A suspiciously long time
Here in our kitchen
Till I realized this was
The oven temperature.

Like Jacob

2011-06-04T18:09:00.003-04:00

Like a dream half-remembered of an old
Flame, once bright but now guttering wax tears,
These prayers melt into sand, as dark smoke sears
My senses. With each return to this old
Place, I feel my spirit shift as I hold
A taper and fumble for words. The years
When I could answer any person’s fears
With platitudes are gone – that fool’s gold
Plundered by experience. I think on
Jacob with the angel, spent on the floor
No revelation won, all mystery
Left unrelated when the night has gone.
Like him, I have my blessing, but still more
Walk with a limp – as wisdom’s gift to me.

Frosting

2011-05-29T13:51:00.000-04:00

I arrived at the Middle School carrying
A three-foot-long model of the U.S.A.
Fashioned out of frosting and rice krispie treats,
With the Oregon Trail marked in green sprinkles.

At first this history project seemed absurd,
Sugar-coating every hill and valley.
But in the end, perhaps all of our attempts
To explain our origins leave us gasping:

Manifest destiny, guts and glory, luck.
We spend our lives reshaping the stories
We tell about how we got here, with frosting
To cover the cracks we aren’t ready to show.

Why I make the bed in the morning

2011-05-29T13:48:00.000-04:00

Some mornings, this bed is a fresh-plowed field

Still ripe with dew and softly radiant;

Others, it is all scorched earth, bright yellow

Coverlet thrown off to relieve the heat;

And occasionally, it lies fallow

Waiting patiently, soaking in the sun.

I always do the same thing in the morning

No matter what the night before has brought.

With the shower singing in the next room

I tuck the sheets and gather up the dreams

Place the pillows side by side, and give thanks

For daylight, and forgiveness, and coffee.

Valedictory

2011-05-22T19:39:00.000-04:00

Outside the administration building
Of the local high school is a signpost
Bearing two identical “One Way” signs.
One sign points due left, the other points right.

The first time I saw this it made me laugh
Because it so well expressed that vortex
Of high school life, where we stand and wonder
Which of the right answers we should follow.

But today, surrounded by caps and gowns,
This weathered sage turns valedictory:
You have the best of us now - choose wisely.
Once you leave here, there is no coming back.

Flood Plain

2011-05-15T20:02:00.000-04:00

They are flushing the hydrants today
Splashing giant rainbows in the spring air.
You cannot escape the sound of water.
Outside the Middle School is a great lake
Where the drains are plugged. Two young boys are there
Staring intently like they are asking

What will be left when the waters recede?

On the radio they are talking to
Farmers in the Mississippi delta,
Poor folk in poor houses, watching the floods
Rising and talking about faith in God
And how they don’t have the money to move,
While engineers are playing Morton’s Fork
Between the devil and the deep blue sea
And admitting that no one really knows

What will be left when the waters recede.

The boys lose interest and wander away
To dig in the sand of the ball diamond.
I change stations and hear an old preacher
Talking about God shutting Noah in
The Ark. And I think, Good for Noah, but
What about the rest of us? Does he want

What will be left when the waters recede?

Ordinary

2011-05-13T20:16:00.003-04:00

Thanks to Vivienne Blake for a great phrase "marvel at the miracle of the ordinary" over at Big Tent Poetry. Here's my response - small beer, but then most of life is that way, eh? Cheers.

Ordinary

Three blind mice orienteering through our A/C ducts

Squirrels plotting malice on the birdseed box

Graceful mold filigreeing the bathroom

Grass abounding it places it should not

Geometric patterns of unwashed laundry

The majesty of dishes rising from the sink

Long shadows cast by looming bills

The sonic boom of freshman saxophone

And sheer power of teenage deodorant

The flattened mass of a forgotten Twinkie

And pyramid of eraserless No. 2 pencils.

Rainbows filling the room from a hanging crystal

The tenderness of one loving look across the table.

Someday I will write a book,

Hopefully a funny one. But for now

I walk outside and simply marvel

At the miracle of the ordinary.

