Category: Free Verse Poetry

A Day in the Life of a Chipmunk

through the garden she scurried
with overstuffed cheeks, about to explode
she darts without warning into the burrow
next to the tan boulder, midway between
the snapdragons and the delphiniums

her first litter, now grown
and oh yes we saw them
those brown pelted beauties
now likely a second on the way

then, just as late morning sun paints
ivory white streaks on sleeping flowers
mom chipmunk reappears
this time perched atop the boulder
her lookout to the world

a leisurely full-body stretch and
hasty scratch behind the ears
and again she’s off for a refill
from under the feeders at the forest’s edge

Kissing Away the Bark from Your Lips

Why does your voice bark anger at the world
while sitting in golden morning sunlight?
What atrocities have your eyes witnessed,
haunting your soul,
causing your every utterance to cloud the sun,
foment the peace lingering in the air, and
rape fledgling flowers of their innocence?

If I could take it all away, I would,
leaving just the hushing waves washing over you,
carrying your hurt and anger far out to sea.
If I could, I’d kiss away the bark from your lips,
leaving only a sweet trusting smile lasting a lifetime.

Freedom

freedom, is not:
   having the world at will
   being whatever you like
   having everything you want
   going wherever you desire
   sleeping in, while everyone else in working
   staying up as long as you like
   having nothing left to lose
   what your willing to fight and die for
   absence of constraint and determination
   even a completely blank slate to write on
finally, freedom is not your state of being
if you have to think about it

Venus on a Clear April Eve

Brilliant beacon Venus glowing bright,
as the shiny gold coin she is.

Wedded perfectly to the sun,
never straying from his side,
and together they waltz
across the April night sky.

With ever-adoring eyes
gazing down on earth,
who, like some blue-green cat’s eye,
returns her stare.

More bright than the brightest star,
casting her mesmerizing light for all to see,
like some astroid-showering soul off to Heaven.

A wandering star to many she seems.
Those knowing her best will attest
her enigmatic family ties.

And helpless am I,
where in her midst I stray.
For in her shadow
my heart hangs deep.
Dangling there for eternity.

Facing Our Anonymity (Revised)

Not wanting to be known to others,
sometimes we choose to be anonymous.
Stripped of our identity by others,
we’re rendered at times anonymous.
At times , life’s pressures are too great
we can’t bear identify with the pain
life creates within us, and
we slip into anonymity.
Sometimes we remain behind our masks-
they are all we know
we cannot escape them.
Then there are times, when
without provocation,
we wake up one morning,
no longer liking who or what we are,
and enter the world nameless and faceless.

What We Search For Is Inside Us

Until we realize
we are trapped inside ourselves
with no way out,
we are not free
to be who we truly are.

Everything is inside us; that is
everything we experience.
There is no way
to be with things on the outside,
only to bring them inside, then
they become a part of us.

Even when we think
we have found a way out,
it is just another way in.

No cause for panic, though
our perspective changes
profoundly
when we make this realization.
Not just our perspective of one thing,
but of all things changes.

Desperate as we may feel,
we shouldn’t struggle
to get outside ourselves.
What else have we?

The web of consciousness
is all we have;
woven together
moment by moment,
thread by thread.
It connects us: you and me.
Nothing happens, or appears to happen,
unless it passes through this web.
And then we know it.

And what of God?
Inside us as well.
Not separate.
We can only know
what is inside us, and
therefore our only hope
of knowing God
is through the windows of our souls.

To see ourselves and God,
our soul windows must be clean and clear.
Today seems a good cleaning day.
Don’t you think?

