Clouds, Separating

How harmless
they seem in the storm’s
aftermath,
in their breaking apart,
a cracked
wall leaking sunlight.
These shards,
temporary placeholders
etched blue,
a pastoral painting now
adrift in
a shepherding breeze.
Crafted into
fragile bone white china,
emptied and
reduced to fragments,
heaven’s art,
magnificently adorning
the sky’s table.

Former Selves

At nine,
I was going to be a superb athlete.
At twelve,
I imagined myself a musical prodigy.
At seventeen,
I was an ardent lover in daydreams.
At twenty,
I thought my raised fist a revolution.

Now, I
no longer toss a football to myself.
I haven’t
played that air guitar for decades.
I’m content to
fall asleep holding my wife’s hand.
The only thing
I protest against is time’s passage.

My former selves,
I wonder what they are doing now.
Are they
still desperately trying to impress?
If met, would
they pass me without recognition?
Or envious,
marvel I’ve prospered nonetheless.

If We Were

If we were
the dawn’s eastern quarter,
we’d be light

If eager birds,
we’d be breakfasting in song

If May flowers,
we’d already be dressed for
a bee’s visit

If windows, our
eyes wouldn’t be curtained

If the dark,
we would now be consigned
into shadows

If trees, in wind’s
embrace we’d be dancing

But human,
foolishly we remain asleep
until alarmed

In Words Adrift

Bleak and diminished,
shrunken to the size of its lamp’s
feeble reach,
this room encases a lone reader
in his chair.
Doorways are mortared shut by
the dark’s wall,
and drawn curtains muffle sound
as anonymity is
found in the reading of another’s
crafted depictions.
The stairs to his bed and dreams
so near, but far,
he seems contained, restricted
to light’s boundary.
Still, despite the dense weight
of solitude,
the grounding embrace of place,
tonight, this room
remains vacant; in words adrift,
he’s elsewhere.

Contingencies

Just in case,
candles and a box of matches.
A junk drawer
with loose batteries and screws
of every size.
Unused prescription pills past
their expiration.
Acne cream for a child with
his own now.
An unusual spice called for
in a recipe
you made just the one time.
Aging bandaids
that have likely lost their stick.
The cane
needed for a sprained ankle.
Old radios and
other technologies replaced.
Detritus to be
discarded without a thought
once inherited.
But still for now preserved,
just in case
a future contingency finds us
empty handed.

October Twilight

Under bundled clouds
as a community they rest,
a cacophonous flock
feasting on the leftovers of
a harvested farm field.
In day’s diminishing light
they fuse into its
now borderless landscape.
But hardened ground
will not be tonight’s bed.
Soon, a persistent
north wind will rend clouds
into pulsating starlight.
Under a moon’s half shell
they will again shadow
that silent void until dawn.
Cast aloft, in lieu of
resonate song, their wings
a steady drumbeat.

A Prayer Of Finest Silk

In the quiet
composition of long waiting,
resolute as stone
and patient in meditation,
to a spider, its
web is a prayer spun across
empty air,
crafted from the finest silk.

So faint
this whispered invocation,
but anchored
in faith, it hangs suspended,
barely visible in
a universe so vast, awaiting
the tug of
another’s careless disbelief.

Homeless

Tonight, homeless,
the wind wants to be warm, too.
Our screen door,
locked, resists the push of its
shouldering weight.
Windows frost as it explores for
an armor’s chink.
Constantly, the furnace shivers
awake to ward
aside its insistent investigations.
Guiltily, we listen to
the desolate vagrant in the cold.
This blanket of
smoke is the only consolation
we have to share.
Cast off from glowing embers,
a chimney’s gift.

The Gift

A mother’s perfume summoned
in the memory of
her gentle kiss on the forehead.

A father’s rough stubble again
felt in the recall of
his sleep tight kiss on the cheek.

Past passions brought to mind
in the suggestion
from a wife’s kiss on the mouth.

Love expressed without words,
lips’ sweet gift
cherished long after their touch.

Proposal

What an unpleasant day.
Our plans to
meet disheveled by wind
and dank
with dark clouds above.
How forlorn
that picnic basket looks
fully packed.
On such an afternoon,
rainwear and
umbrellas won’t suffice.
But instead of
grass, a blanket spread
on carpet
might do just as nicely.
Here or there,
with covering overhead,
I propose
that we share it anyway.

Invitation To A Friend

There is enough wine in the bottle
for two.
I’ve another chair near the fire
to share.
After snow, a path now cleared
to my door.
On the stove, more than I need,
a meal awaits.
If not so far away, I’d welcome
your knock.
Still, why feel lonely on a night
such as this.
Instead, under bright moonlight,
this invitation.
Let us look up together despite
the distance.
Our separate homes made one
beneath it.

