Saturday, December 7, 2013

Superman, Where Are You?




It might have been a gray storage room
in a black and white warehouse or an elevator or closet in
an unknown location where Jimmy Olsen or Jonny Quest or some
unlikely hero found themselves unsuspectingly sprawled out on the floor,
woke up, stood up, pulled on the locked door handle, pushed the buttons,
yelled for someone to let them out, then felt the walls closing in,
the ceiling lowering, the floor escaping below their feet,
the thickening of air, the tightening and urgency
of the moment as the certainty of their
demise squeezed them, despite
pushing back, arms and legs
 taut to stop their flesh
from feeling the
reality of being
 the olive in
 the press,
 turn by
 turn


But he was no superhero,
with the line quickly forming behind him,
after the cashier bellows, “Price Check, Aisle Seven,” and the
serpentine column of glares mordaciously piercing right through him.
So he begged the clerk, “Could you open another line?” Confessing, “I have
this social anxiety thing and need to check out now, please.”
Scarlet drips dark down his face to legs screaming inside
to exit the walls of a retail coffin,
reverse the press’s turn,
let the bounty rot,
one step right,
heroically,
to shop
another
 day.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Fallen Season

Winter wind reflection
wondering when he will visit
grave sites, place stones, say Kaddish
the rituals of an elder son
still mourning, each morning, alone

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Where Living Begins

The imperfect moments are where living begins

Hearing white in "We're letting you go" or worse
"It's me, not you" and the thinness of your first rejection letter
a pet or child rushed to an emergency room
feeling the warmth leave your parent's hand
the closing of a cold cell door

You learn to run through them
like the time you ran through the clacking
of willow branches blowing in a harsh wind

It's how you get from a to b
One step at a time

With a shoelace undone

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Autumn

Autumn


There are days when the leaves are
a perfect shade of liquid gold or
a redhead you used to make blush

When a city fountain dances in the
Autumnal light of night, whispering, whispering, whispering

When the deal goes better than expected
when the chicken diablo needs a celebration
when that song plays, you know, that one

When times cries out that it should be shared,
that it must be shared

Those are the minutes you miss her,
when a held hand makes you whole

Like a first grandson, like sleeping in spoons,
like saying softly, good night

And hearing a voice say back,
you're a good man





Friday, September 13, 2013

Baby With the Bathwater


























What happens when the sky shines only black
and clothing feels like the wearing of a leaden robe

When the call for help goes to voicemail
and that unspoken name and number are rote

Where every step forward freezes into concrete
and the past and present see no future

How favorite foods are cooked and grow mold
like days that pass one by one by one

This is how it feels, how it wears down,
how life transcends to tears that pool in caves.

And so it hides in the hands of a clock that ticks
waiting for its movement to cease from rust

Or it can’t wait, so beats the inner drum,
so scarred, scared and sacred is time

The pen is picked up to write on paper burning
with words shared for someone else to feel the pain

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Whitecap Morning

whitecap morning~calling out like cream for strong coffee~and you,wrapped in a Hudson Bay point blanket~a rainbow of last night's lake dream

for dVersePoets,Samuel Peralta hosting, a twitter prompt.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

The Work of Being on Holiday




I let the rain be an excuse
to watch young deer nibble
on garden flower heads,
smiling at black squirrels
hugging a pair of bird feeders
as yellow finches stared impatiently

I skipped from under umbrella elms,
seeing tea steep at memories
read pages that lay randomly
and painted words from inside

It was fun fending off being a weekender,
sailing hellos to passing locals
shrugging off their creases of why
because I can I do and I did

Caring not about it all, them all, at all,
I turn down and keep the switch off
make not the effort of blowing feathers
at being imperfection's perfect being.

The Work of Being on Holiday





I let the rain be an excuse
to watch young deer nibble
on garden flower heads,
smiling at black squirrels
hugging a pair of bird feeders
as yellow finches stared impatiently

I skipped from under umbrella elms,
seeing tea steep at memories
read pages that lay randomly
and painted words from inside

It was fun fending off being a weekender,
sailing hellos to passing locals
shrugging off their creases of why
because I can I do and I did

Caring not about it all, them all, at all,
I turn down and keep the switch off
make not the effort of blowing feathers
at being's imperfections perfectly being.