Sad Song

I was used to you 

and your ways. 

Now I feel at odds. 

What was familiar is not. 

What skill I learned 

I forgot. 

It is hard to unlearn. 

The impulse 

like the melody 

of a familiar song 

wants to come. 

To fight the impulse 

to kill the instinct 

is the saddest thing I know.

Sanctum Sanctorum

There is a room, 

Or perhaps not a room, 

Keats might call 'This Temple': 

A harbor for ever weary, searching soul, 

Which does not present itself, 

Which is discovered by persistence, 

Where one finds peace, leaving behind 

What needs to be left behind for admission. 

Where one finds more, 

If they are patient and willing, 

Something beyond peace: an awakening, 

An ascendance, a transcendence beyond sensation. 

It is a fane of perfection,

Not easily found or kept.

self abuse

sometimes i walk down 

to the beach and sit 

on the sand staring at that sun- 

drenched rock that once 

upon a time meant so 

much to us sometimes i 

sit on the rock and close my 

eyes and wait for the 

laying on of hands sometimes i 

lie outstretched on my stomach in 

anticipation indulging the 

ache without the least hope

Separating

I remember one day 

driving in Oregon, 

the places we stopped 

so she could be sick 

from the chemo— 

touring the campuses, 

having dinner, 

feeling more like friends 

than mother and son. 

We were not good 

at asking the right questions. 

We failed to get past the mundane. 

What was there to say? 

There was so little time.

Set Phaser on Shooting Pain Down Leg

The L-5 disc 

is bulging 

sitting 

on my sciatic 

nerve 

that silent scream 

I’ve come to 

know 

so intimately 

phaser set 

on stun 

fragging myself 

like some shit-faced grunt 

taking out his lieutenant. 

- 

thanks to Mr. Eddie Izzard

Shades of Grey, Rain

No secret 

no query no confession 

is kept 

from the dove. 

April 

may be 

the cruelest month. 

Not today. 

She answers each 

with the same reply. 

Clouds 

translucent 

part. 

Sun 

turns mourning light 

to morning.

Shadows

Dusk. Sunset. Long shadows 

barely discernible 

from the ground beneath us. 

Colors fading, but for the sun itself 

which is a color we all know 

but cannot describe. 

Two, you and I, walk, hand in hand. 

Our shadows are the whole of us. 

The details are not important. 

Here we are, in the moment, 

at this place, at this time. 

The proof lies at our feet, to the east.

Shakespeare in the Park

Romeo lies in a puddle 

of self-pity, 

his sword flung aside, 

the blood of Tybalt 

already darkening its blade, 

while Saturn, 

above and to the west, 

is in alignment 

with two stars, names unknown to me, 

a celestial, hot-tipped arrow 

drawn through the bow 

of the crescent moon, 

drawn and aimed 

at Juliet.

She is so pretty

She is so pretty and soft, 

a touch of country 

colors her voice. 

It melts your heart. 

She works hard, 

is a good mother, 

tolerates people. 

She is kind.

She was a catch 

and he never noticed. 

A week in Orlando 

and he thinks he's a prince. 

A month in Provence, 

that's what she needs. 

And for her husband 

to get hit by a truck.

She was seeing someone

She was seeing someone 

who was self-absorbed, 

boring, not quite serviceable in bed, 

and, worst of all—arrogant. 

It took a while to see the truth. 

He had the looks, he had the charm, 

to make a good impression. 

But facts are facts. 

She packed his clothes 

in a box, and set it by the door. 

Outside, it was raining. 

She went about her business. 

She paused. 

She set the box outside the door.

She went into the city

She went into the city 

dressed in a tight black dress 

and silver jewelry. 

She struck up a conversation 

with an artist 

who was looking for a model. 

It became an affair, 

then a romance, 

then a dissolution 

when each concluded 

that they had been had. 

She moved on, 

but her image remained 

in his studio, on his walls.

Shopping for a Gift

A jade necklace, 

three Chinese characters 

one below the other 

dangling from a cord. 

—Fifteen dollars please. 

—What do the words mean? 

—Hope, honor, love. 

—Well, I hope she likes it, 

and if I had an ounce of honor 

I'd not do this, 

but what can I do? I love her. 

—May I gift wrap that for you? 

