Sweet Illusion

Sitting here quietly
with a glass of wine
Classical Christmas music
playing softly behind
Surrounded
Engulfed
by two fine
beautiful trees
and decorations
of red and blue
I almost believe
Briefly
That the
warm
wonderful
joyful
carefree
holiday of TV’s
illusion could
be true

The Wait

I’ve wrapped the first gift of the season
and slipped it neatly neath our nine foot tree
A good feeling
Not so good wrapping
And now I’m waiting for the UPS man to arrive
The “other” Santa
I’m ready to fly
It’s all laid out
paper
scissors
tape
tags
bows

Waiting

The Greatest Tragedy

What hope is there
for one whose
great gift lay
uncultivated
Allowing days
to drift aimless
upon wispy clouds
of phantom excuses?
What use a life of
mindless rote and
trifling duties
An existence
turned away
from the
raison d’etre
kindled inside?
No greater tragedy
could I write

The Cancer Had Him

seeing demons
and I leaned over
his delirium
They were real things
to him
and me
whether morphine dreams
or other
My older brother
in sheer terror
A man made a wraith
by cancer
Trimmed to the weight
of a petite ballet dancer
on a six foot two frame
I carried him to
another room
and the demons –
they came too
There was nothing
I could do
so I prayed
Hey God,
take me
There’s blood on my hands
The dirty work of Uncle Sam
But whatever god there be
The I Am
by whatever name
didn’t see things the same
as me
and my brother was gone
within a week
These are the things that
inform the dramatic scenes
of this play
we call life

Eternal Earth

There is a knowing
in the loam
Eternity
in its dark
sweet balm
A nose of
dinosaurs
and kings
and growing
things and
it recalls
the gnarled
joints of
gingham clad
gardeners
who survived
the war
to plant
peonies
and dream
of passing
in their
sleep

A Word Apart

I have an insatiable
fondness for the word
assuage
It flows from the tongue
like the gentle stroke
of a lover’s caring hand
Effortlessly
a whisper even
when spoken aloud
and its meaning
true to its
sound
We have few such sublime
words around
and I trust
this poem has
assuaged
any doubt
in your mind

Batter Up!

Few of my poems are home runs
Some of the better might be doubles
with a run coming in – how bout that!
But it’s mostly strikes filling my stats
yet I still take my chances
Always swinging for the fences

Vigilance (PTSD)

I am the very soul of perhaps
There must always be an out
Ever wary of ambush, some trap
Escape must never be in doubt

These are things one learns in war
and around violent kitchen tables
Head on a swivel, eye on the door
where peace is naught but fable

A child is born – a warrior made
Innocence does not suit the field
A determined heart and well-honed blade
for those who would harm to feel