The Song

The Song

When the darkness comes,

I will be in a cool stream,

When the darkness comes,

I will be at Trail Creek Tavern
on Saturday night.

When the darkness comes,

I will be a bright light.

When the darkness comes,

I will be smoke from a cigarette.

When the darkness comes

I will be the loud voice heard
over the choir,

And will sing like the
tenor at the Metropolitan

And I will sing like the frog
kissed by the princess,

And I will hum, the world will hum
also,

And I will chant, the people will chant
also,

And I will drink, with vestiges of light
seeping slowly through the cracks.

It will be Saturday night

And I will leave in an old car,

My head eased of pain,

My thoughts free-falling,

Free as a puff of smoke
from the smelter stack,

Identical now to the smog
and clouds,

As the tide turns and recedes,
back to the beginning,

The music fading away,

And the streetlight, on the corner,
waiting for sunrise.

O Say Can You see

O Say Can You See

I like touching here and there on you,
I like gently rubbing the, heated ions
of your atomic skin, tracing the
perimeter of your voluptuous labials,
tasting the now, the how of you,
inhaling the drink of your liquor,
gulping your essence more and more.
I like holding this and that of you,
I like, mostly feeling the, red rockets
bursting in air of you.

Biggie Spice

Biggie Spice


I’ve grown so big

I feel like a pig.

I think that I might explode.

I’m more than twice,

maybe thrice

the man I used to be.

Sometime, somewhere

in the past seventy years

I began to grow

rather than shrink,

and now here I sit

in this monstrous chair,

just a blob

of fat and bones.

I have grown so large

in no time at all,

I almost don't miss

the slender waist,

the thin firm butt,

I once so proudly possessed.

And now here I sit

like an old twit

who will fly

like a balloon

from the chair

to the moon,

disappear in a cloud

and float above

the endless crowd.

I’ll visit awhile

With other big things:

Jumbo, the elephant,

Hannah, the hippo,

and Mack the huge truck.

Then I’ll soar through the sky,

very far, very high,

to find

a new beginning.

Cowboy

Cowboy

Cowboy likes to go to his ranch.
At the corral he can disregard
The problems of a troubled world.
He almost gets it,
Musing over the range at the cattle.

He loves to daydream.
“We’re pretty far away” he says
To his Secret Service man.
“I wonder if we can get further away.”
His entourage looks puzzled.

Back in the East, the Market plunges,
A Suicide bomber blows up a school,
His cohorts are convicted.
How much better it is at the ranch!

Too bad January is so far away
Too bad the everlasting war goes on
And some crisis or some republic
Awaits your intervention,
Your solution to problems
Of your own creation.

“Why don’t we ride a while longer?”
Cowboy would like to say to them.
If you live on a ranch, nothing goes on
You don’t even hear the footsteps.
He almost gets it.

Synergy

Synergy

All night long, wind
whips nightmares
through the hazy glass,
sleep succumbs to terror,

half-ripe apples cling
hopelessly to broken trees,
sirens wail and scream,
But what matters?

Let autumn disappear.
let the weary year
shrivel to the length
of a holiday,

old people haggle
in their constricted worlds,
and every last leaf
on the aspens redden,

wither and rot.
I need no one
today, but you
Peaches,

caressing the shape
of my face. Sadly
poor us, neglected
like lost children.

How wealthy we are,
growing away from all that,
one door closes and another
opens.

Fall Colors

Fall Colors

An October day, and guys my age
all over the world
are trying to recapture lost youth

by foolishly riding bikes up slopes,
running in neighborhood hills,
hearts pounding beyond the safe zone.

Aged, overweight men who feel the need
to prove that they still have it-
the magic exuberance of adolescence,

the liveliness, excitement and energy
that once dominated their very beings.
All over the world they are dying,

fighting the apathy of sedentary living,
Courageously they fight themselves,
warriors waging a losing war against time.

Home Again

Home Again

After it’s over, it’s just begun.
A trick of nature, this parenting

thing. Just when we exhale
with a deep sigh of relief

the phone rings and once again
we’re comforting a crying baby,

intervening in a sibling crisis,
explaining bad behavior to

the school dean or pacing the hall
at the hospital awaiting the worst.

Whether we know it or not, want it
or not we’ve signed on for a lifetime

of upheavals, crises, responsibilities-
infinite turmoil, a world without end.

They return and leave, return again
like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides.

New problems, like fresh sea urchins
wash ashore with each incoming swell,

leaving us exhausted in their wake.
Our lives forever controlled by the moon.

Lost at Sea

Lost at Sea

Diminutive the deleterious heart
of the downtrodden sailor
shanghaied in a bar in Spain.

Ghastly drunken visage, paler
than the gypsy’s thighs
the night he tried to set her

adrift in a morass of odd lies
through waves of his hallucination
amidst the moans, the groans, the sighs

distorted storms of intoxication.
The bell tolled twelve, he disappeared
in a clamor of vivid creation

lost among unfamiliar sneers,
lost at sea in a drunken trance,
too hazy to confront his fears,

forgotten yesterday’s lively dance
the ghostly ship carried him to sea,
sunk to the bottom without a chance.