Fourth of July

Now it seems
after the Fourth of July
the summer scoots by so much faster,
making us almost wish the Fourth away.
But as a young boy,
July 4th was long and eagerly awaited,
and then summers lasted an eternity.
Always then,
up before the hazy sunrise.
Boundless energy
exploding in all directions.
Rapid-fire machine gun firecrackers
breaking the morning’s silence.
Sweltering heat at noon
as we guzzled gallons of cool-aid.
Pick-up baseball games,
badminton matches, and horseshoe contests
throughout the inexhaustible day
that went on and on.
Dips in and out of the pool
and even a run through the sprinkler.
Favorite aunts hugging you
and begging you to tell
about your secret girlfriend.
How did they know?
Maybe because they were
secret girlfriends at one time.
Picnic plates filled with things we still love
but won’t allow ourselves to eat today.
Barbecue smoke wafting across backyards,
whetting our insatiable appetites.
Uncles, tipsy from much beer, telling bawdy jokes
kids shouldn’t hear, but always they did.
Excited laughter
giggling through life’s usual humdrum.
Magical fireflies twinkling yellow
in the alluring darkness,
prompting our chase
long after bedtime.
Skies graced with exploding rainbows
and mesmerizing color extravaganzas.
And best of all: Sweet dreams
and painless happiness everywhere.

For Sale By Owner (Revised)

The house down the street is for sale–
the house with the family we hardly know.
We’ve never really connected with them.
Maybe everybody is just too busy.

It’s embarassing-
this family is still a mystery to us after three years.
There’s an awkwardness when you go so long
without connecting with folks you see everyday,
but don’t really know.

They stay to themselves, and we do too,
and so does everyone else in the neighborhood.
The detached faceless society is not what I want, but
it seems a way of life for many of us today.
What can we do about it?
Walk up and give a stranger a hug? Maybe.

We gave the family a bouquet of flowers
when they first moved in,
hoping they’d feel welcome.
The mother waves and smiles sometimes
when we drive by, and we wave and smile back.
Other times, she looks the other way,
and so do we.
The father never looks our way.
Not sure why, but
he always finds something else more interesting:
his shoes, the dog, or his cigarette,
which glows orange in the dark
when he smokes outside at night.

The kids are teenagers, seemingly preoccupied
with their boyfriends and girlfriends.
Nice-looking kids.
They pull in and out of the driveway a hundred times a day,
which is typical for hormoned teens.
I have a hunch that the girl graduated high school this year.
I wonder if she’s going to college.

It’s strange, but there seems to be a point,
beyond which it is too late to get to know people.
Three years is that point in this case.
We don’t know why the family is moving.
We hope it’s for a good reason, and not
because something terrible has happened.

The family’s large fluffy white dog used to love
to stroll up and down the street.
The brooding father used to bellow at the dog
when it wandered too far.
The family never walks the dog,
which seems a little odd to us.
Haven’t seen much of the dog lately.
Maybe he gave up on the neighborhood too.
I wonder if he knows his family is moving.

I stopped last night
and took one of the marketing brochures
from the tube under the For Sale by Owner sign.
The big house is very pleasant-looking inside and out.
Lots of rooms for just four people.
Perhaps that’s why they’re moving.
Asking price for the house: $585,000.00.
Does that include the benefit of living
in a neighborhood without a sense of community?

Eye Contact with a Man Who Will Burn in Hell

Not many people strike me instantly
as being truly evil, but you did.
I saw your sneering face look at mine
as our cars drew close to each other
in the grocery store parking lot.
I saw true evil in your eyes,
and felt your cold in my heart.
I didn’t accept it,
but I felt it just for a second.
I’ve known others like you.
You’re all the same.
Scott Peck wrote about you
in his book People of the Lie,
which tells how evil people
project their evils and sins onto others,
and then see it as their job
to exterminate these evils and sins
in their victims.
Death rows everywhere are filled
with people just like you.
You won’t say it, but I know
you’ve made a pact with the devil.
It shows in your eyes.
You see your role in life
as intimidating other human beings–
making them feel afraid, just so
you won’t feel afraid,
because deep down you know
you can never get out of the deal
you made with the devil.
I was even more convinced
of your evil nature when
you stopped to glare at another man
pulling into the lot, as you left.
Your car and his stopped
just one moment longer
than they should have.
Just long enough for you
to shoot him the evil eye.
Then as you drove away,
you extended your arm
out your car window
and gave the finger.
I know you think
your extended middle finger
is your protection.
Yes, your protection from
another man’s evil eye.
You digust me, even now,
hours after our encounter.
And I pity you, yet
you won’t have your way with me,
because I know about your pact,
and I know you will pay dearly
once your time comes to go.
And when that time comes,
your middle finger won’t ward off
the purging fires of hell
delighting at the sight
of evil eyes and middle fingers.