—Please, and wrap my conscience 

while you're at it. I may need it later.

Short of Breath

A stone 

that has spent eons 

being washed along the sea floor 

comes to rest 

at my feet. 

I bend, pick it up, 

merrily skip it back 

ten thousand years or so. 

Not so far. 

Lungless and gillless, 

does it matter? 

Why am I short of breath?

Silly Willie

'... I could have been a whistle, 

I could have been a flute... ' 

—lyric, Nick Drake 

- 

Four blocks down 

and two doors from the corner 

stands the Church of the Closed Doors. 

Across the street— 

St. James Infirmary Comedy Club. 

One makes me laugh, 

the other makes me cry. 

I give the homeless man my coat. 

I see two children 

exchange graciousness. 

I see a woman with a bundle. 

My brother, Silly Willie, 

is known for blowing bubbles. 

And you, my dear, 

close your compact—snap! and walk on by.

Sleeping Alone

So sweet 

and so pretty 

and so entrancing 

but so troubled 

and so scared to relinquish 

those inner-most parts 

that win people 

to your side 

forever. 

You must learn 

to touch 

and be touched 

and to recognize 

the one who will touch and be touched.

Slowly Going Numb

Water slapping my ankles, 

each wave taking me down 

a bit, just a bit. I'm watching 

the sun, no, I'm thinking, 

no, I'm standing in the Pacific 

neither watching nor thinking. 

I am existing. Meanwhile, 

my feet are slowly going numb. 

The sound of surf is hypnotic, 

so I take it. I look soulful, 

I realize that, and I am wishing 

I were twenty again, with a 

dark-haired girl by my side, 

pretending to share the vision. 

Like, that's gonna happen.

Snakes

Much maligned. 

Poor things. 

Zero at the Bone, perhaps; 

but I am sympathetic. 

Every Joad upon the road 

Swerves to flatten, 

Backing-up to do it right. 

The snake's benign intent 

Is nothing more than a cricket, 

A mouse, a frog. Horrible? 

And your last meal was? 

Sated, their need becomes 

A sun-warmed surface. 

Evil idyll, so it seems. 

Innocent to me. 

Venom, that's the thing, 

A trick of defense, 

One they did not request. 

A small defense, indeed, 

Come a hawk or fox, 

Or Chevy dually 4 X 4. 

Best to leave the poison 

Ones alone, but a harmless 

Snake, curious and quiet, 

Upon your arm, will be content 

To explore, flicking tongue, 

Up and down, all around. 

The stealth by which they move 

Sends shivers down one's spine. 

Not mine. 

Swift, sleek slide through grass, 

Down a hole, up a tree, 

That's for me.

Snap!

Far away from home 

and she begins to think 

home is not where the heart is 

rather— 

a state of mind, portable, 

something she might put in her purse 

like a compact—snap! and there it is— 

neat, tidy—available. 

Perhaps more— 

perhaps—something which is both 

reflective and intimate. 

Home. Snap!

Snow Angels

A full moon, 

your love, 

I am a romantic. 

Once you laughed at my foolishness. 

Now, 

why—you wish you had me.

So Sad as Age

In his great poem, 

'High Windows, ' 

Philip Larkin 

allows himself to muse 

upon the scene below, 

to envy youth, 

to express jealousy 

for the unbridled passion, 

or careless lust, 

he images these kids 

upon the grass possess; 

how lucky they truly are 

to indulge themselves 

and feel no guilt, 

to give and take from each other freely, 

as innocently as a benign God's 

child was meant to do.

Someday You Too

She was sitting 

at at tiny table at Starbucks 

watching 

a very old man 

perambulate 

his way through the mall, 

toward— 

she couldn't imagine what— 

Claire's? 

He was stooped, his feet shuffled, 

the breeze of passing teens nearly toppled him, 

and it made her sad. 

 —

One day at a time my girl, 

it takes no effort.

Something is happening

She is in the midst 

of something bigger than herself, 

but the world 

pays no heed— 

alpha males still hammer their horn in traffic, 

kids still stare at a passing freak. 

Yesterday she felt— 

usual, 

today all wrong. 

She can't imagine tomorrow 

beyond handkerchiefs, 

limousines 

and black. 

Usual will be something different.