Pop Tarts

2011-05-09T11:03:00.000-04:00

So many of the best foods

Are round: The perfect circle
Of a fresh cupcake; a sunny-side
Egg yolk; apples and oranges are
Round, too. Even pears and bananas
If you look at them end-on. And of
Course, the humble hamburger,
Served on a plump, round bun.

No food in nature is square, or triangular;
Sometimes food has legs, but even
These legs are vaguely roundish.
And some of the finest foods even organize
To grow in circles (like mushrooms).
It just stands to reason, really –
Round earth, round food. I think
That’s why pop tarts just seem wrong.

Things we say we'll never do

2011-05-09T10:52:00.000-04:00

(a cascade poem)

So many things we say we’ll never do
Follow us home in the end
Like a stray dog that steals our heart.

That’s why I’m cautious about words
Spoken in haste or anger, for there are
So many things we say we’ll never do

That we should – like apologize
Or embrace the embarrassments that
Follow us home in the end

And lie down with their head in our lap
Nuzzling against our hand
Like a stray dog that steals our heart.

Dangerous

2011-05-01T14:37:00.000-04:00

Let’s be dangerous
Outside tonight
The moon is a police light
Throwing shadows
Through the tall grass
Above us

Let’s be dangerous
In plain sight
The neighbors are sleeping
Dreaming of small deeds
And the moon
Is our radio.

Let’s be dangerous
And start a fight
Just so we can make up
Strong and slow
With your lunatic hand
Over my mouth.

Let’s be dangerous
And break what’s right
Because we are strangers
Whetted with unknowing
And we are desperate
To cross this divide.

Sunrise service

2011-04-24T17:21:00.000-04:00

(Happy Easter to all)

You lipsticked cigarette ends
Circling smoke to heaven
Rampant weeds defying mulch
And axel-breaking potholes
Praise the Lord.

You blissed-out muzak
Kenny G-ing overhead
Slick-haired TV talking heads
And day-old business pages
Praise the Lord.

You pouting teenage girls
In long skirts and too much makeup
Freckled younger brothers
And disapproving grandmas
Praise the Lord.

You harried first-generation immigrants
Screwing up my order
Overflowing coffee pots
And abandoned egg mcmuffin
Praise the Lord.

You white clothed street crew
Worn out from your heavy lifting
You military veterans
Stealing glances at the
Women in the corner

By the empty table.

Buttons

2011-04-17T20:10:00.000-04:00

There are many dangerous buttons
In this world. Some you wear to make
A point, whether humorous or profane
(I got into a fight once over a message
Pinned to the front of my jacket, for example).
Some buttons live on machines,
And are marked with big red letters
Saying things like “Detonate,” or “Launch.”
These buttons do significantly more damage
And are very, very noisy.
But the scariest and most dangerous button
You will ever find – both for you and
Everyone else – is quite modest, and bears
The simple legend: “Reply All.”

Unexpected roses

2011-04-17T20:07:00.000-04:00

Unexpected roses always make my soul
Melt with love for you, my dear;
Not because I find your Casanova’s role
Unexpected - roses ALWAYS make my soul
This way for you. It’s just I know your goal
Is purely biological. Never fear –
Unexpected roses always make my soul
Melt with love for you, my dear.

Hula hoop

2011-04-17T19:50:00.000-04:00

This hula hoop is perfect, Daddy, see!
She laughs, and sways her hips in filligree
Describing graceful circles all around
Her dancer’s torso, while the sighing sound
Of flouncing skirts, makes impish parody

Of what a princess might turn out to be
If she could slip past the security
Inside the royal palace, having found
This hula hoop

And slide down to some smoky dive, where she
Could join the revels, dancing wild and free,
Releasing all the duties she has bound
Herself to follow, lying on the ground
And laughing softly: Thanks for giving me
This hula hoop.

Oh my...

2011-04-10T14:47:00.001-04:00

If you should ever
Catch your parents in the throes
Of passion – two whales
Locked in combat – you might
Wish you’d never been born.

