Category: My poems

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dust to dust

ours is not to wonder why
though of course we do wonder
why?
because we like you
and when we say we, we are speaking royally
as in screwed blued tattooed
an indelible mark that reminds one —
or more —
of who one is and what one was and why
are such pretensions necessary?
it’s OK to say “me” and “I”
and to cry for spilt milk
ours is both to do AND die
I never understood the “or”
as if the doing could avoid the dying
when all light collapses into the black hole
in the center of it all
nothing can escape
all lights falls as night falls the light falls
as falls Wichita so falls Wichita Falls
and Niagara Falls and Sue falls
if she’s not careful
ours is to do and to die and to wonder
to stumble over coffee tables
on the way to the bathroom
when the rest of the house is sleeping
even our mouse
even the king’s mouse
and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
will return to ash when their chips are cashed in

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Listen to this poem using the player above.

Umbrella

I’m bringing my umbrella in case it rains
I’m writing this poem in case it doesn’t

Last night you were out when I called
You’re often out these days, somewhere

I’d never noticed how empty a room could sound
Never wondered where these pans go

Sometimes I stand in the kitchen waiting for your voice
To tell me what to do next, who to be

Then the phone rings, full of hope, but it’s a bill collector
Looking for me to pay what’s owed

Everyone is looking for their due
But my cupboards are bare, my reserves are empty

And most of the time it’s raining
And I’ve forgotten my umbrella

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Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by Normanskill poet Alan Casline’s poem “My Navajo Butterfly Song.”

Seeing Eye
(for Alan Casline)

The Navajo sign said “no photos” —
I prefer to think of it as advice, not warning,

encouraging us to capture images with the lenses of our eyes,
to store them on our natural hard drives.

“Doesn’t anybody ever just remember anything anymore?”
George Carlin asked. He was right.

We’ve become victims of instant nostalgia,
our minds grown lazy, our brains soft.

It’s so bad that I’ve forgotten the first line of this very poem,
and the way my sons looked when they were born.

My therapist said chronic depression impairs
the memory centers of the brain, causes

gaps

in the remembered narrative. That was a relief to hear.
I always wondered why my life was a highlight reel,

the entire three-plus decades condensed into three-plus minutes,
like always seeing the bus but never being hit by it.

The Navajo sign said “no photos.”
Pretty smart, those Navajo.

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Based on a recent New York City experience.

dead pigeon

dead pigeon on a gray sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray dead sedan pigeon

heads turn, shake, pass
passing heads, shaking, turn
shaken heads pass, turning
shaken heads, turning, pass

soft feet slap pavement
soft pavement feet slap
slapping pavement, soft feet
slapping, soft, feet, pavement

head bleeding slow trickle
bleeding head trickle slow
slow bleeding head trickle
trickle bleeding head slow

gray dead sedan pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan

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