Song of Ecstasy

—Listen, do not translate. Oui. 

- 

“Oh, ” sighs the Parson, 

and sits upon a stump. 

“They are gone. The stars are gone.” 

“Gone, ” says the creek. 

“Gone, ” says the bird. 

“Gone, ” says the wind. 

“Oh! ” cries the Parson, “this will not do! ” 

and rises from his stump. 

“We must bless this dawn with song! ” 

“With song! ” cries the creek. 

“With song! ” cries the bird. 

“With song! ” cries the wind. 

“Sing! ” entreats the Parson, 

and stands upon his stump. 

“Sing écumeux! ” 

“Écumeux, ” says the creek. 

“Écumeux, ” says the bird. 

“Écumeux, ” says the wind. 

“Non! ” scolds the Parson, 

“sing écumuex! ” 

conducting from his stump. 

“Écumeux! ” sings the creek. 

“Écumeux! ” sings the bird. 

“Écumeux! ” sings the wind. 

“Oui! ” lauds the Parson. “Écumeux! ” 

and leaps into the air, 

singing, 

“Oui, écumeux, écumeux, écumeux! ” 

and leaves this earthen world. 

“Écumeux! ” 

“Goodbye, ” sings the creek. 

“Goodbye, ” sings the bird. 

“Goodbye, ” sings the wind. 

“Non! ” comes a voice. 

“I am the sky. I am the cloud. 

I am the rain that greens this blesséd place. 

I am the meadow. 

I am the wildflower. 

I am the song of ecstasy! ” 

“Oui! ” says the creek. 

“Oui! ” says the bird. 

“Oui! ” says the wind. “He is the song of ecstasy! ”

Stars

Imagine 

there are two stars, 

no more. 

The rest are gone. 

The familiar 

night sky is black 

but for the two. 

Imagine 

the stories that would be told 

of those two stars— 

of their birth 

and their naming 

and their wars and their love, 

and their deep, deep, black loneliness.

Stash of Dreams

Went south to Mexico— 

bought a big old stash of marijuana 

smuggled it back into the states 

set up shop— 

bought a boat with the proceeds— 

tied up at Fort Lauderdale— 

Charter Cap'n. 

At least—that was the plan.

Stepping Out

“... those first precocious hints of hell, 

Those intuitions of living desolation 

that last a lifetime.” 

—Anthony Hecht, The Venetian Vespers 

Stepping out of yourself for the first time, 

Stopping what you are doing, 

Being cognizant of where you are, 

Who you are, and having an inclination 

Of what lies ahead, a sense of the future. 

Other children on the playground 

Are engaged, you have no way to know 

This experience, this stepping out, 

Will be revisited time and again, 

Unexpectedly, always with the same 

Degree of separation and perhaps fatalism. 

Though only a child you believe 

That what is to come will be good, but this blink 

In the rhythm of time may be your first inkling of doubt.

Still as Stone

One of the cats, the hunter, 

was behind the shop this morning, 

still as stone, impassive, 

two feathers hanging from his mouth, 

another half dozen 

scattered before him on the cold gravel. 

He wasn't smug, simply still. 

A few hours later, 

when I returned from feeding cows, 

he hadn't moved, 

his eyes locked in a forward stare, 

my presence unregarded. 

I can only assume that his accomplishment 

was all consuming.

Storm of Tears

'For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait; ' 

—John Donne, the Baite 

— 

When it comes, 

it comes effortlessly. 

This is not a year to be coy. 

There is no need for baite. 

It comes. 

When the only water 

to wet the fields are tears, 

tears are shed. 

When prayers and superstition 

have failed, then this— 

this storm of tears 

comes mockingly.

Struck Dumb

Love has befallen me, 

and every word that comes 

has been said before, 

since time immemorial. 

How silly it is to be me today, 

lost to all thing mundane and worldly. 

No amount of sobriety will clear my head. 

How useless you have made me, 

I am as hopeless as Keats lying upon the grass, 

oblivious to petty things. 

How unprepared I am for banalities, 

how unwilling I am to give this up. 

I am struck dumb with love, 

these words are but thoughts.

Subjective, Hearsay, Irrelevant

Green is the color of truth, 

blue is honesty. 

In my world this is true. 

