He drove off to college

She brings it to the woods where it does not belong
it does not smell like limestone
does not hear the ripple of flowing water
does not walk along the creek like cedar boughs,
it will never have the sex appeal of soaring hawk

She keeps it in her head and will not bring it out
it exists like quantum mechanics
and has a Roman numeral hiding in every black hole
it remains mute behind the face of her Latin,
stays motionless on the path of meaning like India ink

She wants to tie it up with the lace of her boot
but it’s birth canal is in the invisible snap of synapse
and grounded like lightning through the roots of trees,
it lives off the limes of delicious dilemma
and comes close to fiddling like old man Nero

She grows tired of it and leaves it where it does not belong,
it will become honeysuckle and root like wild boar
spread like moldy fungi through fiddlehead fern
turn the romance of the world against its own moon.
This is why there are jumbo jets and ermine clouds

Dishes delicious, tables laden with
nothing I want to eat, not even the
star treat, hot dog buns palming
“what purports to be sausage,” wink, wink.
(Supposedly, only the artsy who live in
lofts of New York City really
get it.)  

Forget it –
I’ve come for plum brandy.  

Everyone’s nice, I take a seat.
I let decanters of wine pass me by.
Come on, wouldn’t you like to try?
I shake my head.
I’m saving room for plum brandy. 

Then I feel the meal escaping,
my consciousness blinking.
I reach for the bottle, rude, seeing
I’m spent, useless as a bruised banana.  

I don’t even take a drink, I sink
back into dirt that birthed me, knowing
I never needed no
m_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ plum brandy.          

today it will rain
tomorrow, rain again. this
is irish summer 

On the table in front of me is a stack of books

The first authored by Bell Hooks,

Someone else taught me her name

In front of the fireplace is plant stand that I still need to give a friend

A house-warming gift now several months late

As I’m pleasantly entwined in a near constant exchange of things, ideas, and place

On the wall a photo of Tom Petty

Put there by the man who owned the bookstore

I learned to love in

A print of Claude Monet’s “the lilies” sitting in the floor

Mugs with coffee stains from each destination I’ve traveled for

A raven holding a lightbulb in its beak

Two pieces of granite on the shelf, carved to act as bookends

I’m an amalgamation of every token of affection

Stitched up by “I was thinking of you”

Parts of me are that are wholly mine are so few

I’ve been slowly built up over time

By lovers and dear friends

This house would not be home

If it were not filled with the things given to me by their hands

I hope that when they reach for the teacup, art, or the trinket I’ve offered

They know much I treasure this constant exchange of love and life

And know that anything I find beautiful will never be coffered

The trainer said my dog
Is really, really smart.
But watching him race
As fast as possible

In a circle
On the living room rug
Chasing his own tail,
Makes me wonder
How smart he really is.

Of course,
The same could be said about me
And a sizable portion
Of the population of our planet.

The Steinway grand,
under warm hall lights,
expectant crowd, murmuring

reviewing the program:
Bach, Mozart, Beethoven
in the first half

Chopin, Debussy, and Prokofiev
in the second

and, lately, he has been playing
the Schubert as first encore

the hall lights dim,
the stage door open,
his confident footsteps,
a roar of applause

he bows, a hint of
that charming smile,

he sits at the piano,
the hall falls silent,
he lifts his hands
to the keyboard

and opens
a new universe

a night walk through a forest                      
                                                     of conifers aglow with mushrooms
(bitter oyster, little ping-pong
                                                     bats, bleeding fairy helmet, honey
fungus) bewitching insects to                                                 
                                                     strew their spores & fireflies (we called lightning
bugs) flashing for mates, mirror-               
                                                           ing the heavenly incandescence of the moon
& stars. How sated the air feels,   
                                                         dense & intense, a smoky dark green & I too,
radiate with the flush & fever of                                                    
                                                           pleasure & reverence; recall past glows: 1971,
falling in love for the first time,                                                     
                                                         18 & in college, car-singing tunes I swooned
over & still adore today at 71—                                               
                                                        Imagine, Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, After the Gold Rush,
I Feel the Earth Move, Me & Bob-
                                                         by McGee, Woodstock, Wild World, Maggie May,                 Stairway to Heaven.  

I wrote this poem a while back after losing another close friend to cancer.  This dreaded disease impacts just about everyone in their lives in some form, shape or fashion.  Many of us have faced the c-word with family, friends, colleagues, and even in-person.  This is my rememberance to those we have lost and to those close to us battling this terrible disease.  This is a very simple poem with a strong message.

I lost another friend today
Who battled cancer for many years,
Seeing another friend pass on,
It is hard to hold back the tears. 

The fight they fought took courage,
And the hurdles they jumped each day,
Losing another friend to cancer,
I long for a cure and brighter days. 

There once was a woman who loved a good oration
She wondered what would happen at Thursday’s confrontation
To other plans she said goodbye
Checked her popcorn supply
And waited to learn the fate of the nation