The Grand Adventure

In the annals of
a toy box where so many others
simply lie idle

surely, with
poetry and song its courage will
be celebrated

This bit of plastic
inadvertently cast adrift from
inattentive eyes

Manning the helm
its stiff captain unruffled by
a propelling wind

On the open seas
beyond entangling water lilies
adventure awaits

Last evening it
bobbed in the safe environs of
a child’s nightly bath

Now chance takes
the oars as this boat conquers
a pond’s expanse

All I Have To Offer

You have brought me
your tears, seeking a wisdom
I do not possess

All I have is
the comfort found in another’s
attentive listening

That and a kettle
soon transformed to a roil,
like your thoughts

Even as you vent,
its steam rises and clouds
with heat’s escape

Once calmed, I can
only offer tea leaves brewed
and left to simmer

This consolation
passed in a cherished mug
into cupped hands

An aromatic warmth,
its bitterness tempered by
a splash of milk

Trespass

How odd it is
even now after decades
of calling
another house my home
not to simply
pull over and walk in.
After all,
I still possess a key to
its back door.
Despite a changed lock,
in dreams
its notches always fit.
A number never
forgotten, when I phone
to announce I’m
on my way a parent is
sure to answer.
The past welcomes me
with open arms
as I trespass through
the memories
its current occupants
can’t replace.

Highway

Before the last
of the leaves have turned
and dropped,
before the frost dares to
defy the heat
of a midafternoon sun,
before fall’s
harvest has been stored—
harbingers of
the season, southbound
birds overhead.

After these skies
go gray, hardened finally
into cold marble,
after a film of ice forms
and thickens to
accept the day’s weight,
after autumn
has decided to secede—
with October’s
omens realized, above,
a highway closed.

Unannounced

Your front gate is locked,
the house silent to my greeting.
Above, an autumnal
sky leaden and showering leaves.
In impending dusk,
a bevy of twittering sparrows
lift from the rooftop.
While the windows next door
are already lit with
an inviting light, yours are not.
I have walked miles in
the hopes of finding you home.
Turning away, forlorn,
seemingly doubled in length,
I retrace my steps.
My quiet destination no more
welcoming than this.

Shards

In joy’s abundance,
there is always an excuse
to embrace sadness

Eloquent silence
found in the pause before an
answered proposal

Separating wrong
from right, higher still the pile
in disputation

Despite a chorus
of likes, in every selfie,
aloneness focused

Hardened to appeal,
tonight’s moon indifferent
to a drunk’s regrets

Original sin,
this gift of a ripe apple
generously shared

Blissful Ignorance

Fresh as January’s snow,
hope infused,
promising better days,
how resolute
the New Year appears,
this infant in
diapers, capped with
a party hat,
wide awake at midnight.



Giving no thought to
the wizened and
disillusioned old man
it has replaced,
left bent with age and
crippled by time,
blissful ignorance dons
shoes in a race 

to meet up its future self.

Percussion

Clashing clouds percussive.
Rain plink plunking
upon the night’s keyboard.
Rooftops amplifying
the sound, taut as drums.
This accompanying
metronome, a bedside clock.
Futile the hope of
dreams, kept in the wings.
As the lightning
conducts thunder’s response,
seconds of waiting
fretfully foretells a crescendo.
The heavenly silence
of the universe blanketed by
this discordant score.
Tonight’s rainy soundtrack
is determined to
penetrate every leaky crack.
Despite closed eyes,
orchestrated thoughts aswirl.

Collecting The Silence

Crossing the roadway,
two deer bound indifferent to
my startled presence.
The third, at the brush’s edge,
locks its eyes on mine.
Then, with a tail’s flick, trusts
enough to follow.

The morning’s dew
has now been encapsulated
into a single drop.
In hesitation, courage gained
on a leaf’s precipice.
With the next step, its silence
becomes exclamation.

The wind’s drumbeat
ruffles a flower bed’s skirts into
thoughts of progeny.
Unheard, a stamen’s whisper
to an attentive pistil.
This dance of scattered pollen
potent in its invisibility.

