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.

Invitation

The magnolia
tree has bloomed,
though it be but one flower it
is holy and white, without
stain or blemish,
Such a sight!
There is hope,
surely the sun
will notice
and return
to warm its
petals and,
thus encouraged,
we will all
bloom
anew

Bit By Bit

4:30pm
silence
for one minute
to remember victims
of the London Bridge attack
and I felt a smack of guilt
over my lack
of concern but I have
sadness enough sitting here
an ocean away as the
incessant rain
pounds pieces of my soul
to the bloated ground
and she cannot hold me,
rejected
I am fed
bit by bit
through the dank concrete
storm drain
where on fairer days
the groundhog likes to stay
and they say this rain
which has stolen me
will go the sea –
so there I will be,
fractured and bruised
a soggy black and blue,
not even mighty Neptune
will know what to do
to make me of use
again

Parched

I have
crawled
valiantly
through the
searing sands
today with
all the
grace of a
skittering
scorpion
searching
for some
hapless
arachnid
to devour it

was no spider
I sought
but a drop
of elixir
from the muse now

sprawled
face up
glaring
into the eye
of the
unflinching
sun

not even a
tear will come

perspiration
my only
inspiration only

vultures
to attend
my poetic
cremation

Dervish

Poems
blood
and
flesh,
hypnotic
largesse
of peace,
gentle white
hibiscus
blooming
towards
the earth
roots spiraling up
swooning
to caress
the face
of God,
ecstatic
swirls
of Rumi’s
love
profound