Gray, sturdy gray, is devotion, 

ethereal gray is whim. 

All shades of brown, from sienna to fawn, 

are innocence. 

Tears taste white, black is a myth. 

Look closely. 

Mother and child are bronze. 

According to Moore. 

Grandmother is... black-eyed... Susan. 

Wind is yellow, breeze is red. 

Silence, rumor has it, is golden.

Summary

Perhaps I've said too much. 

It's likely— 

riding all day, thinking. 

It's bound to spill over 

into something inappropriate. 

I'm trying to think 

why I should regret 

a burst of honest emotion. 

No doubt it's unseemly 

in a tight-lipped, waspish way. 

But what do I care— 

I'm neither tight-lipped nor waspish.

Summer Fire

Summer— 

ten days past solstice, 

jackets 

untouched in the closet, 

ashes 

cold in the wood stove. 

Summer— 

colors in strong light and heat. 

Fire is not wanted. 

Sunset's flames are sufficient. 

Lean against me, 

your back against my chest. 

Let me wrap my arms around you, 

rest your arms on mine.

Summer of '69

In a kayak 

on the Snake River 

caught unaware 

by a whirlpool 

circling the abyss 

ever-closer 

to the heart of it 

staring 

into the black vortex 

thinking— 

I'm going to die, and

this is so cool.

Summer Salt

The summer day we lay and kissed 

in the shade of the house 

was the day 

you came into my room 

and lay beside me. 

You tasted of salt from the sea. 

There is a photograph 

of that day, taken on the beach. 

You are laughing 

at something out of frame, 

I am smiling into the camera. 

The photo reminds me of the details, 

but I have no need for details, 

I have the taste of salt in my mouth.

Summer Veil

“Through a rounded aperture I saw appear 

Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears, 

Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.” 

—Dante, Inferno 

— 

Summer air hangs heavily 

upon the ridges, 

one after another to the horizon 

as they become mere suggestions. 

Evening light runs the gamut 

of hues before giving way to black 

as the earth turns its back on the sun, 

at least from this perspective— 

black, as only a country night can bring. 

A few stars appear, few can survive 

this laden atmosphere, 

those that do are the old familiars, 

the summer camp reunion. 

Midnight, the moon a day or two 

from full, rises, yawns, low to the east, 

colored in non-Crayola tints. 

To the west giant Jupiter’s gaseous state 

is reduced to a non-twinkling hint. 

Grouchy Ursa, languid Cassie, 

the Big O, that devil Scorpio, graceful Miss Cy, 

toothless Leo, seven tired Sisters 

are there, behind the veil of moisture, 

keeping company with one another. 

From this vantage they are nothing more 

than memories, their presence taken on faith. 

The coyotes are there as well, 

but silent, slumbering, plotting, tending 

coyote pups, sated on hapless mice. 

A few birds make the effort, desultory songs, 

strains of “A Perfect Day” perhaps. 

Insects, what to they care? Still, 

they lack clarity, in fact, this summer night 

is defined by ambiguity, ennui, yet— 

rich as crème caramel, and as welcome. 

What is missing? A hand to hold, 

lips to kiss, a breast to touch? Perhaps. Yes. 

No. This is enough. Still, a man wants company. 

Sitting on the porch amid—all of this— 

is a lonely game. Somewhere a woman 

sits on her porch, looks up, composes lines, 

touches her lips with slender fingertips, 

and thinks—yes, this is a very lonely game.

Summer, a tanka by Sam

(Sam says I jumped the gun, he was musing on the last two lines. I think he dozed off.) 

— 

Sunset’s glory fades 

behind a flickering cloud, 

a storm of blackbirds— 

a rush of pointillism 

reveling in their blackness.

Sunrise

On the frosty grass 

of night 

a cow gives birth 

to a still-born calf. 

With sunrise 

I see 

vultures 

where they shouldn't be— 

already 

at the entrails. 

I haul it off. 

It weighs 

more than I expect. 

It always does.

Superficially

What I know 

is necessarily exterior. 

You dress in layers, 

privately. 

The words you give me 

are well chosen. 

I don't pry. 

I would say you are a mystery 

that yearns, a little, 

to show more, and say more.

Sweet

Like a sweet pear 

ready to fall 

you touched, 

I fell.