The ides of March are upon us,
With spring to follow closely in step.
As we begin to welcome St. Patty,
And all those Easter eggs lie ready to prep.
Seen and heard is the madness of basketball,
Collegiate craziness to never end.
As the hoops are tallied to an adding machine,
While would be champions begin to spend.
A renewed beginning is nature's way,
That brings some warmth to open eyes.
As daylight savings slowly unveils,
and longer days lead to nights demise.
Fresh upon this cycle of growth,
The lengthy passage yields few rules.
Only to follow a path moving forward,
Eventually to end...with April fools.
The Candlemaker’s Office
was sparsely filled.
The worn brass door knob —
a patina
countless hands
slipping over its surface,
polished and discolored
by each touch.
That oak door —
turning my wrist
lean into it
fighting the rub
door against frame
hearing single pane glass
rattle —
I’d pushed through.
His wall —
dirty darkened oak
framed a wall of glass
allowing The Candlemaker
to gaze
upon
people
machine
if he chose —
yet his view
on equal footing
not elevated
a humble oversight.
Flooring —
off-white asbestos
set in squares
dark from factory dirt
moved by the feet of workers.
A lone green metal desk —
flanked by a single gray file cabinet:
adding machine,
rotary phone,
worn desk blotter,
barometer,
a nameplate
should you not know who he was.
Similar version previously published by Ink, Sweat and Tears 2019
Seven layers of fodder litter my desk
some of it golden
but mostly just mess
A flashlight -
should darkness suddenly fall
as I sleep at the switch
in case you don’t call
Three AA batteries when I really need four
to fire up the vacuum and suck up the gore
Two pretty flat rocks I can’t bear to discard
I may chew them tonight should I find myself charred
There’s a wee house from Ireland
my friend sent from afar
a condolence for leaving . . .
my front door ajar
An adding machine to calculate my losses
the numbers fly backwards, like aging,
but reverses
A roll of paper towels, a bottle of Windexes
as I tinker and fiddle and deny and digresses
I came in this room to clean up my messes
from 2005 I hope to start freshes
Here’s a blast from the past, a flash in the pan
a pig in a poke, a tickle and a smoke
It’s so worth the effort and a waste of my time
to blow up the past and change up the rhyme
so tell me you love me and I could care if it’s true
cuz ‘06 is here in its wiliness right on cue
It better be damned good, 'cause last year sucked the big one
. . . in days of auld lang syne
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