His chosen path, straight and narrow,
his dying words, “Yo Soy Marinero

A ride to the Park

A Ride to the Park

Like a Dolphin in the sea
the blue helmet undulates
over the rolling bike path.
Freedom beams from her bright
smile as her inner child inhales
the joy of re-kindled youth-
a brief respite from the pain
and woe that accompany
most days and nights.

The Modern Bazaar

The Modern Bazaar
Sunday at the flea market
Pasty-faced elderly sellers in Monday work clothes
Sweating under the bright umbrellas of their booths
Stoop over goods they've gathered from everywhere
They gawk out onto the throng of potential buyers
And point with gnarled fingers to today's bargains
They shout out in loud seller's voices, hawking
Their wares as those wares were hawked in ancient
Exotic bazaars among the smells of spices
Beside caravans of wondering nomads in forgotten lands
That only the history texts serve to tell again
Reaching out to a time long forgotten
Where nobody remembers now

None of us has winced at the sight of
a slave auction
young girls for sale
none of us after arduous days
on smelly camels
and moving through hostile lands through dark of night
have been recognized by the hordes of huns
that were bolder than anyone living
so in the market, we mimic the style
that has long been forgotten
we barter in booths for the midden of others
turning trash into treasures like primeval wonderers
connecting to a time that no one remembers.

Charades

Charades

Nothing is clear, straightforward
When family is involved

Always twisting and turning
Putting on a tragic mask

Spinning tales beyond belief
Innocent faces shrewdly

Manipulating the truth
Of the latest dilemma

Time and again they return
To the nest, birds of prey,

Scavenging bits of carrion
From the elder bird’s larder

Unwilling to fend alone,
Like independent hunters

A dependent generation
Lost in self- fabrication

Neglecting the Obvious

Neglecting the Obvious

Today it rides in on a full moon
Appears suddenly without warning-
Takes away the dreaminess of my dream

Exposes me to the truth of the morning
Leaves me afraid and unprotected
An unexpected apparition, adorning

the pangs of pain that I've rejected
Fills my thoughts with dread and fear
Reminds me of what I've long neglected-

The deterioration of my aging gear,
Tenderness, soreness, throbbing pain
The downward spiral throughout the year

That goes away and returns again
A messenger of great persistence
And messages with the same refrain

Listen to this simple tune
Today it rides in on a full moon.

Winter Ground

Winter Ground

All the necessary fine points
of harvesting and
churning the fallow ground
are completed.
Crop-free the bare earth
hibernates in a deep
winter's sleep.

The Perimeter of My Prayers

The Perimeter of My Prayers

I have sung the praises of the Lord
I have ventured into belief—and out of belief
I have out prayed the deepest religious soul

I have listened to the saints from deep grief
I have walked by the pauper begging alms
and looked aside like a common thief

I have raised doubts and felt my sweaty palms
when distant sounds, unfamiliar voices
floated in the air like ancient psalms

uttered not to save or give redeeming choices
or to once again forgive my sinful soul
with melodic refrains while the heart rejoices

glorifying some inner heavenly chord
I have sung the praises of the Lord

Sonnenizio (On a line from Wyslawa Szymborska)

Sonnenizio (On A line from Wyslawa Szymborska)

Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields
Forgotten fields of Cro-Magnon wars
Remembered fields of Gettysburg or bloody
Battlefields of Million-Man marches
Maybe the violent fields fertilize the future,
Forecast the folly of battlefields to come
Recapitulate fields of history, repeat
Stages of evolutionary battlefields
Persistent codas of adeste fideles
Maybe the field generals of tomorrow
Will figure out the battlefields of peace
To be whole or sole is not to be torn asunder
There are other fields than battlefields
Time to stash away the swords and shields

On Times I'm Not Myself

On the Times I'm Not Myself

I whiz down the mountain path,
a young man cycling boldly
on the old rail-trail, former
route of the Great Northern rail,
home of grizzlies, mountain lions,
trout-laden rivers and streams.
I crank over trestles bearing
old bridges like an ancient
steam engine chugging away
through old-growth forest redwoods.

I draw beautiful images
and paint exotic pictures
imagined from the comfort
of my seaside artist's lair.

I stride the final fairway
at Augusta with Tiger Woods
one stroke ahead for my first
Master's championship as I
inhale the fragrance of
fresh magnolias, consume
the buzz of the maddening
crowd cheering me to victory.

I write nonsensical verse
meant only for private eyes
and ears, discovered after
I'm gone to make some sense
and published after the fact,
etching my name in the book
of immortal and forgettable
bardic scribblers and sages

I catch and release the fish
of my dreams- old iron head
to spawn again, release genes
into the genetic pool-
ontogeny recapitulates
phylogeny, evolution

I stroll with you hand- in- hand
young lovers on a country lane
seeking a hide-a-way, our
secret spot, where desires find
fulfillment and dreams become
reality. Where trouble
disappears and what might have
been comes to fruition.

I become myself again
capable of inventing
dreams, escaping the now
reveling in imagination
celebrating the mind-
a most enchanting thing,
bright, like a rock star's bling.

Oops!

Oops!

I've come to realize
that most happy days are fraught
with fear interspersed within
our joy; jaded angst beneath
a smiling surface, the dread,
the trepidation of change
like a small rock pegged through
a kitchen window by an
unseen mischievous boy
shattering the tranquil bliss-
control beyond the reach of
human capability.
Just when things are going well
Shit happens in bunches.