“Summer Cottage”
Summer cottage
Back from the sea
Sand trails worn
Salty breeze
Past noon shadows
‘Round windows sneak
Lazy naps
Blissful peace
Sunset wonder
Horizon squeeze
Barefoot stroll
Soul at ease
Summer Cottage
Tag: Poems
“Garbage Poems”
“Garbage Poems“
Garbage poems find a home
Pouring from my pen
Garbage poems, parts unknown
Not an if, but…when
Garbage lines unrefined
Jumping to the page
Garbage lines of my mind
Bring this poet shame
Garbage rhymes passing time
Poet’s praying priest
Garbage rhymes human crimes
Shepard’s saintly feast
Garbage art does depart
A poet’s metered mind
Garbage art full of heart
If the bard’s inclined
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“Writing Distraction”
“Writing Distraction”
Environment skews focus
Elusive ideas remain away
Cannot quite grasp it
Looming large but ineffable
Which is a word I learned in high school
From a young woman named Megan
Which I cannot remember if she spelled her name with or without an “h”
Old dial tone phones with Boa Constrictor cords
Kept us tethered in the wonder of an inconsequential connection
Each of us pushed towards an idea of what we were supposed to be
In spite, of the discomforts of not knowing how
I do not know that we ever kissed or held hands
But—I am certain the seeds of my later courting elegance were sown during these largely small distractions
Flailing at life
Learning to dance
Whispering into the molded plastic receiver of an avocado colored phone
Hoping against hope that my deepest secrets and desires were heard
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“Outstanding”
“Outstanding”
Sometimes it’s hard to stand out
Standing up for others that can’t
Backing down bullies’ braggadocio
There are people out to hurt others
Afraid to help others
And ignore their suffering
Enjoying the struggle
Yet—
Some still stand out against that
Hands outstretched
Elevating others
Those are the ones…
That stand out
For me, for you, for all
Standing for righteousness
Standing on
Standing up
Standing out
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“Alone From Me”
“Alone From Me”
I don’t know how to be
In a place—alone from me
Sustaining sanity
A misleading reverie
Impatience patiently
In a place—alone from me
Existential parity
Haunts this lucid waking dream
A calm collective calamity
In a place—alone from me
Isolation bursting seams
Old companions take their leave
A desert mirage fleetingly
In a place—alone from me
Unsightly vision still unseen
Alone…alone…alone from me
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“Rain, Dear?”
“Rain, Dear?”
Splatters drip abundant
Down sloped trolley exoskeletons
Wintering coats repel most water…
But, not all
Surgical masks punctuate the crowd
Riders on then off
The catastrophe of a wet commute
Hangs soggy on the brows of all
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“Mountains Misting”
“Mountains Misting”
Post dawn play awakens
Mountaintops pulling clouds down
Wisps of Wizard’s beards
Spied dancing among the tree line
Sun rays slicing through
Heralding the advance of day
Echoes of busy, travel valleyward
Surrounded by loud quiet
Peaceful energy vibrates
Nature reminds of its stature
Sunlight washes over peaks
Then tumbles down painting fauna
Jagged granite exposed
Playing hide and peak
Shadows finding the best spots
Tippity treetops tease vertigo
And a sky Godly blue reigns
Mountains misting distant points
Mark moments perceived in time
By the ferocious precious of human existence
What is a mountain misting to man?
What is a man to mountains misting?
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“Counsel of the Crowd”
“Counsel of the Crowd”
Boston Common jury pool
Sitting just to wait
Impaneled peers passing by
Hundreds of thousands of judgments
Rendered unconsciously
The horde wills itself
Despite small protests
Barrister bums profess innocence
Regardless of their guilt
Happy clams waiting to be plucked
Away from an unjust motion
To dismiss outright, doubt
Just is
Thumbs are on the scales
Just is
Only pretending to be blind
Just is
She’s in it for the handicapped placard
Just is
Courting the illusion
Writing to sit
Peers passing disaffected
Pooling common
Just is
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“Wind Phone”
“Wind Phone”
I had heard tales of a wind phone
Somewhere in Japan
Talk to your dead loved
They said
I bought a plane ticket
I flew on the wind
I found the wind phone
It was somewhere in Japan
I waited in the queue
My turn finally came
I approached the booth with trepidation
It was white
That is to say the booth was dreadful white
And there was a small neatly organized table
Organized in precision in only the way a small Japanese table could be
Upon it was a phone
Black and dull
What was once shiny glossy
Passed through thousands upon thousands of hands
Hand to ear
Mouth to word
Word to air
Not ears…
Wind phone!
Talk to your dead loved
They said
Only, I chose differently
I didn’t talk to my Father
Dead these eight years
I didn’t talk to my Mother
Dead these twelve years
I didn’t even speak to the baby we lost between my first son and my first daughter
Perhaps, his name was Hieronymus
No, I spoke to no dead loved
But, I put my words into the wind phone
Hoping the wind would find the ears of my second son, Paul
He is minimally verbal
But, luckily for us, more verbal than most
I try to persuade the wind with my silver tongue
Persuade it to unlock the mystery of my second son
Who often releases words on the wind,
Hoping those words unlock some type of understanding between us
As I look out over a Japanese valley
The wind carries my words away
Not to be heard,
Nor understood
The wind phone holds me silent
As I wait for a connection
Whether my second son was there
Or ten thousand miles away,
Our words are carried over the wind
And, pass us by.
Blowing fierce into the stratosphere
Carrying our DNA back to the stars that we came from
Out to somewhere where our dead loved
Are rejoined in a Big Bang connection
As I hung up the phone
I looked backward at the queue,
And felt shame for my wind blasphemy
I had to try
Before I myself become dead loved
I hope they can forgive me—
I hope Paul can forgive me—
I then thought to myself…
That maybe sometimes not being able to talk to your dead loved
Is not as bad as not being able to talk to your alive loved
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“Father Dagda”
“Father Dagda”
Father Dagda
Who could blame ya?
As violence begets pain.
Pirate’s plunder
Torn asunder
Your family’s gravy train.
No way of showing,
All are growing.
Soon you’ll be alone.
Father Dagda
Must keep rowing,
Despite a tide so low.
