Category: Uncategorized

i love how the sun so matter of factly screams through the woodland forest,
setting the leaves on fire with gold and yellow hues and tones, and
how tree shadows are painted on the narrow leaf-covered path, carrying
us up the hill and into the pure white sunlight

and just beyond lies the bubbling creek, preparing itself for winter,
once all the leaves have turned brown and fallen to the ground, and
snowflakes dance between the naked branches of the trees, as
thin sheets of ice cover the lazy edges of the creek

and even on this brisk early november day, i can imagine
the forest’s quiet whispers and sighs, as the snow buries the crunchy leaves,
and etches white streaks on the zen-like tree branches, holding their position
until the sun once again sets them free of the clutch of winter

The lake is my sword
Cutting through life’s flagrant nonsense
Slashing its tawny leathered wrists
Spilling red sunset all about

At my side all night long
She beckons, begs, congeals a new reality–
One where purpose finally follows breath
And grandiose dreams fall aslumber–
Mere dormant volcanoes
Quieted by the watchful monks
On the flowered hillside

We must escape ourselves to find ourselves
So why not follow the lake’s hypnotic waves
Making us forget long enough to remember
the fleeting sunset, desperate scarlet flashes on the water

at times we are at odds with others
folks who should know better–
we’re no pushovers for their lame incantations

at times we’re at odds with ourselves
struggling to find an answer
something to set us free

at times we look into the deep misplaced sky–
some place that barely exists
except for our imaginations of things to become

and always we are left to wonder
if there is any true goodness that can save us
when we’re in over our heads with no place else to go

In one sense
Entitlement is a matter of degree
Some expect a take far greater than others
In another sense
Entitlement is entitlement
Even those with nothing expect more
While doing little or nothing to earn it

Commonsense should prevail in these matters—
Frankly we should know better
That a day of reckoning exists for everyone
Regardless of their money, influence, other self-endowments
The world can only support so much taking
Without a commensurate or greater gift in return

I’ve come to resent entitled people
No matter their position, color, age, or persuasion
And I am so inclined to believe
That everyone potentially abuses
Their self-defined advantage
Because they’re not strong enough to make it
Without all the titles and entitlement

often i wonder where life has gone
what happened to the years–
both good and bad

all the time wondering–
trying to figure out
if we’re here for a reason
even a momentary celebration
of something larger
more profound
awkwardly present
in all the ways we imagine
what life is about

summer has been swallowed
first by the playful autumn
and now by the brutal winter

the sailboats have disappeared
their colorful sails neatly folded
like large forehead wrinkles
frowning at the blowing snow
and the ice sheets gliding now
where the boats once sailed

just the other day
we watched a lone bald eagle dip and soar
over the boats along the lakeshore
before vanishing into the nearby woods
we marveled at his curiosity
and wondered whether he missed the boats
and the summer
as much as we did

Some are born
Amidst the cold–
Deep blue winter snows…

Tipping fences
Bending tree branches
Frosting cheeks–
Pale shades, pink attitude

Standin’ tall ‘gainst fair white Irish skin
Winter child speaks to me
’cause she’s born…

In the world between–
Frigidly tenuous place
Turbulent solitude

Her eyes sparkle
Sunlight glint, bouncing
off fresh snow drifts
Somewhere north of heaven…

Frozen world where we live, huddled
under broken evergreen branches
Ever wonderin’ why
Those ocean-deep blue eyes
Forever haunt me and you

Short days, long nights
Thinking of you
Wishing for more
Settling for less
Coming up short
But finally finding–
Almost what we need

Some semblance of truth
Lingering here, dancing there
Playing games with our faces
Always we want
What makes us giddy
But never what we can have
What forever we shall want

Thinking back
Thinking over
All those times
Hard to remember
No understanding in advance

Some of us lived
Some of us died
Trying to remember
Why some of us lived
Why some of us died

Written March 1970

Fall from grace
Tortured soldier’s face
Desperate brothers hangin’ on
Firelight sky, crimson dawn

Mortar fire, cancers grow
Claymore mines, bodies blow
Lucid dreams, tunnel runs
Thunder, lightning, heavy guns

Right side, wrong side
Too many reds, spirits died
Smokin’ weed, M-16 jam
No one home gives a dam

Flyin’ high, Jeff Aeroplane
You and me, totally insane
When will it ever end
Deadly turn, river bend

Were it not for the open window
The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks would remain
Unnoticed dreams, forgotten in the instant
Between sleep and awakening
And lost would be the dreams
That keep reality awake between dreams

