Writings

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Lines to a poet friend

To a poet stranger I’ve never met,
I wish you peace and joy and clarity,
Through the many miles that lay between us,
Of mountains, rivers, and neighbor cities,
I wish you peace of heart and peace of mind,
For the doors to one’s imagination
Are unlocked by an open heart and mind;
I wish you joy to see the pain in life
As lessons for the strength that you possess;
I wish you clarity in thoughts and acts
To be your best and never second guess.
I wish upon the million stars above,
In faith for sure I call upon them now,
“Take my message through this day’s fog to you,
You, oh poet stranger, I’ve never met!”

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Fog

Fog

Through a veil against the coming day,
bare tree limbs protrude from the smoky white.
Lifeless trees stand yet reach out for the sky.
Some stubborn brown leaves like skeletons hang
to little limbs caught in night’s caresses.

The sky seems tired of being so high,
so throughout the night she must have fallen
to the earth where she remains entangled,
still here — her laced crown and diadem
do keep my thoughts to stolen nights with you.

Like a shroud keeping out the day, you stay
Near to my heart, and envelop my limbs
with heat from your tender sweet caresses.
I remain like the stubborn leaf, a shell
of my former self, soaking in your sky.

 

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Taps

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The white chalk blocks
The wicked electric blue,
The molten orange beneath
And the entrance of you.

I had to offer two beers
In peace when you walked in.

I also threw more wood on the fire.
Two rather skinny pieces as kindling along the sides of the already steady log cabin.
And one long quartered piece besides a small hunk of a mistake,
A split of a split diagonally sliced.

So I looked down at the fire once more,
And saw only shapes and colors and times of day,
And that scarf I picked up
— chartreuse —
The night of our only date.

Someone had left that scarf
A party or two before
And I assumed ownership of it the following morning.
The morning after when I recalled your leaving —
after my rather lascivious display.

I would’ve liked to have been able to tell you how much I enjoyed our date,
But we don’t talk anymore
And I’m too ashamed to say anything
I’m dumb
And see only colors.

The white chalk blocks,
The wicked electric blue,
The molten orange beneath
And the fire’s hottest hues.

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Lines in Section 22 at the Arlington National Cemetery

On this hill facing east. The falling sun warms my eye to stop and notice a fat little Robin walking upon the marble base to this large rectangular rock, this gravestone. There’s Carr and Thomas on either side of this Colonel and Cross and Fuller below. Robinson, Sullivan, Griffin, and Reed. Homer and Klein and Hull and Stokes. Names upon names and stones upon stones, rows upon rows and me upon one hill. One little hill, of so many. One little me, and so many of them.

I trek on but am overcome.

Posted in travel

into the night

Into the Night

I ramble over pressed concrete
aside asphalt plastered thin over dirt,
and under trains overhead.
I cling to the few steps left to my door –
I remember the time I lose.

I ramble, through the sounds as I sit here.
Lone car speeding by, and now the shuttle
hurling towards me and then
percussively coming to a slow stop,
sounds of letting off steam, a short squeal,
and it whispers off I assume for I don’t hear it anymore.

I ramble, with my eyes out this window,
up the brickwork across the way to the lighted windows,
shades parted, fluorescent light from within.
Their neighbor above them has gone to bed.
Orange floods in through the slats in the fence and
I remember gold concrete swaths painted by rain,
that morning I woke up to need to shut the windows.

I ramble through my memory of that morning,
and I remember what it felt like to wake up alone.
I walk to my bedroom for no particular reason,
at least I had forgotten by the time I arrived –
my train of thought derailed
as I passed the open window in the living room
hearing a woman in ecstasy.  Two long moans,
reverberating off that brick and concrete.

I ramble to the window in my imagination
and the world is darkened by the night
but illuminated by the orange and white.
There she is through the slats in that window,
through the Venetian blinds, see her figure?
No, maybe she’s in the apartment right above?
But the sound is gone now and she would remain a sound.

I ramble in the silence of this night,
and another train passes
hurling then slowing like a flap in tap dancing.
A sixteenth note followed by an eighth.
Fa-lap, fa-lap, fa-lap, fa-lap.
The shuttle train is only two cars long.

I will ramble in a moment,
over pressed concrete and asphalt
plastered thin over dirt, clinging to the unknown –
remembering the time I lose while rambling
and rambling and rambling into the night.

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Stop and smell the roses

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Everyday this little rose
Stretches for the morning sun.
And soon to come when no one knows
These petals dry and start to fall
One by heavy little one.
Take heed in this life.
Give and shine and grow until
All the songs you want to dance have come,
And perchance you sat some out
Or if perchance you sit too early
Know the faces in your mind
That broke with everlasting rhyme
Those men and women even strangers
Coming going in your life
How many smiles did you encounter
How much happiness did you give?

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Lines after St. Michael’s Cemetery

Frozen angels stand guard over the Dead,
While speeding cars on rainy roads bring dread.
Long green or freshly brown they watch the ground
In silent remorse with no one around
But the constant onslaught from up above
Softly falling, slowly washing away
The sins and sadness, stories and madness,
And acid rain in time erases all
These names, while the Lord of Time does his dance,
Locked in his embrace, lost within his trance,
The World spins and reels, stumbling and mumbling
Its philosophies in any language
It knows to any open orifice,
Through hatred or acceptance, bigotry
Or love or carnal competition it
Screams from giant L.E.D or neon
Letters burning through to you telling you
What to do, what to buy, what to feel and
“All is nigh!” “Now is the time!” “it’s all yours!”
“Take it, it’s your right.”

Lost in time and frozen in time, Angels
Guard over the Dead.

DOESTOYEVSKY. the quote that started it all.

They sometimes talk about man’s bestial cruelties, but that is being totally unfair and unjust to the beast.  For a beast can never be as cruel as a man, so artistically so picturesquely cruel. 

DOESTOYEVSKY. the quot…