Time
Too much to do
Too few hours left
Too many people
Too much work
Too few days spent
Too many miles away
Too much to be attending
Too few minutes to spare
Too many more months
Too much to choose from
Too few to let go of
suspended midflight / sun-blinded
shadows stretch beyond feet / quick rush
behind faster than feet kick back
rustle of chains / twisting whistle
of metal on metal in need of
a good greasing / musky wood chips
wet from a downpour that morning
tacky rub of rubber heated
in the July Kentucky sun
against young skin / let go of chains
reach forward / grasp to gain more height
more distance / more air / let loose / fly
There sits within me an aching
emptiness a cliche-shaped hole
only you can fill a longing yes
for something I am too scared to
speak aloud to anyone but God
A long day of driving,
roads narrower than
I’m used to, coming
and going from New York
and Pennsylvania.
This long drive has landed
me in Manistee, Michigan.
Before checking in, unpacking,
I go in search of water,
deep cold Great Lakes blue.
As a child I loved Lake Ontario,
Fair Haven beach. The summer
afternoons I spent swimming,
getting sunburned. Now,
a week after Labor Day
The Fifth Avenue Beach
is near empty, except for flocks
of gulls. I take my shoes off,
as someone approaching
holiness, slip-slide my way
through shifting sand to rest
my weary feet in cold Great Lakes
water, to rest my weary eyes
on a horizon where water meets
sky, and nothing else matters.
My dad helped us transplant
daylilies he’d been raising for years
into our front garden.
He said that they were good flowers
for brown-thumbed people,
that they’d take care of themselves
if set up right.
My wife and I eagerly awaited
the bloom of bulbs we had tended.
And waited. And waited
like impatient children as they
slowly gathered strength and pushed leaves out,
and grew stalks and buds
that opened into glorious colors.
The garden, a riot of fireworks,
each one popping open and withering
within a day,
each one thankful for its
time to shine.
their sake, our sake, your sake
fuck sake,
stop and smell the
shit stains
rather than the roses,
give a whim, fret, care,
damn about
you, we, me, she, her, he, him, they, them,
us
you son of father, mother, guardian, God, and all other forms of being you’ve forgotten, bitch
slapped in the face by a people who are
dog, cat, mouse, horse, pig, donkey, and elephant tired.
Fuck the injustice, bigotry, tyranny, patriarchy.
No dictators, rulers, emperors, kings.
how can I write subtly
in this fascist country
how can I write poetry
when even the obvious alludes the eyes?
There are pickers in the field today
No one with a five-string guitar
but pickers on a holy quest with black
buckets and borrowed clippers
Carrying memories of their grandmother’s
garden, or the garden they wished she had.
Kneeling among the zinnias, yarrow,
and bee balm
Stretching across the blooming aisles
of peach, and pink, and yellow blooms
Worshipping among flowers
demands nothing in return
no Hail Mary’s prayed on beads
of rosewood, silver, or glass
Just an Honesty Box —
all in good faith
Praise comes in the hummingbirds
flight, the bees serenade,
the lightening bugs taste for sweet
nectar – a Communion of small things.
on the advent of my death
the chaplain will read my name
to the sea in helwys hall
brimming with bright-eyed youths
yearning for the promise of tomorrow
as the summer breeze flits
through wide-open panes
she will likely pronounce it wrong
snagging on incorrectly stressed syllables
urged on by the sweltering heat
from bodies pressed too-tightly together
a faceless name read to a yawning crowd
who once sat in their place
grappling with her own mortality.