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The Ancient Tree Drummer

I hear him.
Making holes again.
Hollow places in dead trees.
He’s very old, you know.
Prehistoric!
Pterodactyl-like, I think.
With his red crest
bobbing up and down,
he seems so very proud.
Downright cocky, I’d say.
His drilling stops.
Oh, I hear him again!
Those odd cuk wucka sounds he makes.
His mate makes him wait.
I know he’s listening for her.
Finally she returns his call.
His work resumes.
Strange fellow–
that pileated woodpecker.
Feasting on ants and beetles
deep in the old forest,
where there’s plenty of dead wood.
The hollow tree is his drum, you know,
He’s playing a driving beat.
Latin rock, I think.
He’s ancient, you know.
I hope I see him.

First published in Stilling the Waters (2005).

The Night Grandma Died

Three wonderful years
Grandma lived with us
when I was in high school
in St. Clairsville.

She died one cold January night,
which I will always remember
as a night that took our breath away.
The night that made me realize
that life is so precious to us
because we have only so much of it.

In the back bedroom,
that used to be my room,
she cheerfully lived with us.
Never a bother.
Always a joy.
Always willing to help
as best her arthritic hands could.

She died in my bed–
the bed I slept in
for two-thirds of my childhood life.
The bed that stayed warm
even long after she had departed.
A warmth that assured me
our love for each other
would never die.

She cried out just once
before her last breath, and then
the house grew stone silent,
as we sat around her bed,
without words,
waiting for the ambulance
to take her small empty body away.

She was gone
and we knew it,
but still we needed to hear
someone else say the words:
she’s gone.

So much was unsaid
as they caringly took her body away.
I had questions,
but they wouldn’t bring her back.
So why ask them?

I wanted to cry
but wasn’t ready to
the night she died.
The next day,
as I touched her worn Bible
on the bedstand
she brought with her from her house,
the tears came.

I remembered her petunias,
that overflowed the green flower boxes
on her front and side porches.
And I remembered how
she never locked her doors
because she said
nobody could ever take away
what God has put in my heart.

I decided then that my life,
like my grandmother’s,
must be a blessing to others.
I knew then
that anything done in life with heart
makes a difference.
I knew then
that one of my jobs in life must be
to carry on my grandmother’s undying love.

Reflections on Boston (Yet Another Revision)

Boston: graceful, bawdy, high-brow,
creative, impetuous, thoughtful, raucous,
and always liberatingly liberal.
Forever spinning connective threads
between the extremes strung
across the past, present, and future.

Yet there’s something more.
Beyond our words.
Ever presently illusive,
like the single milli-moment separating day and night.
Out of reach, yet not out of touch.
Embodied in all you find there,
like some archetypal signature
written on the bottom of everything.

More than its uncommon Commons
and its so very public Public Gardens.
More than its stately Charles River,
snaking through and uniting the city’s many parts,
attracting throngs of people and sailboats
seeking flow and change in their lives.

Notable history, for sure, but more.
Almost too many stories told from scripted lips.
Lips prone to remind us of what was,
when all long we want to know what is
and what will be.

Ornate, inspiring, yet mysterious architecture
rising like passionate delphiniums and orchids
into the endless blue June sky.
Some also reminding us of weathered gravestones,
jutting up from old cemeteries
littered with skeletons
still hanging in Boston’s closet.

More than the Red Sox’ Fenway Park
and the onerous Green Monster, denying
even the best hitters their coveted four-baggers.
More than its historic Tea Party, and
the rebellious old white guys powdering their wigs
for the taxing event.

Even more than Harvard, MIT, Wellesley,
Brandeis, Tufts, and Boston College,
where young minds bend and stretch
in endowed dark classrooms, and all the while
alumni associations claim more victims.

Beyond the 600,000 people
living within the city’s limits, and
the four million plus living
in the larger surrounding region.
Even beyond the millions
visiting each year to smarten up, eat fresh lobster,
hear the Pops, or brush up on American history.

All point to, but alone fail to capture,
that illusive spirit, blowing
like a constant untamed wind through the city,
breathing life into Boston
and all whom it touches.