Sketchbook

In dawn’s blaze of orange
close enough to lasso
morning’s moon transparent

The sweep of the river
sun-dappled in
the high heat of noon
fool’s gold
encasing a numbing cold

Air tossed by a sudden
gust of wind
from shadowy canopy
that bright slash
of crayon a cardinal

Flushed zinnia maidens
accessorized
in late afternoon sunlight
as monarchs
courtly swirl and choose

In high-rise windows
mutely curtained
muddled light candling

The Gift Of Eyes

The potatoes, unearthed,
have been carted off to the cave
of our root cellar,
sealed against a furnace’s reach.
There they nest
through winter’s long quarantine,
a few at a time
judiciously retrieved for meals.
Roasted or boiled,
served with a dollop of butter,
meant to assuage
hunger’s longing for abundance.
The generosity of
a fall’s harvest acknowledged
when in late February
survivors expectantly begin to
open their eyes.
Our careful hoarding rewarded
at spring’s border,
as ready to be pruned for seed,
another recycling begins.

Passwords

An ex-girlfriend’s birth date.
The distance to the moon and back.
Abracadabra, the key.
Guess me, spelled in Portuguese.
Death to the uninvited.
Middlemarch, a reminder that it is
still waiting to be read.
Prepare to be bored, as a tease.
In caps, undercase.
Remember this, rejected as weak.
A disconnected phone
number recalled from childhood.
The Silence of the Lambs
because it’s the movie that’s on.
That phrase that made
sense at the time, now forgotten.
Hack away, a defiant invite.

Legacy

How welcoming the house after a winter day away.

Bookmarks placed just where you left them.
Succulents, sun-infused,
exhaling oxygen on window sills.
Two chairs, each with a folded blanket
placed beside the fireplace.
A whiff of black cherries blossoming from
an uncorked Merlot.
Moonlight’s trespass an unexpected guest.
Above, as your wife dons
warmer evening attire, footsteps across
creaky floorboards
dispel the heavy weight of winter’s silence.
Even though age has left you
weathered and fragile,
resilient at ninety-five, this house is still
a reminder of persistence.
Cherished, even if a temporary residence.

Its welcoming legacy a gift meant to be passed on.

Eruption

You would think
when the buds open in spring
such an eruption
would be a cacophony or
a grand symphony
coaxed aloud when the cold’s
iron fist unfolds
in the grip of teasing sunlight
but instead
much too soft to be heard by
the human ear
stealth’s whisper is employed
its subtle melody
conducted from root through
a stem’s transport
awaiting the pronouncement
of wafted scents
their profusion’s crescendo
finally orchestrated

Assembling Stitch

When thoughts
tire from exhaustion
they slip into
mute contemplation
beside the fire

Freed from
the fabric of nagging
concerns wool
gathering is their only
occupation now

Tucked behind
eyes growing sticky
balled into yarn
they await a dream’s
assembling stitch

Art Of Hip Hop

Armed with chalk
and a canvas the length
of their sidewalk,
the eight year old takes
creative control to
paint boxed footsteps
from one to ten.

Aim and balance
go hand-in-hand when
perfectly placed,
a stone’s advancement
requires a similar
hop of one leg or both
into the bullseye.

Determined, four
children hopscotch up
and back again,
storks all or perhaps
wobbly sailors,
with arms extended
into open wings.

The ghost of
childhood competitions
awoken, a few
uncles also flap forward,
each intent on
mastering the forgotten
art of hip hop.

Childhood Lessons

Your parents warned of
the stone within the cherry
but did not mention
beneath its bright temptation
taste buds’ tart discovery

There in the kitchen
candy sitting in a bowl
and sweet to the eye
the bite of cranberries teach
a bitter lesson spit out

Who would ever think
despite the absence of bees
a rose bush’s pink
invitation could sting and
draw blood if fingers inspect

Bedtime Story

In a pink tutu
bucking the current
the salmon
leaps off the page
to swim
in the sleepy calm
of her eyes

In formal attire
as it backstrokes
the penguin
kicks a beach ball
over the fold
where breath held
she hurries me

In a pristine
ermine overcoat
the polar bear
ambles towards
“The End” as
beyond the print
she follows

The Bleachers

In the Bloomer High gym
the bleachers have been pulled out.
Parents and relatives are
filling the place, the majority being
of German descent,
with Swedes and Norwegians too,
and still proudly wearing
their difficult to spell last names,
a few Poles mixed in.
Not that you can tell them apart
when seen from afar.
Shrugging off heavy winter coats,
breathless from the climb
up to their chosen row and seat,
they look worn out after
a long work week, but still game.
Some congregants have
already imbibed at a local tavern,
and the farm families,
even after showering, still carry
a whiff of livestock.
Wives instantly begin to chatter
with each other, content
in knowing that their husbands
are men of few words,
and most of those monosyllabic.
It is hard to believe
that the lanky, athletically gifted
sons down on the court
can claim any of them as parents.
But rising for the anthem,
a melting pot united, this crowd
tonight cheers as one.

