My hand
My hand
You take it;
place it
on your body
where i would
place it.
It is as tho
you read
the poetry
of my heart.
It is as tho
you know
passion will
flow thru me
again
like water
out of banks
along Old Seventy
Creek
after this week
of rain.
I hate white socks,
I rock prints with pink dots,
perennial purples like the phlox
I love a fresh pair right out the box
I love when they stare at me for blocks
on long walks in capris,
letting the colors drip down from my knees
I strut confidently through the breeze
peacock walking with an ease
Hold on there, Clarence,
You’re upsetting my friends;
These are people I’ve known for years.
And you there, Sam,
You’re imposing your will
Too much! (like Brett and his beers)
Neil and Amy, won’t you
Get a grip, please,
On the job you’re supposed to do.
And John, I appreciate
Your balancing act,
But the scales you hold are askew.
I don’t heed the loud call
To pack the big court
With more judges who are more fair.
I just wish that the ones
Who I’ve mentioned today
Would pack up now and end this nightmare.
A new family moved in down the street
one of their children, a boy of about six,
was alone, pushing his scooter
up the road toward my house as I arrived
home from work
when I stepped from my car, he asked,
Do you have any kids?
I thought for a moment, and told him
yes, but they are grown and have gone
their own way
Okay, he said, turned his scooter,
and glided down the street, alone
He will never know how, with that single question,
he made me reconsider my entire life,
which flashed before my eyes,
hitting me like a gut punch
I thought of how it might have been,
had I had more children—
perhaps a little boy or girl, around his age—
about how they may have had a scooter, too,
and also needed a friend to play with in the warmth of
early summer
I thought of how pleasant it would have been
to hear their childsong and laughter
through the open window as I washed
the dishes
of how they may have gone to school together,
and become best friends, then
high school sweethearts, then,
in time, married–
creating a line between them that
stretched from their childhoods to
the very end and to the possibility
of children of their own, playing
together on this street or that
how strange life is–
how few the opportunities taken,
how plentiful the opportunities lost
my heart broke in that moment
for the little boy
who was just looking for
someone—anyone–to join him for play,
someone willing to risk a skinned elbow
for the simple joy of racing
down the road, scooters
side by side
my heart broke for me, too,
because, while I understood
we can’t take every choice—
there is no time to open every door—
still, in my heart there was room
for so much more
They don’t know exactly how old you are
because your massive chest is mostly hollow—
Too many voids, the park forester says, too few rings
to count inside—but you’re pushing three hundred
& look every day of it. You stood here before
Lexington was Lexington, before the old mill,
before the park became a park in the nineties.
Your long limbs stretch across the trail
with the help of crutches now, tall stiff poles
to rest your arms on so you won’t tip over in a storm
like your brother did a few years back. Walking sticks
or no, it’s a matter of time, but you’re still leafy
as hell with the biggest acorns in town. You’re not
going anywhere, anytime soon, but I figure
you’re lonely, the last of your kind. Some afternoons
I keep you company, resting on the bench at your feet,
two gnarly old soldiers telling war stories & shooting
the breeze. You know that I lost my brother too,
that my heart’s as full of voids, that my joints
are just as creaky when the nights get cold.
We’re equally subject to the gravity of the years
pulling us down, though neither’s in much of a hurry
to get there. Who can say, in the end, which of us
will be the last one standing? I hope it’s you.
We’re here on our own nickel
If you copy and paste creed
parrot other’s lines
from fear or because you need
a brother, miss mother
or some other motive your
mouthpiece concocts to conceal
the real deal of free will
you won’t get your nickel’s worth
Trust yourself
I ain’t got no words left in me.
I ain’t got no more to write.
I ain’t even got ho heartache
Beatin down on me tonight.
Staring blankly at the table
With a cold drink in my hand.
In an eyes wide open coma,
I’m a keyboard banging man.
Tell me your problems.
They’re nothing new.
I already heard your story
Even if it’s new to you.
Go on and try me.
I’ve heard before.
Well I’ll be damned,
That is a new one.
I guess there’s room for 1 more.
I ain’t got no words left in me.
I ain’t got no more to write.
Guess I know what I’ll be dreaming
When I close my eyes tonight.
I’ve been told a thousand truths.
I’ve been told a million lies.
I’m a burnt out keyboard banger
Staring at the wall tonight.
This old dog, asleep at my feet,
one ear tuned to danger
should it come near,
her days are closing soon,
while mine, if all goes right,
will carry on a while after.
But no need to worry
about either of us tonight.
The river keeps to it banks.
The holly tree unfurls
new crowns of thorns.
And just for you,
my forever friend, fat rabbits
running through the silken dew.