Opening day

2011-04-03T21:33:00.000-04:00

(a drunken sonnet)

The forty thousand starting to arrive
On Sheffield, Waveland, Clark and Addison
Seem hardly bothered that they have not won
A pennant here since nineteen forty-five
Or that there’s almost nobody alive
Who still remembers losing only one
Game in their last World Series winning run,
A triumph younger players can’t revive.
These faithful souls bedecked in Cubby blue
Have numbed themselves to losing every spring
Through regular consumption of a large
Amount of Old Style, such a friendly brew
It lets them drown the score by bellowing:
Holy Cow! Da-da-da-da-da-daaaaaaa. Charge!

Shoes

2011-04-03T21:30:00.000-04:00

I don’t like old shoes,
The kind that make my feet hurt
Even before I
Put them on – crusty old souls
That have hung on for too long.

New shoes are bad, too.
Ones like the fancy Reeboks
I got last April
You could see them in the dark
It was just embarrassing.

I want a new pair
Of old shoes – anonymous
Yet comfortable.
They would only last a week.
And they would probably be brown.

Jamey

2011-03-27T20:00:00.000-04:00

I could not single out the day I knew
That Jamey wasn’t well. The eighties were
Our time of innocence. A teenager
Who didn’t come to school was simply too
Exhausted from a night with someone new,
Unbuttoned hormones raging, and the cure
Was simple as a long bath. We were sure
He would return as students always do.
But he had caught the new “slimming disease”
A strange affliction that was ravaging
The special boys like Jamey. Secretly
I wondered if this kid who liked to tease
Me had, beneath the subtle bantering,
Been dying to declare his love for me.

Leia

2011-03-21T12:25:00.000-04:00

White bathrobe princess, with your

Hair twisted up in cinnamon buns,
You are so brave, resourceful
And quite short, really –
For though your secret crush
Is frozen in a block of carbonite
And your twin brother has lost a hand
You still have faith in the future
And you can fire a gun.
I know I said you were just another
Holographic trust-fund woo-woo telepathic airhead
But now I’ve seen you in a garbage compactor
I take it all back.

(with a grateful nod to poet Aaron Belz)

Icicles

2011-03-13T20:27:00.000-04:00

I am fascinated by icicles
The way they come and go with the weather
Rather like Canada geese, only slower,
Drop by drop, migrating from roof to ground
Sometimes in the pleasing form of wind-chimes,
Others, in one great sword of Damocles,
Begging the life of those who pass beneath.

My fourth grade teacher had a big blue house
With two stories and a fairy-tale roof
And every winter, when the birds had flown,
The biggest icicle in the whole world
Would form under her eaves, a full eight feet
In length, pointing straight down at the back door.
None of us expected her to survive

But she did, year after year – with a smile.
She embraced that threat and named it: beauty.
And as I think on her now, I wonder
If we all don’t live with what others see
As slow-dripped danger hanging overhead.
Maybe they’re right; then again, maybe not.
My teacher died at last – but not from ice.

The Sheiks of the Castle

2011-03-07T16:09:00.000-05:00

(The Caernarvon Castle, Camden Town, c.1984)

They were called
The Radical Sheiks,
Five tall men
In blue jeans
Who took the stage each Friday
Wailing smoky blues

While the crowd
Jostled for their pints
At the bar
And shouted
Half-plastered above the din.
It took half an hour

On the bus
But it was worth it
Just to be
Swallowed up
In that great unholy sea
Of Marlboros and booze,

A good boy
For three hours as drunk
As a lord
One small cork
Carried away on the swell
Of hard times and dreams.

At this time

2011-03-07T15:52:00.003-05:00

At this time, Ladies and Gentlemen,
The good news is that in just another hour

We will begin boarding through Gate A-10,

And we would like to take the chance again

To stress that the current heavy shower

At this time, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Is not our fault. It’s quite beyond our ken

Why you blame us. When it’s in our power

We will begin boarding. Through Gate A-10,

You can probably see two policemen

With guns. Now we don’t want you to cower,

At this time, Ladies and Gentlemen,

In fear. But if anything gets broken

By angry passengers, things will turn sour!

