Prologue:
Today the first golden leaf fell
like a sacred calling card;
I caught it in my hand.
1. A Sleepless Night In The House Of My Youth
The day unfolded in sections,
the night is a long aubade.
Are there really two sides to a line?
Is anything new under the sun,
the same sun that set hours ago
and didn’t leave a number?
Sleep is like a blank spot
or an avant garde cinema,
but my mind needs a task
so I am writing this poem
and trying to find the payoff,
but I refuse to say alas
in this large dark room,
in the house of my youth,
where old and new ghosts meet.
At another point in spacetime
I sat on a different sofa
in this room, and wrote a poem
that never saw the light of day,
and didn’t deserve to.
Maybe this one does? Maybe.
2. Waiting For The Hospice Nurse
She buried the elegy in her face
as she stood at the storm door
fidgeting with papers in a folder.
Across the street, there was
moss on the neighbor’s roof
and a pot of roses in bloom.
3. It Is Time
To board up the gateways,
extract my real face
from beneath the masks,
pour out cups of gold
in my dreams,
make examples of the world,
stop listening, just for now,
enjoy a self-imposed exile,
get away with my tears,
tie a knot in my childhood,
be ready for your passing,
weep for the revolution,
employ unnecessary prepositions
in my speech, without a care,
migrate to the elegant light,
become aware of my inner layer,
stop waiting for a cold open,
turn down a few more letters.
4. The Orchard At Night
Apples are the same in the dark
as they are in the light—
their scent in the air,
their snap and sugar,
the low thud when one drops,
their colors unchanged
under both moon and sun
like the hazel of your eyes
when you are sleeping.
5. Saturday Rain
The rain does not care
about your metaphors,
it is too busy forming beads
on the last unripe tomato
and tapping a rhythm
in your downspouts.
And it is indifferent
to your canceled plans,
unaware that perhaps
It has given you an out.
It will not thank you
for writing a poem
or wash away your tears—
it only hides them.
You must be patient
as a grounded starling
waiting under a bridge
for the sky to clear.
6. An Old Photograph
Sepia is not really a color.
But this is a picture of Autumn—
oak leaves need crimson and gold
before they are released,
a calligraphy of geese requires
an ivory parchment of sky,
dahlias demand blood and coal,
and a lake’s reflection, everything.
I turn over the photo to find
black ink on a white background,
words written by a strange hand:
This was the last of our days
7. Daily Commute
Flower shop, funeral home, CPA,
Abandoned fueling station,
Urgent care, liquor store, bank,
Convenience store, gazebo,
Left lane ends, DOT/CDL exams,
Fast food, news, produce,
Abandoned pharmacy, trucking,
Meat market, self-storage,
Commercial site for sale, auto parts,
Animal clinic, law office,
Flooring, auto body, school, inn,
Intersection, bus depot,
Deck and fence, appliances, deer,
Hotel and tavern, auction,
Police, paintball, concrete, church,
Realty, florist, rehab, pizza,
Outhouse, library, fire station, spa,
Well drilling, exterminator,
Hair salon, VFW, eye care, orchard,
Post office, farm market,
Free range eggs, hiking, sunflowers,
Power equipment, honey,
Luxury homes, firewood, pool plaster,
Corn, lake, greenhouses,
Bridge, horse ranch, landscaping,
Cabana, army surplus, pub,
Solid waste complex, upholstery,
Solar panels, warehouses,
Trailers, barber, hardware, circle,
Railroad, live bait, valley,
Supermarket, village, tractors,
Destination.
8. Bridges, etc
There’s one more bridge for crossing,
and one more hill to climb,
until you find that losses
are how you measure time.
And no one ever told you
today’s tomorrow’s past,
that time has bought and sold you
and nothing here can last.
9. Time (Autumn Leaves)
Time seems to have gotten it right today,
moving slowly while I am at rest. Usually
those moments are brief as a pop song.
Then I walk under the avalanche of the day,
and the digging out, the sorting, the cleanup
is like a movie sequence in slow motion,
or a scratched record repeating the same lines—
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
For now, I will savor this friendly interval.
10. Aubade
Summer is a long goodbye.
It waves from the walkway
and a little more darkness
filters in between its fingers.
The night air is less severe,
even a bit motherly, humming
vespers and gently brushing
stray hair from your eyes.
11. Aerial (For 9-11-01)
For a moment
in mid-air
between one end
and another
did you think
of your spouse,
your children,
God?
Was there
any solace
knowing
all decisions
were final?
12. Don’t Quote Me
I told you the moon leaned on a lamp post
asking passersby for the time.
I said I spoke in anapestic feet,
then I shifted to iambs for weight.
I claimed irony is often so obvious
it goes completely unnoticed,
that rain falls in only one direction—
toward the center of the earth
where it gathers in the lower places
to form another universe,
another moon, another version of you
looking up at yourself.
