White Swan

As I pull my way onto the bridge

a swan flies across and over it

something I have seen before

once, somewhere in a scattered past

Now she’s back

her neck craned

and huge wings

beating hard

She seems as if she’s soaring

relative to my misdirected path

making a mockery

of my transition

Colors are ceded to youth,

nests, to their season,

while pathways

are borrowed from the sky

They pierce the fringes

of the soul

and then

depart.

Empty Spoons

The driver sat down by the edge of the water,

spoon in hand, pondering what flavors life

had left to offer

Bored with blue, the fool stood up and waved his spoon,

unaware of his own melancholy. “Declarations,”

he declared, “Declarations will be made as to what

it takes to suit me!”

The water snake could not hear him from where

it slithered along through the shallows – a turtle slipped

off of its rock only to take a swim

While fish chortled about in schools of leisurely thought,

oblivious to one of theirs which floated, catatonically,

to the surface, as if in tribute

And, off across the way, a fiddler tugged a

sloppy bow across a row of gleaming strings –

“Damn Hippie!” the driver scowled,

“Damn fool!”

Some play their songs with empty spoons,

others stand there, famished,

while the water turns bloody red.

Mending

Pollen wafting flakes in daylight green

clarinet scaling the second floor

bellies torn and stitched

calico cat guarding my feet

Poppies, paper, pink and orange

Percocet doing its best

“You look like a man on vacation,” she said

discomfort rests

Better days have been wasted

isn’t that what we’re here for?

a butterfly beats it into the wind

shorts unsnapped beneath my shirt

Sleep enchants – a luster to the breeze

so much is going on

sitting here, motionless

waiting for the time to heal

So much has come and gone

an old dog barks

“Ah, a hero,” she said

ah, a hero.

The Statue

Here, within the softness

of the snowfall,

its allure may find me,

catch hold of me,

and gradually freeze my soul

into stone

There is innocence in the eyes,

my hunger almost mistakes it

for snowflakes

as white as the page

that begs to be

despoiled with a pen

I long to let go of

all cause for concern

and allow such hypnotic beauty

to consume me

so that I might soar

past the constrictions

of all things wasted

And land

within a smile,

a dusted white

bone-hard statue,

its thoughts

unknown.

These Cars

All these cars

are shaped the same -

blobs in the Autumn light

I know how to start

and I know how to end

it’s filling in the middle

that perplexes me

A crayola

a blank page

and lines from my own head

It’s all a great cycle

I tell myself

but I’m stuck with one loop

This may just be

a seasonal slant

rebutting a different

perspective

Every rut

has its down side

and its upside

But then again, tell that

to the rusted, abandoned thing

sitting, running-board deep

in a dried-out swamp

And what do you get?

The thought that bumper

to bumper, it might just be you

The leaves bury these things

centimeter by centimeter

over the years, and yet

Sometimes

in the middle of the night

I roll over

into Spring.

A Curious Little Chain of Events

Sucking flowers

with a vacuum

protruding from

a fish’s mouth

in the very

presence of an

apathetic

ant standing on

a broken golf

tee belonging

to one Theo-

dore A. Klondike,

a curious

soul who put a

name tag on a

golf tee, but not

on his baseball

bat, the one that

he uses to

smash golf tees, fish,

occasional

buckwheat pancakes

but never ants

or sucked flowers.

                        (from a law school class…)

Mixed Emotions

The sky is mixed

in light and dark

in clouds as wisps

and solid puffs

of white against

which the thinner

ghosts of darkness

contrast and cross

You’re sorting out

your sanity

in particles

that make no sense

that paint themselves

as part of one

big picture that

rips itself apart

Do you hate it

here so very

much that you could

never love me?

The sky screams rain

and sunlight in

scattered layers

across the valley

Whatever card

you hold you drop

down on the floor

but never bend

to pick it up

for fear that it

might complicate

your situation

Look out below

but not above

explanations

reek and wander

like to wonder

like to ask you

where she went to

when she went away

Condense, let go

and, dropping down,

don’t wave goodbye

as if it matters

the waiting’s free

the wonder not

but it’s the chill

that’s bound to kill you.