We will begin boarding through Gate A-10

When I bloody say so. No more token

Smiles. Only when we hear from the Tower –

At THIS time, Ladies and Gentlemen,

We will begin boarding through Gate A-10.

The Yankee dream

2011-02-28T14:26:00.000-05:00

At six a.m. the slanting light
Throws wild shadows on the grass before
Our house. Within these shades I see
The figure of a man, one hand
Quick sifting through the trash bin by
The street, a thin glove hiding weathered skin.

I wonder why his actions get beneath my skin
So easily, as he turns a soda can beneath the streetlight
As if he were a jeweler with a standard he must study by.
Two hours gone, this daily round, and still another four
Of trawling through what residents would hand
Him accidently in their overflow. I want to see

What makes him flout the stringent policy
Of local government, his thievery akin,
They say, to petty theft. And all to hand
A sack of old aluminum to men who slight
His very being, except to tolerate him for
The metal cans they love to buy.

Two hundred years ago, my ancestors traveled by
The call of providence across a troubled sea
To find this land which metaphor
Described as paradise. And by the skin
And sinew of their being, they turned their plight
Of landless refugees into an upper hand

Where they could prosper and then hand
A goodly heritage to their offspring; by
Generation finding their delight
In making this a land where all can see
Prosperity, no matter what the color of their skin
Or what their family was or did before

They came here. But now I worry for
This spectral scavenger, his one hand
Busy at its task, his frame of skin
And bones slow swaying to a lullaby
Of half-remembered hope, telling his misery
The yankee dream might still take flight.

I fear the fragile skin of righteousness – the beacon of “four
Score and twenty” – is a light fast fading in our hand
We former immigrants who now sit by, leaving only refuse for our latest kin who cross the sea.

Ten below

2011-02-28T14:07:00.000-05:00

(a villanelle)

The temperature is down to ten below
Outside, a proper Indiana freeze.
I’m glad there’s no place that I have to go

On roads made treacherous by drifted snow
That dazzles and deceives. For when one sees
The temperature is down to ten below

It’s best to just say thanks, go with the flow
And take a break from planned activities.
I’m glad there’s no place that I have to go

When all the TV programs stop to show
The mercury descending by degrees.
“The temperature is down to ten below,”

They crow, “Here on the Toll Road, and you know
The wind chill’s worse, considering this breeze!”
I’m glad there’s no place that I have to go

Tonight, when all the world is set aglow
By moonlight dancing through the arching trees.
The temperature is down to ten below…
I’m glad there’s no place that I have to go.

House call

2011-02-22T11:29:00.000-05:00

The medical kit sits in the corner
In easy reach for each time he visits
Our home. He eats his breakfast carefully
Then pulls the plastic case to the middle
Of a freshly-vacuumed living room floor.

First he pulls the headband with its mirror
Over his eyes like a superhero.
Thus transformed, he takes out the syringe
Pumps it seven times into his forehead
And swings the stethoscope in great circles…

Behind the door, she sits and reads about
Vascular disease and renal failure,
Oblivious to the sagging bookshelf
Until it gives way and books cascade down
In parody of her unending task.

It is a good thing he is here today.
With warmth and sympathy upon his brow
Outweighing surgeon’s knife and chemist’s drug
He grabs his case and is ready to go.
Hippocrates would be so proud of him.

Valentine's Takeover

2011-02-14T21:42:00.000-05:00

So I was trying to text my sweetheart
About having a date for Valentine’s
But the smart-spelling feature on my phone
Wouldn’t cooperate. It kept turning
“Valentines” into the word “Takeover.”

It made me wonder if the programmer
Had been left sitting alone at a Starbucks
Clutching a dozen roses for a girl
Who never could work out how to tell him
Face-to-face: It’s over – it’s me, not you.

And in his humiliation and fear
That every lover would abandon him
As soon as he had opened up his heart
He threw the roses to the barista
And walked two hours across town in the rain.