So what would Medieval England’s St. Botolph,
whose name is carried on by Boston,
say about how to know this great city’s essence?
Likely he would say the same of Boston
as he did of the Lord Almighty:
Let your heart fill with Boston, and then,
and only then, you will know her.
And I would say that
the Curse of the Bambino has ended,
and it’s time for new beginnings.

disappearing garter snakes in the garden

two newborn garter snakes slither
like placeless rivers in concert
through the dancing delphiniums

they find their way–
God only knows how and to where–
through the foreboding snapdragons
   then
disappear into thin air
an alien abduction    maybe
but gone in any case

the rest of the day
   while not over
seems to limp    in the direction
of where the tiny snakes
exited the universe

Reflecting on Boston’s Essence (Revised)

Boston puts so many wonderful things together,
creating a unique, enticing, and hypnotizing city,
bridging past, present, and future.
Yet there is something more to Boston.
Something larger than even our best words can describe.
It’s easy to say Boston is one of America’s greatest cities.
But even these flattering words fail to capture Boston.
Boston is more than its uncommon Commons,
as beautiful and accessible as they are.
It is more than the crisp Charles River,
snaking its way through the city,
attracting throngs of people and sailboats
in the spring and summer months.
Boston is more than its notable history,
and the spirited role it played
in the American Revolution.
It is more than its many elegant
old and new downtown buildings,
scraping the sky with the tops of their heads.
Boston is more than Fenway Park and its Green Monster
and the feisty Red Sox who play there.
The city is more than its Tea Party
and all the guys powdering their wigs
to attend the taxing event.
Boston is more than Harvard, MIT,
Wellesley, Tufts, Boston College, Brandeis
and several other fine institutions of higher learning
that grace the city and its surrounding area.
Boston is more than the 600,000 people
who live within the city’s limits,
and the four million plus people
who live in the larger surrounding region.
All these things point to Boston,
but fail to capture the illusive underlying spirit
found in each of these pieces and parts.
Were he alive today,
it would be interesting to hear what St. Botolph,
the 7th century pious monk from Medieval England,
whose name is perpetuated in the name Boston,
which literally means Botulph’s town,
would say about the essence of Boston.
Perhaps he would say the same of Boston
as he did of the Lord Almighty: The only way to know Boston
is to experience her in our hearts.
Having just spent five days in Boston,
I would completely agree with this wise saint.
And contrary to what many people believe,
this fine city, so full of spirit,
does not live in the shadows of New York,
which the Babe left Boston for in 1920.
In fact, I have it on good authority that
the Curse of the Bambino is officially over.

Sculpting Life Rivers

Like the sculptor
chiseling a work of art
from raw stone,
we craft our lives
moment by moment
in whatever time we have.

Unlike a sculpted work of art,
our lives are not cast in stone,
rather they morph
in all directions
with each breath we take.

But if we are not careful,
we lose our ability to change
and rigidify like the immobile mountain
when we should flow like a rushing river.

As rivers,
we constantly renew ourselves
and feed others.
Be the river sculpted over time.
Be the river feeding
all it touches with life.

Secrets Hiding in the Shadows of the Waxing Gibbous Moon

It is the small secrets
that grow overwhelming large
in invisible shadows cast
by the waxing gibbous moon
that become your life,
forever changing who you are.
It is the large things
giving birth to the shadows
that flush you out to deep sea
where you must tread water long enough
until the right wave can carry you back
in the direction of your dreams.

Celebrating Seventeen Years Together with the Robins in Boston Commons

As the sun scoots westward,
leaving orange and salmon streaks
across the Boston sky,
plump robins continue pecking
for last unsuspecting worms
in the cool, just watered, grass.
And as day hands the baton to night,
hand in hand we stroll
out the Boston Commons gate,
and head back to the hotel
where hot fudge sundaes,
topped with whipped cream and cherries await us,
capping the perfect 17th anniversary celebration.

