I always thought that pickles came from ponds
That somewhere out there in the countryside
Among rolling hills were large pickle farms
And on those farms were countless pickle ponds

When I grew up, I knew what I would do
I’d become a pickle scuba-farmer
To gather pickles I’d need scuba gear
To dive deep beneath the green pickle ponds

In those green ponds grew strands of pickle-vine
Taller than a building they’d grow in height
Then I would get to work picking pickles
I’d fill my net with as much as I could  

After diving I’d return to my boat
Filling my jars with the catch of the day
Then I would splash the jar into the pond
Filling it with juice direct from the source

After a very long day on the farm
Next to my gear, I’d relax on the dock 
Smelling all the vinegar in the air
And eating all the free pickles I could

But as we grow up, we face some hard truths
Santa, Tooth Fairy, and Easter Bunny
Responsible for letting down our youth
But for me, it was the discovery…

Of Cucumbers

Scent of pine trees and hot wind hitching  sandy back roads to all the beaches of Maine deep summer heaat baking into us.
Once we stood in torrential rain under a bridge near Quebec City got a ride with some drunk Quebequois teenagers who let us crash in thier purple lighted cave of an apartment in Montreal.
We wandered six months, the road stretching before us like a consstant 
mirage.
Now it takes us ten mnutes to struggle from house to car, me carrying walker and wheelchair for him – this is how the journey ends?

once he rode
into her life magician
on a green
antique motorcycle
wind rain cloud chaser

The honeysuckle vined along the broken cedar fence
at the same time wild wisteria filled the corridor of the woods
and whispered to me stay the course.  

Purple hydrangea rolled along the side of the house
waves of hope crashing in fragrant curves
filtering through the lace curtains.  

I bent down to caress the tall lupine,
heard the chime of angel trumpets
clearing the world’s chaos in the summer heat.  

Floral whispers continued with the pink primrose
and deep red creeping phlox piercing the silence
cascading down the hillside.  

Hollyhocks climbed the splintered barnwood
piled along the east fork of the river from times long gone,
reminding me to see beauty in all things. ​

I want what I want
when I want it

with all its
tongues & touch
with fingers reaching
the breath the linger

there will be no past
no future only now

the silk dress you
will buy me will be
all that remains
and the poems
I left for you
in the closet upstairs
where we thought there
were secrets
but we’re not

everyone knows
everything always

the touching
and loving even
when floating and lost
you carry me beside

we wander together
we love enough
when we forget
lips and teeth
sink in
tight and firm
we never hurt
in night as
you roll me over.

Might be heaven                        
                                might not
Might be death                          
                             or not completely  

Could be we’re big-time important
Could be we’re just whittling a stick                        

May be that the only way
we’ll ever love ourselves                  

                    is love our neighbor    

In the early morning hours,
a raspy, high-pitched screech.
It’s a fledgling barred owl,
calling for a meal of meat.

Silent, effortless gliding,
dad in search of his prey,
stops on a tree branch to spy,
disable, and flies away.

Mom takes the fresh prey
and meticulously tears it apart.
Making soft bite-size ribbons;
meal time is about to start.

She lands soft and quietly
on a gnarly tree, limb.
Then securing her talons
let the feeding begin.

She places, soft ribbons
of meat in his beak.
The squeaking subsides
as the fledgling begins to eat.

        Whole days of rain,
trees gone gray
        behind a sheer curtain—

draws out children’s dreams
inspires painters
to still
its cloudy weather

MANY POETS ARE

saints: they         succeed in being themselves.

                                            the artist         called by
                the circumstances of their lives

endeavor to                                                             write
                            poems                 possess
sanctity.
                            an intense
                People             in a hurry to magnify
                            what is
                    better.
Hurry                     saints.

Blackout poetry from page 65 of Thomas Merton’s Seeds of Contemplation