Back in the computer lab, he removed
Every hint of love from the software
He was perfecting for use in cell phones,
And replaced it with a subtle warning
That romance is a form of takeover.

Meanwhile the barista went home and dreamed
About the man who gave her the roses
Praying that he would come back in again
So she could get his number and text him:
Thank you for the best valentine ever.

No good deed...

2011-02-14T21:32:00.001-05:00

(a villanelle)

The car is looking older now

It has another scrape down low.

You really shouldn’t ask me how

It got that ding upon its bow,

That battle-scar that makes me know

The car is looking older now.

Don’t say I drove it like a plow

Across the parking lot – Oh no,

You really shouldn’t! Ask me how

I made a well-intentioned vow

To feed my sister’s cat. And, so

The car is looking older now,

At least she will not have a cow

Because her cat’s lost in the snow.

You really shouldn’t ask me how

I got these deep lines in my brow.

Just say, what’s done is done. For though

The car is looking older now

You really shouldn’t ask me how.

The lathe of memory

2011-02-07T21:05:00.000-05:00

We do not always realize just what
The lathe of memory is sharpening
Until we feel the unexpected sting
Of sudden recollection start to cut
The tissue of oblivion. We shut
Our hardest passages away, then cling
To safer narratives, but lessening
Our being will not pull us from that rut.
Instead, when long-forgotten shades arise
In tandem with a sudden scent or sound,
We should salute these keepers of what lies
Rough hidden in the deeply harrowed ground
That is the soul. Such moments make us wise,
For through old pain, new healing can be found.

Diego's jersey

2011-01-31T18:07:00.002-05:00

At five-foot-five
Diego Maradona
Stood two heads shorter
Than me, wearing this jersey,
The blue and white Number Ten

Of Argentina.
That diminutive wizard
With the hand of God,
Who in four breathless minutes
There in Mexico City

Tore out my young heart
With his maddening mixture
Of dishonesty –
Punching the ball in the net –
And finesse – his second goal.

My good friend Bob went
To the Golden Boy’s homeland,
And when his hosts learned
That I was born in England
They took him down to a shrine

To Maradona,
A store packed with souvenirs
Of that plunderer,
And they bought me a jersey,
Just so they could rub it in.

I promise

2011-01-31T17:43:00.001-05:00

I promise –

I will want you still

Tomorrow

No matter

What the news is, bad or good,

On the telephone.

Mugs

2011-01-25T07:24:00.001-05:00

If one could count the cups in every sink
And draining board across the British Isles,
Still dotted with digestive crumbs, in piles
Of geometric porcelain, I think
The number would make Wall Street people wink
At sexy opportunities, with miles
Of data spread by shark-toothed men with smiles
They learned to fake from stretches in the clink.
The simple truth is, if you want to be
Successful in investing hard-won cash
Within a marketplace that pulls and tugs
Your heart to go against what you can see
Is smart, then shun the charlatans and dash
To read the tea-leaves – just invest in… Mugs.

The thousand reasons

2011-01-17T20:14:00.001-05:00

Were you to ask the thousand reasons why
I love you, I would point you to the snow
Descending lazily outside – a show
So easy and enchanting to the eye
That one can miss the pattern of the sky,
With every flake unique and pure, prepared to flow
With its compatriots to scatter low
A blanket where our fondest dreams may lie.
That graceful synergy of patterns found
Within the winter landscape tells me how
Two lives so separate can fold around
Each other’s beauty and yet still allow
Each one to dance a solitary round
Gracing the slow unfolding of a vow.

Stay in the room (advice to poets)

2011-01-17T20:05:00.001-05:00

(a triolet)

Stay in the room, and do not quit
Until your work is done.
I know it’s hard, but you must sit,
Stay in the room, and do not quit!
The poem’s there, now capture it –
A tale is waiting to be spun.
Stay in the room, and do not quit
Until your work is done.

(with thanks to The Pocket Muse)

Magi

2011-01-07T11:38:00.001-05:00

To all the bruised and weary,

Saddle-sore from sleepless nights
Spent upright and resentful
In way stations and overflowing inns.

