another week passed
the sun peeks throughs
the window
thirty years since
my last run
with a creek
by my side
almost thirty-three years
since my father died
and my mother died
ten years later
would they recognize
me now
grandparents in a diner
ask where has time gone
over coffee
children play and laugh
the sun glistens
off a mirror in my loft
revealing wrinkles on my face
and all the cells in my body
are not the same as five years ago
a crimson leaf falls
and the morning calls for verse
I pick up yesterday’s poem
from the floor and read it again
before I go for a drive
seasons slip by
with a whisper
my car in back
has frost on the window
He never had the chance
to be a child, but here he
was sitting at a table
watching a wave of humanity
pass him by.
Strangers with children
pointed at him
and told them to stay away.
What did I do wrong, he asked
but when he got up and the table
tipped on its side, patrons screamed
running out the door.
When the manager banned him,
something inside told him
he was not of this world
and all he wanted was to be
a part of them—
his anguished voice was a plea.
When he saw a mother
with a baby clenched to her
a feeling he didn’t understand
stirred in his chest
while he recalled the sting
of a metal table in the lab
where he was born.
grocery aisle
walking in shadows
of lost love
Sunday morning, and it was still.
as I walked barefoot through the loft
gray clouds lingered outside my window.
It was late October already, and I asked
where time had gone. My chest ached
as I bore the weight of life
and put on a robe to warm me.
I turned to my emails and the internet
like a long-lost friend while wondering
what the day would bring.
Last week strangers gathered in front
of the grocery store and talked about weather.
Some said we needed more rain, and some
said they had enough of summer.
They all agreed the year was passing.
They longed to talk about younger days
but I said time is never lost.
Now on Sunday morning it was still
as I walked through the loft.
I whispered to myself as autumn
sat in the next room. I looked
outside to see leaves were turning colors,
thinking O how I love to hear the sound
as rain patters leaves. I always have
but the leaves will fall.
A pink playhouse stood in the yard
but there were no children
as I looked out the upstairs window.
The woman about fifty walked around
and talked on her cell phone.
Her yard was well-kept and one afternoon
a man was mowing it. He did not live there.
She stood in back of her garage one morning
and did not wave as I walked to my car.
A housemate said she was mean.
I couldn’t say.
All I knew was that she kept a fence.
A story longed to fill in the gaps
of what I didn’t know. It begged
to be told.
I had moved into my loft a year ago
after suffering losses to write a new chapter
in my life. Every morning, I looked out
with new eyes to look at the sun
as it peeked over a crown of trees.
I talked with a neighbor across the alley
on Thursday mornings when we took out the garbage
or on the days he hand-washed his vintage cars.
A labor of love, he said.
Every quiet morning the block held dear
our private lives.
I’m not sure I can go on, but I will try to breathe.
Sylvia Plath's last words
sleep, dear children, sleep
this world she can no longer keep
what life offers, I wish you the best
o dear children rest, please rest
the day awakens with a sigh
for this morning she must die
for her mind is not her own
this you will understand when grown
you will look to the stars and sun
o dear children your life has just begun
Suitable
I’m wearing a blue T-shirt today
maybe red tomorrow.
The sun looks through the window
and a touch of warmth is good.
A touch of rain last night
just enough to sustain.
The housecat wants attention
and I hope five minutes will do.
I hope that a moment of tranquility
will do for me, as well.
The refrigerator downstair hums
and I look for a song to fit my mood
while a litany of lines run through my head.
I have just enough food for the next two days
and when I run out I can get more.
Friday a bartender said she loves me—
we’ve been such good friends.
One embrace seeks more
on another night.
I put on my shoes and jacket
just enough to cover me.
The morning lies still
as I open the door to the world.
Scenes of a river and trees
Fill the hour as I drive.
Looking out the car window
I'm living out my dreams.
The first sun inspires
words on the page.
A prompt asks
for a new poem.
I want it to feel
like the first kiss
stolen on a front porch.
I want it to beat
the heartbeat
of a young man
who learned to dream.
I want it to sing
to the stars at night
when I’m alone.
I want it to be with me
like my older cousin
when she sat by my side
and showed me
The Big Dipper
in an endless sky.
I want it to be
like nothing else
that came before
although I’ve traveled
many highways and roads.
