Transformation

Strawberry jam

Careless smear
on her white
teddy bear
becomes blood
with wear

Eye lost
Limb torn
So many hugs
hair worn short
A horror story
evil is born

Forlorn

Decades
forgotten
in the back
of the attic
Angry

Dirty

Alone

Waiting

It’s No O’Clock

Time is
undivided
wild
unbridled

tanned and toned
with curly blonde
locks
bounding over
mountaintops

through deep
sea gloom

in the
emergency room
when they call
time-of-death

in the creasing lines
beside my eyes

from fingertip to fingertip
holding all of space
primordial

ancient
never aging
a day

surfing “OM”
through Himalayan
caves
not here
not there
nowhere
everywhere
I can say

I’ve seen him
on occasion

grinning

watching me
race
to and fro
as though
I could
outpace him

Deep Things

Searching life for some
modicum of meaning
I dug deep
discovering

desperation
and
confusion
in the throes
of passion

thrashing

clumsy

squealing

hormonal teens
in a small
back seat

surely
no good
could be
born of
these!

so I hosed them down good
sent them to their rooms
and the

abrupt
sweaty
silent
aftermath
held the
answer

at last

Monday

Wake up
cuss and gimp my way
to the bathroom
aging joints
stiff
pissy
reluctant,
floss brush shower shave
then the dog’s turn
to evacuate the waste
from the previous day,
eggs and fruit
my preamble
for groveling
at the feet
of the muse,
something of use
to slip into a poem
but there’s
nothing,
nothing
but the rain
and four
surveyor sticks
with pretty pink flags
in the neighbor’s yard
marking the boundaries
where their marriage died
and there’s no poetry in that
and still the steady
pat
pat
pat
of the rain,
all that remains
worth noting

Color Coded

I prefer
bananas
that lean
towards green
and coffee
black as
pitch and
watermelon
warm ruby red
straight
from the
ripe
yellow
sun
and
apples
that crack
with crispness,
pick a color,
doesn’t matter which

Winds Of Time

This breeze tonight
brings me back to
October ’79

the first time
I felt its
freshening
fingers,
its touch
inflaming
the sweet
agony
of my first
burning crush

I never told her

now older
I see one less
heartache
that young me
had to shoulder

but how this
breeze survived
thirty-nine
years through
space and time well

your guess is as
good as mine

Second Sight

When I was on
the moon
I saw

odd things

very odd things
I should wish
to explain

but seeing its
elegant
luminescence
with my toes

lightly on
the grass
on a pleasant
summer night
renders
odd things

perfectly
unremarkable

Give Me Carl Sandburg

Give to me Carl Sandburg
and I shall be content,
and of course Robert Frost,
my weary soul’s old friend.

So many of the old poets
I cannot sit and read,
their unending, ponderous verse –
I’m in quicksand to my knees!

Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”
is a masterpiece to be sure,
but for every line I understand
I’m lost in a hundred more.

Give to me Carl Sandburg,
“Chicago Poems” I adore,
and I’ll take Bukowski, too
making magic from manure.

Perhaps I lack the intellect,
more likely patience is short,
but I cannot wade through Yeats,
for academics are his words.

I will take Carl Sandburg
as my desert island choice,
but Jim Harrison must come, too,
for I love to hear his voice.