To those who have endured
The rituals of forced familiarity,
Feigning surprise and joy
While harboring their opposites.

To those who feel the sting
Of self-recrimination
Seeing long-worn patterns
Resurrected, not resisted.

To those who hate the sound
Of bells and Auld Lang Syne,
Whose stomachs turn
At just the smell of douglas fir.

Congratulations – you survived.

The gifts you brought were
Less important than your presence,
As you will one day understand.
Tonight, go safely home, another way.

Chapbook - "The Family Business"

2010-12-30T10:05:00.001-05:00

It's been a good year of poeming for me. I have gathered some of my favorites written in 2010 in a small chapbook titled "The Family Business." I did a limited run of 50, and have already sold or given about 30. They are going fast. If you would like to get a copy from this first run, you can get one for just $5, sent to you anywhere in the USA and autographed by the author. Overseas friends, we can haggle on the shipping!

Live Video - Flying lessons

2010-12-29T10:58:00.003-05:00

Here's a video of "Flying lessons" from a reading at the Electric Brew, Goshen, Indiana, in December 2010.

Live Video - Road rage

2010-12-29T10:57:00.001-05:00

Here's a video from my reading at the Electric Brew in Goshen, Indiana, in December 2010. This poem is a true story...

Gastrointestinal Limericks

2010-12-18T18:12:00.002-05:00

(a real-life email duel with a poet-who-shall-remain-nameless)

Tuesday

The gastrointenstinal tract
Is the greatest yawn since Rome was sacked.
It’s simply not funny
If a poo’s thick or runny,
It’s a bore as a matter of fact!

Wednesday

The GI tract is only a part
Of a system whose primary art
is to edify boys
with the eloquent noise
of a seismic grandiloquent flatulation.

You started it.

Thursday

The best G.I. doctors all pass
At the top of their medical class
They expertly seek
Every bubble and squeak
That proceeds from our head and our bottom.

Back atcha. This is war.

Friday

As a theme the GI tract is fit
for treatment by poetic wit
But the sum of it all
Is a mountain that's tall
And composed almost solely of nonsense.

I rest my case.

Saturday

When dueling rhyme-writers scrap
They do well to steer clear of the trap
Of waxing ironic
On matters colonic
For such writing’s invariably rubbish.

Tag

And here, both poets finally lost the will to go on...

Chauncey Avenue

2010-12-08T21:07:00.002-05:00

Can it be

Possible that a
Smile remains –
A birthmark –
After over thirty years?
This photo says so:

On these steps
Once high as mountains
We sat down
Together
Smiling soft in black and white
Gazing up at God

Now we come
Again, full grown, to
Recreate
That moment.
We are worn at the edges

But the smile endures.

Turkey time

2010-12-08T21:01:00.003-05:00

So there I was, painting a barn with Luke,
Up at Farmer Bob’s place, late November
Just before the snow flew. And I looked down
From my ladder to see a huge turkey
Wander across the yard to watch me work.
They say those birds are thick as two short planks –
Even drown in rainstorms is what I heard –
But I was still amazed to see that girl
Rub her backside against the fresh red paint,
Like some rouged-up feathery street-walker
Daring the world to take her liberty.
Free for a day – so live without regrets!
Perhaps we all embody irony
Like that blood-red hen, heedless of her fate.
If so, then I will not go quietly
Like her, I’ll sashay, brazen, through the rain
Teasing the future with my hot red cheeks.

Lawn decorations

2010-12-08T21:00:00.001-05:00

(a villanelle)

If it is true you love me as you say
(And please don’t think this is a test)
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

You may not like to do as others say,
But sometimes you must act at my behest
If it is true you love me as you say.

And this is where that rule comes into play:
If you don’t want your honeybunch distressed,
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

That ten-foot lighted Santa on a sleigh
Will disappear into eternal rest
If it is true you love me as you say.

For while a bachelor thinks it’s okay
To keep such tacky junk around the nest
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

I have a headache coming on today,
So please don’t think I say these words in jest:
If it is true you love me as you say,
You’ll do what’s right – AND THROW THAT THING AWAY.