13. AI-pocalypse
They all want the data,
but not the center.
14. My Body
I cannot get away with blaming the weather—
aches, spiritual and physical, are the norm.
I move gingerly, like a prowler
trying not to creak the floorboards;
every route to every room is the long way.
Movement was once as effortless
as letting the steering wheel
straighten itself after a turn.
Now every step has a soundtrack,
every rise a buildup, every rest a sigh.
My body makes itself known in new ways,
giving me anatomy lessons I never asked for.
All my years, decisions, jumps and landings
have brought me here in an instant where
I find myself trading the idea of going forward
for the hope of catching up to where I was.
15. P.S.
Last night
the moon
left her pearls
on the windowsill.
In the morning
they were gone.
16. By The Way
By the way,
your cardinal
appeared again
on the lamppost.
It looked
in the window,
as if to search
for you.
17. As If
As if
saying something
made it so—
you are still here,
you are still here.
18. Lost Things
All my life I held the world
in my arms until it became too big
and pieces began to drop away
as if I were carrying gravel—
a lyric from the old vinyl,
dangling threads I tried to pull,
how my grandmother prayed
to St Anthony for missing objects,
my mother’s fingertips
tapping my hand as she spoke,
my father in his workboots
building, fixing, rescuing.
But loving something
doesn’t make it yours;
the loss of beauty
is payment for enjoying it.
19. Saturday Night At The Fishing Pier
I.
We thought it was a plane crashing—
fire descended across the channel
and I found myself praying
as the handful of others gasped
until we realized it was skydivers
with pyrotechnics in their boots.
II.
Then there were more
glitching through cloudcover,
and I imagined Selene’s chariot
taking her down to see Endymion.
III.
There are no errant prayers;
I know I have been heard,
that an answer is forthcoming
on this night when summer ends
with its own kind of fanfare.
20. Seven
There’s darkness in the darkness and the day,
there’s light that’s inconvenient to the eye;
there’s joy and grief along the narrow way,
and blues amid the blueness of the sky.
There’s hell and heaven in our worldly space,
there’s time that lingers long or hurries by;
there’s love that has a home and love displaced,
and blues amid the blueness of the sky.
21. Where, When, How
Where
the seasons meet.
When
a leaf falls.
How
the birds just know.
22. Equinox
Darkness and light
play to a scoreless tie.
23. Rainy Day Poem
Rain dropped in before breakfast
and stayed until after lunch.
I brewed some more coffee
as he regaled me with anecdotes
about gathering inside clouds,
the curvature of earth on the way down,
the interesting debris collected
on his missions purging the air,
the freedom of breaking into elements
only to regroup and do it all again.
“What a fascinating life,“ I said,
and his countenance changed.
“I’ve ruined a lot of weddings,
caused a great deal of depression,
sometimes even flooded one village
while letting crops die in another.“
“But you don’t get to choose,“ I said.
“If only I could. If only I could.
Thanks for the coffee, my friend.
It’s time I got back to work.“
As dusk set in, he tapped my window
and I opened the curtain to see
the room reflected behind me,
but no image of myself.
24. The First Morning Back
The day waits outside my door
like a stranger with clipboard.
I hear a tiny Carolina Wren
shouting tea-kettle tea-kettle
as I open the door to leave,
ready to test this prototype of myself.
25. So
You carry a question like an amulet
you are afraid to open
because releasing the ashes inside
is an act of finality.
26. Wait Upon
Upon the door
swinging either toward or away,
either left or right,
and the dark mist beyond;
upon the last few drops of light
evaporating in a glass;
upon the kettle’s song,
and the flame beneath;
upon the formless dust
yet to settle;
upon the small hours
waiting in a queue;
upon the garden gate
where roses turn their faces;
upon the key in your palm
and the next hand reaching for it;
upon things that leave
without motion,
and things that arrive
when we have stopped waiting.
27. Something About Something
While tending to the machine
I remembered something about something—
the steam of your jasmine tea,
the story behind the chip in its cup,
the way I touched the orchid petals
to make sure they were real—
they are somehow all related,
but I cannot tell you how.
28. Church Bells At The Intersection
Alone at the red light,
I turn down the radio
and open the window
to hear each note speak
to this life and the next
in language I recognize
like an old friend..
Oh, make me thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee
Then the light turns green
and I drive into the old static.
29. Better Than, Part 1
This morning
I pulled a blue thread
that dangled from the sky
and sunshine gushed out
like grain from a silo.
30. Better Than, Part 2
There must be a gold tooth
somewhere in the mouth of this town.
I’d love to hear the stories.
Epilogue:
Another spiral notebook filled
with blueprints of old poems;
I discard it, grab a fresh notebook,
begin gathering raw material.
