Old school, he eschews 
the modern metal versions
for slender sticks of willow or hazel, 
not just any old found wood, 
the branch has to speak to him,
prove it retains root memory,
a longing for that
from which it has been severed.

In this way, he and the rod are alike.
Sundays, seeing Miss Green in her finery, 
her slender neck and ankle bones exposed,
he feels the sap begin to flow,
move through him like a coin 
he’d once seen a magician pass 
through a silk handkerchief.

Her voice is a shallow running creek, 
soft, yet even her whispered hello 
is a powerful cataract to his senses,
rounding his gruff, hard edges
and hammering him to the point 
words vacate his brain,
forcing him to reach
for a Dixie Cup to hide behind.

The faint pulse of hidden water,
this he understands. 
It’s the strong current
that flows unimpeded
when seeing Miss Green
that has left him adrift in his own skin,
as if his true heart’s mind
were a mystery, beyond divining.

Past day break
sky dense and dark
jewel weed about to burst
the sound of the world
        exhaling through the tops of trees
elms, elders telling tales of woe
indigo buntings faint in the distance
only this,  only this,  only this

Buzz in ear
bugs in eye
life as invasive as honeysuckle vine
bumps amd bruises on locust bark
damp sweetness gathering all around
only this,  only this

Bench of fallen maple
chittering of squirrel
bird song cacaphony
         suddenly silent.
Rain: a delicious dripping cavort
only this

Play of leaves aloft
black-eyed susans on the ground 
one red-eyed vireo
         in some impatient voice
scratch of pen on pad on knee 
 

In this never ending darkness
Why?
Why are you what I see?
When when I look back
I see nothing but pain
The good and the bad blur together like paint smeared on a canvas
Canvas, what a good analogy.
If my life is one large canvas, then you are but a tiny fucking smudge on the beautiful colors
But why does your smudge make such a difference
I stare at the smudge knowing that I can’t cover it up or the painting would look wrong
The smudge only gets smaller as my life goes on but I can still see it
Small as it may be
It taints the entire page with its deep black and red
Next to all these cyans, yellows, greens, oranges, aquamarines, purples.
You stand out
You always have
Since the moment I saw you I thought it would last forever
But instead you are this tiny smudge on the canvas of my life
I hate myself for still wanting to stare at this smudge
This inky and bloody smudge

Why do I still wish you would grow?
Why do you sit in my life?
Why can’t you just leave?
When this painting grows and grows and grows you’ll be too tiny to be remembered
But for now you sit
In the back of my mind yelling at me to turn my stylus around
To draw a straight line back to you
Too ruin my painting even more

cherry trees 

In the liquid darkness
   we danced

Where vanished lovers
   held hands

Circling young and old
   fingertips touching

Shoes tapping cobblestones
   old codes cracking

Dancers woven together
   costumes of air

Dead music living
   melodies bare

Americans mixed
   in the throng

Few do (most don’t)
  know the song

The train comes rollin’ on in June—
the Great North Central railroad line
filled with kilos Colombian ice-cold pure
and prisoners wearing suits of black.
It’s so I’m down and can’t feel—
today hell’s furnace makes me pray.

I seek the Most High to love, and pray
for the beat down man with good wife June.
I hurl spit in the eye of senators who feel
not the heart of the little man on the line,
then I don famous shirts of grievous black.
I could do better, I could be pure,

but for bathtub gin and Andes pure,
my knockin’ knees mock God when I pray.
I doubt my God’s hand, black
as stars like a sticky night in June—
they fan out at the table in a line,
cocktail waitress is givin’ me a feel.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.
I focused on the pain with twenty lines of pure.
Yes, in Jackson, by Jackson, off the Northern line,
I do seven lines, a swig of Jack then pray.
I hope to store those blues by June.
With heavenly hymns, pages of black.

I’ll not be coming back in my suit of black.
I hope to go to June begin again to feel.
I’ll be headin’ home to my true one, June
to live in paradise a life ever pure
where we’ll drink coffee on the porch and pray,
and leave these chains on down the line.

What man knows the glory, walks the line?
What man mourns the nation, wearin’ black?
What man bends his hallowed knees to pray?
What man chases pain to feel
to the ends of the Earth’s pure
skies hand in hand for love of June?

I will walk the line, again to feel—
be still in blackest beauty pure.
and pray my blues away with June.

Only see my boys a few times a year.
The boys run wild; laughter fills the house.
My dog sits close staring, tucked by my feet
dodging small feet, flying objects. Absorbed
in the moment no concern for my cherished
tchotchkes on the bookcase. Engrossed in their
joy and spontaneous fun,things lacking in my
day-to-day routines. Mom and Dad upstairs
preparing to go out, not here to hush their boys.
I don’t care. The boys ran out of speed. Joey,
the red headed 8 year old surprised me by climbing
his lanky body onto my lap to cuddle. I feared he
had outgrown this phase.

Memories of this
moment still bring tears.
Little boys create a mix of chaos,
joy, hugs  melting Nana’s heart.

Jubilant January jumpstarts the year amidst fireworks and joy

Frozen February dashes behind, outrunning the lovers who feel hearts are toys

Madcap March meanders wildly, wielding weather like a club

And Avaricious April withholds its many flowering bulbs

Muggy May mopes sadly, bringing with it vicious rain

Joyous June picks up the slack and fills the world with poems again

Jealous July’s bright sparks at night leave the first month’s sparks outshined

While Austere August tuts and watches schoolwork fill the children’s minds

Scholarly September works to cover skills that August lacks

Unaware that Odd October stalks and spooks the kids behind its back

Noble November’s colors feed the stomach and the soul

And Dear December caps it off with festive flair and cold