Why did you eat my homework?

2010-11-23T19:07:00.006-05:00

It’s hard to explain
My reasoning to a kid
Who leaves his best friend
Locked up in the house all day.
Let’s just say that I was bored.

Against the grain

2010-11-23T19:05:00.003-05:00

(a sonnet)

To those around the little farming town
The newly-married couple weren’t the same
As they had been before the summons came
To wrap them in a missionary’s gown,
And after blessings at the church rained down,
Departed, as their parents tried to tame
Their mix of grief and pride – and called their name,
Reminding them they were their joy and crown.
A hundred dusty years have come and gone
And separation is much harder now
Than when my mother’s parents took that train.
I put aside the chance to lean upon
The siren Holy Call, and make my vow
Instead to stay – and grow against the grain.

We grow together as we grow apart

2010-11-15T23:34:00.000-05:00

(a villanelle)

The restless yearning of the heart
Finds truest freedom in this paradox:
We grow together as we grow apart.

It is not wise to think that Cupid’s dart
Can tranquilize and lock within a box
The restless yearning of the heart,

For though we fuse together at the start
We must acknowledge lest we hit the rocks
We grow together as we grow apart.

The taste of love can turn from sweet to tart
When forced conformity cannot outfox
The restless yearning of the heart.

Much better to acknowledge, and then chart
How as each partner’s calling comes and knocks,
We grow together as we grow apart.

This wisdom long experience imparts:
It is our trust which at the last unlocks
The restless yearning of the heart –
We grow together as we grow apart.

Are we there yet?

2010-11-15T23:27:00.001-05:00

Come on
Come on
Step on it
Are we there yet?

Hang on
Hang on
Edge of town
Are we there yet?

Shut up
Shut up
Quit yelling
Are we there yet?

Breathe out
Breathe out
Don’t bear down
Are we there yet?

Fourth floor
Fourth floor
Are they nuts?
Are we there yet?

Complete
Complete
Eight nine ten
Are we there yet?

Hallway
Hallway
Right here
Right now
Don’t care
Don’t care
Don’t care
Owwwwwwwwwwww!
Oh my good lord…

We’re there.

It's easier to shop than practice

2010-11-15T23:25:00.002-05:00

Long-haired Dave calls me from the music store
To see how I’m getting on with the amp
I bought from him – his over-friendly tone
Annoying me because he calls me “Dude,”
But even more because I recognize
That on Tuesday I once again succumbed
To the illusion that my lack of skill
As a guitarist could be swept away
By the purchase of one more piece of gear.
Sadly, I am still not Eric Clapton.
“It’s easier to shop than practice, Dude,”
I tell him. “I’ll be returning the amp.”

On Hampstead Heath

2010-11-09T08:47:00.002-05:00

(A rondeau)

On Hampstead Heath, we watched the golden light
Bewitch and then seduce the coming night.
A space like this no lover wants to leave,
When there is so much magic yet to weave,
And so we walked home slowly, holding tight

And laughing, as we tried to write
The story of our future, just to fight
For one last memory we could retrieve
On Hampstead Heath.

That was the place, in black and white,
We promised it would be all right
To let each other go, and grieve
While many miles apart – and yet believe
That we would one day reunite
On Hampstead Heath.

Halloween

2010-11-09T08:46:00.001-05:00

(a cascade poem)

After dark on Halloween
She stiffly gave to all the kids
A tract about the fires of Hell
Thinking grape juice would make them Baptists.

Perhaps I’m just naïve
But it would not occur to me
To hand out day-glo propaganda
After dark on Halloween.

So when she opened up her door
And smiled at us invitingly
I just assumed that it was candy that
She stiffly gave to all the kids.

But no – more absurd than any
Costume made of scarves and silly hats
She took the chance to threaten them with
A tract about the fires of Hell.

At evening’s end, what caught my heart
Was how the children laughed about this saint:
Her Christianity was just a joke –
Thinking grape juice would make them Baptists!