A row of opposites, some funny, some not,
there for everyone to see, 
but what is the point?
So many messages in so many directions
each of them only deliver
a single gulp of a breath.
A picture, a page, a degree,
a sign, a move, a note,
a memory, a word, a hope,
a gesture, a religion, a job,
a gift, a respite, a retreat,
a history, a game, a chance–
the medium fails to matter
if the artist is never in the room
with the art they envision.
The point is not to look back at the end
and assemble the pieces 
into a whole;
the point instead emerges 
that writing the story is the point,
not relishing your product through productivity.

hovered over the poets
like a floating period,
waiting to descend
on anyone who goes long. 

I love books. I love words. 
I love fantastic worlds 
and mundane ones. 
I love reading in bed,
in the bathtub, standing
in lines, at the doctor’s office, 
at my desk at work. 

I will probably die 
With a book in my hands. 

I could not read today. 
None of the books on my shelf
spoke to me. None on my Kindle, 
none at the library. No audiobooks,
nothing.

I just sputtered to a halt 
in the middle of an afternoon,
like a car out of gas.

I’m not sure
what to do with myself
if I can’t read.

What do non-readers do?

you were a star
that burnt out 
long, long before 
you were meant  
to leaving the rest
of us behind here
in the darkness

gone from the sky
on a clear night in
mid-august, leaving
just a little stardust
behind like sand

i search the skies
every night for you
but some day….
…some day i reckon
i will finally stop

For every action
there is an equal
and opposite
reaction.  

The time spent with  a lock pick at a keyhole,
eye glued to the dark other side of the door
like your parents’ room when you were small,
half=remembered quilt covered bed
and an dusty valet stand in the corner
and a lace doily on the dresser with perfume bottles.  

You feel the click
more than hear it
as you turn the pick,
turn the knob,
feel the vibration
of unoiled hinges.  

Half-forgotten blank spaces obscure the scene
of a man, of a woman, of a husband, of a wife,
of a little boy standing in the doorway
unnoticed in the dark.

A new diagnosis.

A new lens

through which

to view myself

and my past.

Discovery and mourning,

compassion and regret,

acceptance and adaptation

will all be part of the journey.  

                                                                                                    night sky
                                                                                                            waxing
                                                                                                                crescent
                                                                                                                    moon
                                                                                                                      perhaps
                                                                                                                    i will
                                                                                                                  really
                                                                                                               begin
                                                                                                           this 
                                                                                                    time

Honeysuckle blooms and wild white daisies.
Benign, but greedy, vines.
Remind me, what does poison ivy look like?
A soiled plastic bottle
in the middle of a glen.
I could see myself lying on the ground here,
finding the sky between the leaves
and wondering at the meaning of life.
Remember, the answer is always C. 

I’d like to climb the tree over yonder.
I’ll settle for a free throw in the net.
Dodge the trio of jagged green,
Shaq-branded ball in hand.
We are out of the woods.

I’m aware of that.
But it doesn’t feel right without them.
Those two familiar voices will not be calling my name tonight
There will be no fries stolen,
no quips I’ve invented
exchanged through small business booths

I’m aware,
yet something is starting to die.
Last week we left high school, finally free.
But there are only two Teen Howls left,
before I will be four hours away from
our monthly tradition of poetry and Tolly Ho grilled cheese.
8  hours for Ryan,
for Eva, 3.