I speak to unfamiliar gravestones
      when I visit dead family and friends

I ask them if it’s true
      that their replies are echoes in the stale air’s moans?

I ask them how they live
      — now– after this life ends

I talk to unfamiliar gravestones
      because I don’t know if anyone else does

I try to muster engaging conversations
      about loyalty, friendship, and love

I laugh with unfamiliar gravestones
      when a joke I share lands right

I listsen for their hallowed howls,
      even though I know the quiet stirs the night

I watch shadows grow on unfamiliar gravestones
      and take heed when the boneyard rattles
 
I make my way back to the living
      swaying to a symphony of windspun growls and clatters

When the morning birds begin the chants
to raise the sun from its twiggy nest
I recognize the party is about to start,
an end to the hours I enjoy best, 
the dropped needle quiet of middle night
the last of the rowdies off the road,
raccoons not yet fiddling with the garbage can lid.

So many times I’ve woken in that void
and needed a moment to locate the cave wall 
in the pitch, interpret its grit,
find the guide rope to get my bearings again.

I start coffee and sit at the table 
with yesterday’s unopened mail, 
thinking of credit card offers, the news from DC, 
trying to understand how the two
are umbilically connected, thoughts put on hold
while the coffeemaker wheezes
through the last of its drip.

My father’s last morning,
struggling to breathe, forced oxygen
hissing from the pillows in his nose, 
my mother and I told him he could go.
Let go, we’ll be okay, we said. Let go. 
And he did.

Of the Wilis’ fate in Giselle, I do wonder
If, in the end, one was still added to their number.

For what of Bathilde, at the end of day?
By Duke Albrecht was she, too, not betrayed?

Even if they married, she would always know
That her intended loved another so.

A maiden she so briefly called a friend
Before the girl’s life drew to bitter end.

Did the Wilis taunt dear Bathilde in her sleep
And make her crave the revenge that they keep?

Ah, poor Bathilde—but, such is the plight
Of minor roles when leads are out of sight.

For e’er will it remain a mystery
What you went through on Albrecht’s night of misery.

1
There was a fine lady from Versailles
who enjoyed the sight of nude males.
They’d strip off their clothes
& she’d have them all pose
while she daintily painted her nails!

2
There once was a girl from Paducah
whose boyfriend was a total palooka.
She traded him in
for his sexier friend
whose appendage was like a bazooka!

3
There once was a woman from Midway
whose beau was a chaste Green Beret.
She then met a sailor
who just loved to nail her
after which it was anchors aweigh!

To write a haiku
one must count each syllable 
yes every damn one 

Patriotism takes conviction. Patriotism keeps 

The world is hard enough 

When you try to navigate,

And you wonder as you wander,

At all the notions in your pate.

But life is even tougher,

Or that’s what I have to say,

When you realize it’s you,

That keeps getting in your way.

I feel as though I’m standing,

At a tall palin’ fence,

And I sort of have a notion,

Or at least I get a sense,

That I’m leaned down to a knothole,

And in this position I abide,

And I get a small glimpse,

Of what’s on the other side.

I see a life so glorious,

And just how it should be,

And I know that is it!

It’s what I want for me.

But I’ve grown so accustomed,

To only seeing with one eye,

That I refuse to shift my position,

And it’s so hard to try.

And the life I’ve known has set blinders,

My peripheral vision to shield,

So that I’ve given in to habit,

And to security I yield.

If I could only step outside myself,

And take a look around,

I truly know ‘t would be so simple,

The thing that would be found.

I’ve a notion I would find,

If I were only in accord,

That the fence through which I’m peeping,

Consists of just one board.

And I would find I could step over,

If I gained confidence to try,

For the board I’m peeping through, you see,

Is only two feet high.

And the “fence” with the knothole,

Is only six inches wide,

There are many ways, around or over,

To the other side.

But like a horse hitched to a railing,

Or tethered to a stake,

I’m tethered, peeping through that knothole,

And all for habit’s sake.

Is it that I lack confidence?

Or wisdom just to try?

I have to admit, the sight is good,

The bit that I can spy.

And I know I’m tired of stooping,

And squinting with one eye,

I’m tired of angry frustration,

And wondering just why.

To live a life unfettered,

How freeing it would be,

And it would be good for all around me,

But most of all for me.

Until my eyes met yours

Suffocating never sounded so sweet

Hot humid air, sticky in my lungs

Sweet sweat on my upper lip

A cry caught in my throat

Truth be told, I think my gut knew what would happen

A moth stuck under a windshield

Wings beat against the glass

Fingers can’t be so delicate

As to hold me

To urge me out the window

They say the body’s a temple. Mine’s more like

hear only birds &
a rooster next yard over
I sip matcha tea