I want it to take a deep breath
and celebrate the morning
when the world began.
At Eleven
Maybe I was a blank page
sitting in the classroom.
It was fourth period the one
after science in sixth grade.
I was new at the school and quiet
moved from another state.
Time to start again.
A teacher stood in front
reading Dickenson and frost
as I savored the lines.
I sat with hands on my desk—
the words took on a new life.
I looked around to see
all of us sitting as we should.
We’d been still most of the day.
The teacher said, write. Put pen
to paper. I paused and listened
to words in my head.
From where they came
I didn’t know, but I figured
They were mine.
I bent over the desk and wrote
A poem. My poem. She said one
but the first asked for another.
I held each page up
to the light and said to myself
this is good. I took a deep breath—
they were a part of me.
The teacher gathered our poems
and the words read sang
as she glanced at me.
I was a story waiting to be told.
The house whispers
as I awaken
and a dream plays.
My loft breathes as I get up.
The block on the hill
still after the night’s
storm, and a story
plays in my head
remnants of a love
I once had. The cat
rumbling on my chest.
shares the moment.
…
Tires sing as I drive
along the river
as it takes in reflections
of sun. I’ve viewed
the scene many times.
I’m seeing it again.
Public Radio plays
a feature on psychology
and the triumphs and trials
of life, and I cry out
This is me. This is me.
‘’’
In a diner, dishes clink
and patrons laugh
while elderly cajole
their granddaughters
voices filled with promise
about the lives that lie
ahead.
…
I walk away
from old conversations
the pain felt
after someone left for good
and unanswered questions.
…
I stay true
to one thousand voices
in my head.
A new poem I seek.
Someone in passing says they’ve seen us
somewhere. It could have been when
we were singing or reciting poetry. At first they
didn't recall the time or place we met.
They smile as if great friends when seeing
us, and we struggle to remember. Maybe we
were just out for fun, but in the other’s eyes
the event was bigger than life. The sun shines
on us, but it could have been night.
It could have been a night when we were
seeing friends over drinks in a bar and
grill on a one-way downtown.
It could have been in a coffee shop
where we read poems, and in the heart
of each person the words and lines
held a different meaning. The atmosphere
was warm, and we called it love.
Someone could remember the time
we walked along the sidewalk, and they
passed un-noticed as they drove along.
I was shy when I was in eighth grade
and asked the girl with red hair if she noticed
me while I was in a crowd below the balcony
where she stood.
O, how much it meant when she said yes.
quiet room
housecat on my lap
listens
A soft wind whispers
early September.
The year is passing
and you are closed
for good.
You were more
than brick and mortar—
You had a heart.
Now you rest in shadows
in the downtown.
You still bear the voices
of those who came in
for a burger or a drink
also playing video games
or sports.
I still hold in my heart
how you cared for
the servers working
their way through college.
They were the dearest friends.
But mostly I remember
the Friday nights when
I stood on the dining porch
and you urged me to sing.
I still hear the applause.
I still hold dear the night
when I painted a waterfall
while nursing a drink
in your loft.
O how a blank canvas came to life.
Each morning the sun shines
but your lights are off.
Sparrows dance in the sidewalk
and chatter by the front steps.
But as I drive and take a look
I sing my song for you.
Mikey, oh Mikey, you’re such a fake man
Your mouth full of marbles and Trump’s dirty plan
You use your position against all the poor
With lies and deceit, you pretend he’s the cure
A fake little Christian invoking Christ’s name
Memorized words, you’re a fraud and a shame
You’re Don’s little puppet, a con’s useful tool
A cheap wind-up doll, a disposable fool
There’s no place in Heaven for liars and cheats
They all go to Hell and become Devil treats
So stop all your lying and silly word games
And prepare for eternity burning in flames
a little sun through window
a whisper as the house
takes a breath and I’m
a moment older lost in reflection
about how the ones I loved
come back to me each time
I get out of bed remembering
how someone who worked
with me stood near me
as I cleaned up a spill
a small act but it was
a big thing at the time
I ponder a crack in the highway
that was patched and that little things
lead to something greater as they
always have and when I was in grade
school I walked across the Mississippi
when it a stream flowing from a lake
while my father stood by and watched
and now the river carries the weight
of our weary lives and this morning
in a moment of silence
conversations once lost come back to me
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