Looking Back on Longfellow Bridge

Crossing the Longfellow Bridge into Cambridge
The sweet scent of brainpower all about
Harvard, MIT, and so much more
Makes me wonder how my life
might have been different had I risked
the Anthropology program at Harvard in 1974
Had I said yes to a dream carrying me
to remote corners of the world
Had I taken flight to distant planets
without names
All making me wonder
what persona I would be wearing
thirty-three years later
Asking the spirit of Longfellow I hear:
“All things must change to something new,
to something strange”
Indeed they do Henry, indeed they do

Beyond You and Me

Every time I open my eyes
I see a you and me.
Even when I close my eyes
you and I continue to exist,
because these eyes and this mind
are conditioned to separate
what really exists as one.
The you that I see
is everything that I’m not.
The me that I see
is always a familar stranger
catching himself looking
into the cosmic mirror of life.
The me that you see
is the me that
you think I am
and the me that
I reflect from the mirror.
If we crawl much deeper
into this cosmic space,
all lines between us give way
to something singular
that exceeds whatever
you or I represent
separately or together.
In this space
you and I cease to exist.
For in this space,
nothing exists–
no you or me–
separate from anything else.
And in this space
you and I surrender
all form and conditioning.
And there we rest us one.

Note: This poem embodies the concept
of nonduality, which is a literal translation
of the Sanskrit term advaita. That is,
things remain distinct while not being separate.
Want to learn more, click here.

A Metaphysical Dissertation on Being Who You Are

If nothing else,
don’t doubt yourself.
If nothing else,
don’t discount the wisdom
planted deep inside you
from the very moment
of your birth.
If nothing else,
don’t be afraid
to be yourself
in all your glory.
If nothing else,
don’t for a moment
waste your life wishing
you were something
or someone else.
Should you decide
you want to be
something more,
start first
by being who you are.
Chances are
you will find
no need to be anything
more than you already are.

Suggestion: Read this one speedily and it will hit you where it matters.
Pretend you are a machine gun reading this poem.
Click here to hear me read this poem.
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13322623/view]

Keys

Yesterday
three new keys
were made.
Spare keys
but new keys.
Keys brought into being
by conscious action.
Identical keys
opening the same doors
I’ve always opened
but now
with new keys.
Each opening doors
to the world
where I live now.
Then another key
different than the others
shows up in the mail
without my asking.
A world map
showing new worlds
tumbles unexpectedly
from an envelope.
All keys pointing
to coming changes.
The first three
urge me to look
for new ways
to open doors
in the world
where I already live.
The last key points
to a larger world
to be opened
with new keys
soon to be made.

Click here to hear me read this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13319133/view]

Three Short Poems

#1
Mediocre.
Average.
Run of the mill.
That’s what we become
when we try to be
something we’re not.
To excel, be who you are.

#2
Status quo.
Breaking even.
Par for the course.
That’s what happens
when we fail
to take risks in our lives.
Blaze a new trail to find happiness.

#3
Sour grapes.
Missed shots in life.
Looking back,
hoping for something different.
The past doesn’t change.
Give the future our best shot.
That’s all we have.

Older Men and Younger Women

A friend sought my counsel just today
about what younger women think
about older men.
He was insistent; even emphatic,
that I share my thoughts,
and I reluctantly did.

I told him he shouldn’t be stupid, and think
that the years made no difference.
After all, a man in his mid-fifties
and a woman in her late twenties
is like comparing a 1980 Datsun 240Z
to a 2007 Porsche 911 Turbo Coupe.
He reminded me that the Z model held its own
for over thirty years, and
I conceded he had a point there, but
I asked him how old
he would be in 30 years,
and how old a 27-year old woman
would be 30 years from now.
The smile slipped, like a loose glove,
off my friend’s distinguished, but tired face.

My friend sighed and shook his head,
like a boxer taking a hard punch to the gut.
I didn’t mean to be cruel, but
I didn’t want my friend to be hurt.
Recovering more quickly
than I would have ever guessed,
he threw one back at me:
It doesn’t matter to me
if it lasts only a year, a month,
or even one amazing steamy hot night.
Just as long as our bodies are glued together
in seamless embrace,
swimming in each other’s wetness.

I tried to duck, but
his last punch lifted me off my feet
and onto the hard floor.
Trying my best,
I couldn’t get back up.

click here to hear me read this poem.