Real

Did you become real

on a day of double Percocets,

when every slip into gentle sleep

brought you back to me?

God help me if I’m

just building another disaster

because, if and when this one crumbles,

there may be nothing left

Something must be precious

enough to actually exist in

the way that one would dream it –

something real enough to survive

As precious as that dream,

the one that

no one could ever steal away.

I Know You

Across a plateau of sloping grass

where shadows lean tiredly

      at the full length of the day

And voices ring of distance, their words

lost to afternoon sunlight

The trees catch hold of what little

breeze there is and whisper to it:

      "I know you..."

Too little of this can be

captured as a reminder,

      so I cling to the spaces

Between sloping branches

for what they reveal of the

Late-day light lying beyond,

stretching out, as it does, from other

      edges of other places,

Chasing me with the starkness

of the thought: "I know you"

"I know you," it says,

"I know you".

Two Lovers Lie on Sand

One cloud’s shadow

two lovers lie on sand,

naked to the darkness

that cuts between them

Passion was a smiling ray

of yesterday’s light

against which they wore protection

Enter now a character to fit a name

 – John was a solid one,  

Jack more relaxed,

   Dylan, lord of the sea –

and the salted spray of wind-borne words

– Mary, bland,

Maureen, ethnic,

Martha, lost between her times

    and thus her sheets –

How do you do? – What was your name?

no, wait... your name escapes me

I do not see you

though I wish I might have

for feelings lost are still remembered

Dress again,

wrap yourself in cloaks

to guard against the chill of being known

as if shame was a gift

to be congratulated for

“I am a lovely man,” he said to himself,

rolling over and mumbling,

“Don’t you know me?”

I see a far-off sail

still bathed by the sun

and kissed by wind

“May its lure

never fail me,”

she thought

Was this sand or water?

the sheets were cool,

the distances, spent

 “Love me,”

cooed the wind,

“love me.”

   and then it was gone...

he rolled back over

and kissed her cheek

She smiled,

hugged

and squeezed.

Along the Road

Non-elected candidates

live on

on bumpers

while colleges

stick to

windows

along the road

People pull up

in parking lots at parks

where you know

they go to meet

interesting new

friends

along the road

Yesterday’s machines

lie scrapped,

smashed

and leaking oil

in rusted hunks

adorning a hill

along the road

You can tell the age

of politics by where

it once parked itself in

concrete slabs, patches,

potholes, and

jet-smooth stretches

along the road

An overpass overlooks

faster means of travel

while lot after lot of wasted space

adorns the street like banners stretching

greed along with disregard and

time discarded

along the road

Acetone gas escaping

from freshly-painted, double-yellow

lines and little arrows, words

and lines of various means, direction

and import

along the road

The gaps between beginning and end,

no longer the act of going,

cars plugging along declaring:

“I am here”

sit back buddy

“me first!”

along the road

Sitting in traffic

going nowhere

a sea of fleeing cars

thinking of that time

when movement and air

came together

along the road.

The Last Light

The last light tingles

with its tart taste for

nuances not scripted by

tongue or finger –

as elusive as an

unlit candle waiting

for the moment to care –

daring the receding mind

to formulate in functions

beyond its dimmed dexterity

A trickster’s gleam

denying sleep

surrender,

the death of

a day.

Disintegration

                        I

This

is the time of day

that has meaning

twenty-four hours wasted on

fifteen minutes

and tomorrow morning

it may suck

                        II

“Suck”

is too harsh a word

but I shall leave it

and see how it feels

                        III

notepads

self

storage

reminders

that I am

                        IV

Just as I rob

each empty page

of its purity

so does the empty page

growing up through

my daily life

threaten to

overwhelm me

Take a glance

at midnight

                        V

Words arrive

where sleep eludes

                        VI

curses

distractions

gaps.