In a far greater sense–
Though useless in everyday affairs
We’d see that were it not for something
Everything would be reduced to nothing
And were it not for a single breath
The universe would most certainly fail to exist

And while ponderous, these night thoughts
Tap but lightly on the soul’s closed door–
The one gypsy lovers hiss about
As they dance around their fading campfires
Praying morning will take their darkness away

The window, an opening to something beyond
Letting in the night air
Letting out the festered horror of loneliness–
The one certain thing making gypsy lovers dance
Till their fire goes out
And the light of morning turns them back into dreams

Long ago ’round blazing campfires they sat
Hearts open to the heavens
Giving themselves over to their dreams
For the moment forgetting–
the forsaken space separating them
from the other side

No pretenders left
Nothing left to pretend
Rebellious spirits dancing
Past their time
Well past the point of return
Wishes for a shooting star lost
Nothing left but cold embers
Waiting for one last golden sunset

No need for happiness
when everything goes your way
No need for joy
when the day overflows with sunshine

No need for thanksgiving
when there is plenty
or when there’s no decision to make
about which direction to take

No need to tell your story
with the happy ending–
the one where things worked out
Tell that story another day

No need for Friday night poetry
when music and dance fills the air
Give thanks tonight for your loneliness
Helping you remember just what happiness is

Written in Tucson, Arizona, Winter 1970

If we’re lucky enough
We grow old
With wisdom, love and health
No regrets
No clinging to what we can never hold onto

Only with joy in our heart
Should we hold this moment
For it’s all we have
And when we think about it
It’s all we ever really need

At year end, the mystery returns
That sense of timeless beauty
Memories of things we’ve longed to know
Inexplicable things, hovering about
Like smoke from a burned out candle

It comes in the earliest morning hours
At times, starting in a dream
Lingering in our eyes
And other untouchable places
Not destinations, but places tugging at our hearts

The candle’s flame lasts only so long
Soon it turns itself over to the darkness
Leaving us to wonder about the mysteries
Born into us from the beginning
Dying at each year’s end

Seems so foreign to me
Another country, maybe
Some strange place
Where we wait
For the nightmare to end
Always hoping–to find ourselves
In some gentler place
Where wretched memories pale to laughter
Where the years ahead
Outnumber those behind us

Uphold the promise
Your word, good as God’s

Uphold the promise
Your first words uttered
between sips of mother’s milk

Uphold the promise
first kisses stolen in the night
lasting forever

Uphold the promise
the very thing connecting you to eternity
all else yet to come

Uphold the promise
that which comes before us
and follows us forever

Uphold the promise
Honor it
Transform it
Our destiny, just a mere promise

It thickens me to think
Life’s shallowness,only an illusion
It quickens me to think
Life’s race, not about speed
Or finishing first, rather
About you and me being
Who we’re supposed to be
Rather than something else
We were, and thought might be better

It’s all gone
Every last drop of it
Before we know it
Then what?
Plumb the depths
Plan for what’s next
Be all we can possibly be

Questions it seems
Rude interruptions in the grand scheme of things
Those things hovering between moments
Finding us naked to the truth
Of who we really are

Violins, harps, sad but sweet Spanish guitars
Playing us, like Vegas card dealers
Wishing somehow life could be longer
Even deeper than what we know
Maybe then, your father’s dying hand
Could finally reach us
Free us from all pain and illusion

Never a perfect ending–
For anything, anybody
Least of all life
Hanging between breathes
Always awaiting a chance to shine

Things left on the étagère
That place things exist
Seeking meaning, some ultimate purpose
Reminding us who we were, could become
Some lingering ghosts in our heads
Haunting our sleep, yes nightmares
Keeping us awake–
In that place we can’t help but question

It’s ludicrous to think
Anything could be better than what is
Starting with a faint heartbeat–
That which keeps us in step
With something outlasting us all

Like some wild dog sled adventure
Way up North, across so many miles
Lifetimes, precious moments spent
Waiting, wondering, hopelessly living
Within predestined limits–
These times remain mere artifacts
Leftover promises waiting
For their time to come–
To find expression
Sun signs of what can’t help but be

Let me down lightly
Like a butterfly on a pure white daisy
Not like some ton of bricks
Falling without mercy upon my tired head

Help me find my way
Though at times I’m lost
Starved for a new starting over
Wishing a miracle comes my way

Look past my too ordinary shortcomings
My ego, its sublime incantations
All blocking my view
Heaven’s ever flowering gardens

Somehow please, let me down lightly
Hand me over to eternity–
That place we all eventually rest
Awaiting our next chance to rise and shine

It grows on you, rather quickly–
The Sound’s lulling darkness
Lapping back and forth
along the pebbly shoreline