Clouds Amaze Me

Clouds amaze me
how easily they make friends
with other clouds, but
always maintain their independence, and
how they put themselves
at the mercy of the wind, that
keeps them from becoming
too set in their ways like mountains.

Clouds amaze me
how they drift in wisps and billows, and
how they dress up as scowling old men
with stately white beards, or
naughty elephants standing on hind legs, or
even battered pirate ships
on a tumultuous sea.

Clouds amaze me
how they seduce my imagination, and
how they make me want to dance, and
how they make me want to be
something other than I am,
if only long enough
to know what it’s like
to be someone or something else.

Clouds amaze me
because they can be whatever
they want to be, and
finally just like good poems, they
leave the right parts of the story untold.

To hear this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13266293/view]

Fountain of Youth.

Being around young people
awakens your child within–
that original seed born
and giving rise to all that follows
in your life.
Exposure to youthful yearnings
and unanalyzed ideas
lifts the veil off the overjudged,
seriously questioned,
and programmed face you wear
when you grow older.
Something inside you changes
when a young spirit touches you,
releasing the kid within
who wants so desparately
to experience things afresh
and without known boundaries.
It’s not the water you drink
that keeps you young.
It’s allowing young spirits to touch
that part of you that never grows old.

To hear this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13260003/view]

Life is No Deal

We cut deals in life, thinking
that is what life is all about, and
our life amounts to the deals we cut.
We cut deals in life, hoping
the deals we cut help us win, and
somehow give us more
than we already have.
We cut deals in life, believing
we can trade what we have
for what we want, and at times,
we try to trade one thing we don’t have
for yet another thing we don’t have.
We cut deals in life, believing
the world is against us, and
that we must play our hand carefully, or
otherwise we end up losing.
Life is no deal to be cut, rather
it is a gift to be appreciated, and
simply lived in truth and love.

To hear this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13231123/view]

On Being Who We Are

I could be lots of things in life,
including things that I’m not.
So could you.
We have a choice between
being who we are
and being who we’re not.

I’m not trying to poke you in the eye
with truth or anything so resembling,
and you should know that
I’m not above mistakes,
and yes at times,
I am guilty of serious misdirection.
So please don’t put me on a pedestal,
or any other place up high,
but do consider,
just for one moment,
the possibility that light can emerge
in any of us
during our darkest hour,
and make us shine forth.

It troubles me,
and probably you too,
that somehow some of us think at times
that some of us somehow are entitled to more,
or something special,
that the rest of us cannot receive.
That’s nonsense!
In fact, it’s the farthest thing from the truth.

So next time you think of distant galaxies–
places your imagination can hardly reach,
consider the possibility that each of us
in our own special way
can find happiness, truth, and
most importantly liberation
from all that obsesses us
and drives us completely mad.

So I could be lots of things in life,
and so could you, but
the real question is:
Can we just be ourselves
and find happiness in that?

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Why Do I Write Poetry?

Just the other day
someone asked why I write poetry.
The question set me thinking;
more like rummaging around
for an honest answer,
but also one I liked.
All the usual suspects turned up:
  I love poetry
  I write it because I can
  My Dad turned me on to poetry
  Poetry makes me feel good
  I can speak in a poetic voice.

Then I realized I write poetry
because it is part of the story
I tell myself and others
about what my life is all about.

What stories do you tell yourself and others
about what your life is all about?

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Where I Live

I live in a different place.
Not a place you couldn’t find,
but a place that’s vastly different
than I had ever imagined
I would be living.

I live in a different place.
A place where I can still
put my feet on the ground,
but not a place where
you can stick your head in the sand
and expect to hide.

I live in a place
that keeps moving east to west
like the sun,
and a place coming to rest,
like a flying saucer landing on Earth.
And a place I can be alone
but together with the world
and all that it seems.

But all the while,
there is yet another place,
where the sunsets linger
and the sunrises glide
like Olympic skaters on ice.
This place is where we live together,
if only long enough
to see a single shooting star.

Yes, I live in a different place.
But that doesn’t mean
I can’t drop by each day
like the hummingbird
at your window feeder,
and drink the sweet nectar of life.

