Category: My poems

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April

already the sinking of autumn
a rough sack of wet leaves
thrown over the shoulder

sternum aching from bending forward
the slightest cloud across the sun
renews longing

air smells of metal, predicts the coming rain
sidewalkers with downcast eyes
avoid the discomfort of contact

a woman on a concrete bridge
measures the distance to Ophelia’s bed
thinks better of it this day

there’s rosemary for you, that’s for remembrance
there’s fennel for you, and columbines
Ophelia waits, open-eyed

unready, she’s thinking, that’s all
the time will come, my sweet
when I shall cover you up with my watery sheet

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Water
(for Carolee and Jill)

all my poems are wet
soaked through with tears
of realization come too late

before the ink is dry
as my pen lifts from the paper
my eyes well up and it starts again

every missed connection
every just-closed train door
every unreturned smile

there are never enough pages
to soak it all up, to absorb all these years
why does it take so long to cross this river?

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Come with me, Shelby

come with me, Shelby
leave Dunkin’ Donuts behind
abandon the too-sweet smell of the batter,
the truckers’ glares,
long-separated from warm flesh
and soft mouths
leave your ill-chosen uniform
and the constriction of low wages
we’ll drive to the lake
sit in my pickup on top of the hill
try to spot the woodpecker
building a home
I’ll find us a tree
peck at it with my pointed intentions
burrow down
until the sap sticks to our skin
with a texture no glazed donut can replicate
we’ll have no natural predators,
feel no need to pray
content to perch
above the ebb and flow of this life
and to taste the sweet morning air

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My first conscious attempt to use projective verse.

Click on the image to see a larger version.

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Light

from an essay by Kwame Dawes:
“to be at home in a lace that is full of light”

and to be held in its grasp, caressed by light
to feel the tendrils, the wisps of light
wrapped around your chest, softly
slithering down your thighs, grasping
the tender parts of you, this lace
penetrating flesh, seeping into blood
the soft glow in your veins, the rhythmic
pumping of light from the heart, spreading
illumined corpuscles, erythrocytes, leukocytes
traveling toward the extremities, pooling
in the fingers, the toes, rising
to the top of your head, the tips of your hair
to be at home in this lace of light
this lace that is full of light

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Roughing It

“Could any of these people bear a week in Walden?” — Djelloul Marbrook

No signal?
Are you kidding me with this?
It’s a mile walk back
to the goddamned Starbucks,
and their wi-fi isn’t even free.
This was such a mistake.
I mean, I like burlap trousers
and a rustic fireplace as much
as the next guy, but
this shack next to a mosquito-
infested swamp is about as
pastoral as a prison camp.
When my agent suggested
Walden II as the idea for my
next book, I thought, why not?
If Thoreau could make a killing
writing about growing beans
and taking hikes, then so could I.
But come on, how is anyone
supposed to write out here?
The closest restaurant is
Karl’s Sausage Kitchen on Route 1.
I don’t know about you, but a diet
of sausage and West Nile virus
isn’t exactly the stuff great books
are made of. If I get a room
on the upper floor of the Ferns
Deluxe Motel in Saugus, I’ll be
able to see the pond
from the window. That’s got to be
good enough.
Thoreau can kiss my ass.

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Guilt

1.

The scientist created a machine
that could look back into the past.
He called it Guilt.
When activated, his invention
could whisk the temporal traveler
off to days gone by:
the job left unfinished;
the lie told; the lover jilted.
True, this form of travel had a limited
appeal in the marketplace, but
it was a must for the connoisseur
of despondency, the rueful explorer.
The scientist kept his creation
secured in the topmost room
of his falling-down house,
far from the notice of the
established academic community.
Those who wished to take
a journey into the embittered past
were carefully screened to keep
out the crazies and the masochists,
for he intended his machine to be used
by the pure of intention, if not the pure of heart.

2.

It was on Tuesday last that the scientist
heard a light tapping on his door.
He thought perhaps he’d forgotten
to let the cat in, but when he opened
the door he was surprised to find
a young girl on his front porch,
hair exactingly braided and white socks
pulled up just so. “Mister,” she said,
“I want to take a ride in the machine.”
He refused, of course, although his
interest was piqued. How could this
child even know of his invention?
“My dear,” he said, “there is nothing
for you here. Run along home.
Someone must be worried about you.”
She took one step forward,
hand on the doorjamb, eyes fixed on his.
“Mister,” she said, “I’m going to take a ride
in the machine.” There was something
about her, an emanation, an aura,
and before he knew it, the scientist
had stepped back to allow her to pass
into the living room.
“Where is it?” she asked, taking in
each feature of the sparsely appointed room.
“On the top floor, my child,” he said, pointing.
“But you must go alone.”
She nodded once and began climbing the stairs,
holding the railing with one china-doll hand.

3.

The scientist sat down to wait, sipping the tea
he’d been preparing before the girl’s arrival.
He could hear her on the top landing now,
and then the soft creak of the door as
she entered the room where he kept the machine.
Ah yes, there it was, the throaty rumble
as the machine began to work.
Was that a whimper? he wondered,
straining to hear every sound,
every nuance from the top floor.
Eventually, he could no longer resist,
and began to climb the stairs.
He knew this was a breach of his
standard operating procedure, but this,
this was a special case.
As he neared the open door, the deep note
faded away, disappearing like a ghost
through the wall.
He stepped into the room.
It was empty, save for the chair
and the machine. But then
something caught his eye,
a white flutter under the chair.
He stooped to retrieve the piece
of paper. Written on it, in the assured
script of an adult, were two words:
THANK YOU.

4.

(SAYERSVILLE) – Firefighters
responded to a blaze at a house on
the Sayersville-Freedom line Tuesday
night. The house, owned by Dr. B—-,
a researcher at the university, was nearly
consumed by the fire when the firefighters
arrived on the scene. They focused
their efforts on stopping the blaze from
spreading to the nearby woods. No
human remains were found in the wreckage
of the house, a no cause has yet
been determined. Police say Dr. B—‘s car
is missing, and he did not report to work
at the university this morning.