We watch the green and white ferries, and
how they ride the waves, like musical notes
from Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings
Haunting presence, especially
when there’s fog, or a light rain

The gulls know its springtime
Though there is no sun
They sit longer, closer to you–
Waiting for a handout–a piece of bread, a stale cookie
The red-headed boy fed one a slice of greasy salami
The damn fool ate it straight down

The Sound grows on you
In a soulful way, cutting deep inside you
to places you dream about, but
never seem to remember
Except you know they’re very old

Seattle would never be what it is
were it not for the Sound, and
it’s constant nudging and coaxing
to go deeper, plumb life’s depths
Let the foghorns at night sink in

No helping who I am, like
the sun can’t help but shine
Yet at times clouds block the sun, and
often I get in my own way–
of being who I am
Are you like me?
Do you sometimes wake up, and fall over
the life you’ve worked so hard to create?

Watching the morning creep into the back woods
I wondered “why am I here?”–
Not in this chair in this room on this morning, but
HERE in this body and mind, and
HERE in this illusion of permanence, that
I wear like a hat pulled down over my eyes–
so I have an excuse for walking into walls, and
falling down stairs–into a basement, where
I’ve dumped everything I can’t let go of, including
piles of hats no longer fitting my fat head
which fills with new illusions each day, making
my head grow larger and larger

Aren’t there limits to how big a head can grow?

Three Gaynors Night Club in Bridgeport was the place to be
on a Friday, with your paycheck in hand
No ID needed to cash your check
if the bartender knew your face
Uncle Eddie’s was well-known–
not only on Fridays, but every other day, except Sunday
when he drank in the privacy of his own home

His poison of choice–Jack Daniels
Never cluttered with much, just a few cubes of ice
that never had a chance–
to return to water, because
of Uncle Eddie’s swift swilling technique

He told me once golden amber was his favorite color
I asked him why, and
he said I had to guess, and I tried
but to no avail, so
I asked my Mom, who explained
that was whiskey’s color, and
warned me never to drink like her brothers

I never saw Uncle Eddie drink, which
was not so unusual, since drinking was a matter for men, and
not young boys, who just might notice
that their uncles weren’t perfect–
a far cry from what their mothers would’ve hoped

Only once did I see my dear uncle snockered–
Totally smashed beyond recognition
He called my Dad; his third call for rescue
Knowing he could never drive his ’61 Chrysler
back to his home in South Bellaire

Dad responded to Uncle Eddie’s call, at Mom’s insistence
that he go fetch her drunken brother
To my chagrin, he asked me to come along
Perhaps he knew he’d need another set of arms
to get my uncle home this Friday night
I accepted the mission without hesitation

Uncle Eddie was too far gone to pose a problem–
No resistance did he give
But, no more than 10 minutes into our drive
My uncle perked up, proclaimed the night wasn’t over, and
one more drink he needed to find his bliss

My Dad, not a drinking man, was quick to counter
Reminding Eddie his liver would someday surely give out
To that, my uncle countered–
that we only go around once, so
we should make the most of it

Dad didn’t argue–
wouldn’t have done any good
He just stepped on the accelerator
Getting Uncle Eddie home sooner

It wasn’t long before Uncle Eddie was fast asleep–
The job from here on was easy
My aunt greeted us, arms crossed on her bosomy chest
She wasn’t happy with the situation, but
after twenty years with my uncle
she had resigned herself to his drunken nature

On the drive back home
I asked my Dad why Uncle Eddie drank so much
He looked at me with a reluctant stare, shook his head
And said “so he wouldn’t feel the pain of life”
I didn’t really understand, but got the sense
my uncle was nowhere as happy as he seemed

Three years later at Uncle Eddie’s funeral
I stared at his colorless face in the casket, and saw a look of peace
I whispered to him: “You never asked my favorite color–
It’s sky blue, the color of Heaven”

Why so dark you ask? I have been writing a number of “empathy poems’ lately. Some of which may find their way into my new poetry book. Poets sometimes write about themselves and their lives, and sometimes they write about other people, even imagined people. So, there you go. Enjoy your day!

Fools laugh at ridiculous jokes
About things they pretend they don’t control
Simultaneously affixing blame and credit
Upon some mythical God
To whom even they don’t pay homage

I watched the sunset last night
Thinking it might well be my last
At least theoretically
Not in a remorseful or resentful way
But in the frame of mind I was born with
That open pure mind seeing life afresh

I thought about the fools I know
Asked them to forgive me
For taking such pleasure in the sun
Slipping past the horizon
Landing smack dab in my heart