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Always a Hand Waiting for You

Trust there is a hand
reaching from the sky
that can lift you up
during your darkest hour.

Trust there is a hand
to steady your walk through life
when the day’s pressures
cause you to lose your balance.

Trust there is a hand
that can heal the hurt
capsizing your mind and body
as they seek peace and harmony.

Trust there is a hand
outstretched, and always waiting for you.
Don’t be afraid to grasp it
and let it lift you up.

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Cleveland’s Parade of Color

Sun-drenched crowd.
50,000 plus.
Lining the Circle
Eye-popping vibrant color.
Jubilant music ignites dance.
Echous oohs and ahs erupt, watching
bright costumes, giant puppets,
stilt-dancers, strings of iridescent balloons,
painted masks and colorful floats
streaming past us.

Cleveland’s University Circle…
overflowing breathtaking color:
rosso, viola, blu, verde, lilla, and more,
All parade the Circle.
Clevelanders showing their true colors, against
the backdrop of the city’s stunning
art and natural history museums and orchestra hall.

Not a more perfect day possible—
here or anywhere.
Once again,
why focus so much
on what’s wrong with our city,
when so much more is right.

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And a few pictures to tell the story our eyes saw…

When You Don’t Make the Team

Do you remember in fifth grade
when I didn’t make the basketball team
and you told me not to cry
because men don’t cry?

And do you remember telling me
that’s the way it goes. Just accept it.
That’s the way what goes?
Basketball? Life? My life?
And accept what?
That I can sleep in on Saturday mornings
instead of playing basketball with my friends?
My friends who sneered at me and taunted me
like I was some worthless piece of crap.
My friends who will be immortalized
by the school and the other kids
because they made the team.

You didn’t even ask if I came close.
I was the last to be cut.
Not the first.
I almost made the team.
Why do they pick just twelve players?
Why not thirteen?
Do they have just twelve uniforms?
I’ll work and buy my own.

You don’t even have a name
if you get cut from the team.
The coach just calls out the names
of the boys making the team.
I never listened so carefully in my whole life.
I can’t believe I didn’t hear my name.
Maybe the coach just forgot to call my name.
Should I ask him if he forgot to call my name?
I don’t understand what I didn’t make the team.
Was it because of the two shots I missed?
Was it because the other boys’ dads knew the coach?
Why didn’t I make the team?

So what am I supposed to accept?
That I am a total loser,
and my life will never amount to anything?
That basketball isn’t my sport,
and I shouldn’t bother to tryout next year?
My life is over
and it’s barely started.
And you don’t even care!

What do I do instead of crying?
Just hold it in?
Get angry?
Go out and practice my shots?
Maybe I’ll just stop trying to be somebody
or make something of my life.
Maybe I’ll just run away
to some other place, and another family.
One that cares about me.
One that understands me
and helps me figure out what to do
with all this pain inside
that won’t go away,
no matter how hard I try.

You could have said you were sorry
that I didn’t make the team.
You could have said you’d help me
be a better player.
You could have said you’d talk to the coach
and find out why I didn’t make the team.
You could have said there were times in your life
when you didn’t make the team,
and you survived the pain of rejection,
and over time you grew stronger.
That’s the way it goes?
Do I have to figure all this out myself?
Why don’t men cry?

Click here to hear me read this poem.
(I have used a new reading style with this poem. Please let me know what you think. Also, in my reading I provide some context for this poem.)

Going Beyond Life’s Cliches

Lift me past
the cliches of life.
Those proto-ordinary word-images
that stick in your hand
as it strives to write original words
and lines of words that form and flow
like no other words or lines written.

But who am I to think
that anything
could possibly be new
in this world that goes on and on–
past us and always after us?

Who are we, as word-bound bards,
to think anything is special
because it is our time
to rise and fall,
like the sun and moon,
which have done the same,
without our help,
for millenia before us,
and will likely for millenia after us?

Who are we to postulate
we are anything more
than God ever intended
from the very beginning, and
I mean the beginning of all beginnings
when all things, including God, began?

Is there any wonder
I should want to rise above
the cliches forever grabbing truth
from the hands of ordinary people such as us,
who live and die,
like the cliches we spew about us,
hoping we can be different?