Ceramic Bowl

Craving is like
a fine ceramic bowl,
delicate and
exquisitely painted,
easily chipped
if used carelessly
at every meal.

Best brought
out from the mind’s
cupboard for
special occasions,
cradled by
hands when carried
to the table.

If mishandled
and burdened with
daily wear,
asked to hold too
much, its
transparent beauty
finally cracks.

If On Winter’s Night

On this frosty night,
had it not been for the moon’s
beckoning allure,
would my welcoming fireplace
be as snug if never left

At first glance, a beast
that’s left no tracks in the snow,
but no, with the clouds’
parting, wearing a fresh shawl,
it’s our Buddha in repose

A loud crack disturbs
sleep, mistaken for gunfire,
in the stillness that
follows, I wait for sirens’
response to ice hardening

A Widow’s Lament

How deep my roots go
holding me upright against
the battering winds
of change, in a landscape no
longer recognizable

The loneliness of
old age was presumed, but not
that outside my door,
so near, life’s cacophony
would be an unwelcome guest

Unbidden, tears no
longer require the prompting
of regret or joy—
a dam finally pin pricked,
an epoch’s well-spring released

Already Home (Tanka)

All those wasted years
I misspent in the pursuit
of some place other
than here, never aware that
my heart was already home

Moon Tea

Grandma spoke
with reverence of her secret recipe
for moon tea.
When asked how it was prepared
we were told,
after steeping awhile in a busy life,
improvisation of
the routine would perfect the brew.
And sure enough,
I now know why she was the first
of us to awaken.
With or without the moon present,
awaiting the sky
to lighten and displace the quiet,
experience has
taught me appreciate every sip.
Before the clock
is made aware of the demands
of responsibility,
other than hot water and leaves,
this stained cup
requires no special ingredients.
Like her, it is
the timelessness of the moment
I am savoring.

Frosted Panes

Knowing the darkness
will outlast sleep’s persistence,
our bedroom blinds
are rarely drawn, encouraging
the soft trespass
of starlight on a winter’s night.

If by chance we
are awakened by a false dawn,
the reward in this
dark season is another guest,
an unveiled moon
carving shadows on the snow.

Accompanied by
an entire galaxy, employing it
like a torch, with
careless abandon we follow
a dream’s footprints,
framed by these frosted panes.

Church Service

Beneath stained glass
patchwork light chalked at
the end of the pew

An earnest sermon
with thoughts led astray by
a grumbling stomach

In their Sunday best
mothers and haloed saints
enforce strict attention

Smoldering incense
within a thurible dispelling
the redolence of mold

Hymns translated
from ancient dialects old
as the Devil himself

Promising never again
repeat transgressors seek
forgiveness in prayer

Crickets, Geese And Flowers

Their resurrection
a consolation for summer’s
final month,
despite the harsh reality of
lengthening nights,
the crickets’ belief in eternity.

Even in a world
where promises are made
to be broken,
an October pledge assured,
departing geese
memorizing the way back.

The melancholy of
a winter day overwhelmed
by the scent
from your gifted bouquet,
this filled vase
a garden almost forgotten.

Thunderhead

To the west, a thunderhead
darkens noon.
Morning’s last stray cloud,
pursued, hurries
ahead, gray as an empty
wasps’ nest.
A redwing blackbird, alert
on sentry duty,
issues an alarm call from
atop a cattail.
Even before the first flicker
of lightning,
smoldering in anticipation,
a spark kindled.
The humid haze, thick as
Jericho’s walls,
now turning translucent
ahead of impact.
In the baleful calm before,
petrichor blossoms
like a heralding trumpet,
as the wind
tightens into a folded fist.

A Blanket On The Grass

Lacking air conditioning,
and sleepless in a house’s boxed heat,
Mother’s blanket became
our magic carpet ride on those humid
nights before TV.
Spread on the lawn, tattered and rough,
it provided theater seating.
Entertainment was guaranteed, even if
the moon was late and
a cooling breeze merely a possibility.
As stars assembled into
the shape of ancient legends and bats
began to dart above,
despite the bombarding mosquitoes,
an expanding universe
held us spellbound until it narrowed.
Which parent carried
whom off to bed, memory doesn’t tell.
But decades on, how drab
summer’s muggy nights have become.
Cooled by the AC,
with only a computer’s window open,
galaxies orbit unnoticed.