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Souls Making Plans to Meet

Meet me.
Somewhere.
Hopefully in the middle, but
somewhere deep, where
we can be who we are,
without all the pretending.

Hopefully we find the right place,
where we can be honest
without being ashamed.
Hopefully this place
where we meet
doesn’t call forth our desparation
or the usual sensual pleasures
causing us to dissolve.

Hopefully this place stirs us–
together, where we can touch
for one moment longer
than we have been apart.
Hopefully this place brings silence
to all the words, no matter
how poetic they may be.

Meet me.
Somewhere.
Anywhere, where
truth can be known
without us having to judge anything.
And in that place,
may we embrace,
and be just one.

Click here to hear me read this poem.
Some context for this poem is provided in my reading.

The Passing of Grandfather Red Oak

You stood for three centuries,
giving shade and shelter
in the ancient forest,
where so many times
we walked in silence
on warm Sunday afternoons.

You graced us with your beauty,
and we marveled at your enduring strength,
helping us not be quite so afraid
of death’s inevitable knock,
and the chill that forever remains.

You fell with great thunder,
like that shaking the skies,
and left the deepest impressions
the earth below will always remember.

So much you’ve seen
throughout your life,
I cannot begin to imagine.
So many birds delighted
as you held them tight during storms
and in the darkness of the night.

Your leafy canopy gone,
but never forgotten.
Your rugged bark
so many woodpeckers once climbed.
And oh how we loved your rusted leaves
that fell in autumn
and brought back so many memories.

The hole you leave behind in the earth
and most of all in our hearts
can never be filled,
but rest now, sweet Grandfather Red Oak;
for your work is done.

A tribute to a magnificent red oak tree that
stood for over three hundred years in the
Holden Arboretum in the Cleveland area.

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Dad and His Words

Dad always loved words–
long ones, short ones,
tall ones, and fat ones.
He especially adored unique words
ringing in your ears like musical notes.

He minced words every chance he got,
and he still does at eighty-five.
Good-spirited verbal volleyball was his sport.
No crossword puzzle was safe for long
when Dad had a sharp pencil in his left hand.
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary was his best friend,
and Roget’s Thesaurus was a close runner up.

Dad loved writing poetry.
Not something most millwrights do
in their spare time.
Every morning the muse danced for him, and
there were poems about nature, the Holy Spirit,
and anything else lending itself to rhyme.
Yes, Dad liked rhyming poems best–
those sounding like harps, guitars and pianos.

Each poem, when finished, was always printed
ever so neatly in Dad’s best handwriting
with a blue ballpoint pen.
Much later, of course, he turned
to the old black Royal typewriter
that went clackety clack,
when its silver keys were pressed into action.

Yes, my Dad had a love affairs with words,
and everyone who knew him
knew of his passion for morphemes, collocations, idioms,
phrases, colloquialisms, and euphemisms.
And everyone was surprised
that a man turning wrenches for a living
could turn heads and hearts with his words.

Most of all,
Dad was a man of his word.
His word was never idle chatter
nor meaningless fill for empty spaces
on a page or in a conversation.
Like most men of their word,
Dad opted for silence
over promises he could never keep.

Thanks Dad for teaching me to love words
and for insisting that I live up to my word.

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Lost in the Moment on Erie’s Shore

Like a thirsty dog,
the lake lapped the shore,
leaving driftwood and other minute possessions
for treasure hunters, young and old,
in search of clues,
shedding light on the miracle
we call life.

Sun fell through outstretched trees,
lining Erie’s coast,
adding to the mystique,
luring us to the magical water’s edge.

Just beyond the worn stone breakwall,
silver-white lake gulls bobbed the waves,
occasionally swishing their longish bills
in the steel-gray water.

A pious-looking fisherman,
with a scruffy graying red beard
and large rough hands,
dumped his leftover minnows in the water,
creating a commotion among the gulls,
who quickly traded their peace for a savory meal.

As we rounded the top of the last hill,
looking out over the sparkling lake waters,
we eyed a large freighter in the distance
and heard its bellowous horn.
Only then did we realize,
we had been helplessly lost in the moment
on Erie’s beautiful shore.

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