Bottomless Hat

In spring, who can blame
us for again
being taken in by March’s
sleight of hand.
A rapt audience, we are
captivated by
this charming magician
in possession
of a bottomless top hat.
Used as a wand,
the southerly breeze is
now waved to
introduce fresh wonders.
Scents compete
and elbow others aside.
Again unbound,
flowing water percolates.
Bare ground is
revealed with the sweep
of its cape.
But ever the trickster,
with a wink,
to our incredulity, more
snow is conjured
in March’s grand finale.

A Mother’s First Born

When presented to you
two months early, your heart
became a magnet,
drawn to a preemie’s steely
determination to
continue such an intimacy.
Even if I was fragile
as a tea cup, your embrace
knew just what to do.
I had never seen your face,
but having shared
my first kick with you, there
was no need for
introduction to a voice and
scent so familiar.
Answering my hungry cry,
new to both of us,
the name I pronounced was
now yours for life.

Fermented Fruit

This patio seat
might as well be a bar stool.
Now that Autumn’s
proclaimed it’s Happy Hour,
birds squabble
and try to edge others aside.
Although sour to
the taste, what’s on offer is
a top shelf brew.
Tossing another berry back,
there’s no risk
of being ticketed for flying
home drunk
or shame here at last call.
Having fallen off
this perch more than once,
even if sober now,
Eden’s fermented fruit has
tempted me too.

The Sense Of Memory

Birds and children at play––
a soundtrack
accompanying the breeze’s
gentle caress.
Nose tasked with cataloging
summer’s inventory.
The remaining strawberry
within reach.
All four senses fully engaged.

Perhaps recall is the fifth––
go on, embed
and cache these sensations,
like a squirrel
hoarding nuts for winter.
Even if February
later scoffs at the possibility,
memory will be
a lifeline tethered to spring.

Night Shift

Ready to call it quits,
taking a load off tired feet,
waitresses count tips.
Slipping into something more
comfortably dowdy,
exotic dancers again revert to
sisters and mothers.
Truckers on an all night haul
finally give in to
the temptation of a rest stop.
Checking the clock
like a pulse, a bored nurse
wonders if it has
forgotten the way to dawn.
Seeing them out,
a smiling doorman resents
the rock ’n’ roll band
while envying the limousine
they rode up in.
A blonde bombshell with
makeup removed and
breath smelling of alcohol
clicks the remote
there in her big bed alone.
The night shift over,
it is time for the rest of us
to rise and shine.

Paradoxes

The rest having dropped out,
admitting defeat,
how lonely first place seems,
as growing
tinier off in the distance,
you disappear.

Enamored by
the yearning found in
love’s pursuit,
once the hunt is over,
how strange it
is to realize you miss
the chase.

With every
success, still your work
is not complete––
that finish line is only
a beginning,
on the next page a fresh
crossword waits.

Remembering Andy

He requested that
the invited guests make
a party of it,
the men told to wear
Hawaiian shirts,
women to be garlanded
with leis,
promising an open bar.

The invitation
featured a photograph
of five laughing
clowns squeezed into
a compact car,
and rumor had it that
he’d be costumed
with a painted on smile.

A closed coffin
kept it an open question,
but the soundtrack
provided ushered us down
memory lane
on that cold winter night,
as with a wink
he shared his final joke.

Harsh Truths

Alas, more bad news,
the pill for all your ills is
still on back order

In a changing room’s
mirror, the selfie produced
is labeled snap-shock

Snug beneath your sheets,
comforting the sound of rain
as outside, worms drown

Gulping the dregs, your
fortune told in coffee grounds
too scary to read

Time sprinting ahead,
jogging behind you admire
its lovely backside

Moon, Spring, And Starlight

How ancient the moon
once seemed in my youth.
But there it persists,
seemingly not a day older.
Humbled in the race,
I wish I could say the same.

Spring, early or late,
remains fresh on the vine.
On constant repeat,
it seems no worse for wear.
Attending to routines,
with time’s weight, I ache.

Tonight, the sky
bears witness to dead suns.
Their light, cast so
long ago steers me off to bed.
Comforted, tomorrow
seems an achievable shore.

Mother’s Day

What was presented:
The minty aroma of ground ivy
coating extended fingertips.
Grass stained knees that
will later require scrubbing.
Morning dew encapsulated
in footprints across the floor.
A smile bright with delight.
Capped with a flower on top,
forgotten the leggy weeds
driving them towards the sun.
A gift worthy of the Magi.
His nose yellow from them,
and yours too after
a face is buried in perfume.
Barely outlasting the day,
this bouquet of dandelions
displayed in a mason jar.