Old Haunts

For J.E.M.

I’m not just a name carved in stone.
You may hear when I’m clumsy in the night.
Then and now, more than sepulchral bones,
but I’ll back away at your slightest fright.
I’ll hang like the mist in your yard,
or like sugar in water, sweet but unseen,
and you, you won’t disregard
my story, my life: you know where I’ve been.
I’m not among the dead weeds.
I’m upstairs—can’t you smell my pipe?
I’m not where the flowers went to seed—
I’m here, an orb full of light.
So reach out, take hold! Here, you are safe.
Lonely, but not alone, in a house full of grace.

Haiku

A hat, a scarf, your
face, in a diner, years on--
strange, sweet re-vision.

Lip Service

I want decadence
and debauchery,
or a better night’s sleep.

Beauty weapons:
smoldering eyes
bold lashes
liquid lipstick
tousled waves

I want a shared vocabulary—
Look me in the lips!
Radiance without the regret.

Hot tickets:
femme fatale
rocker chick
good girl

I want an homage: the ultimate
work of art, and someone
who broke my heart—
Frayed, faded and cut off.

A little self-absorbed?
Changes beyond control.
The feminine mystery,
now history.

(Composed using words from Allure magazine, July 2009)

Burnt Orange

Nina's tail measures the beat.
Three clicks, and a
sun-sharp snare
cracks, bounces off
the bricks.
Leaves in the wind are
tiny shuffling feet.
The tangerine sunset
calls the foxes of dusk
as the summer starts
to rust.
Pumpkin drums make heartbeats
as an ocher guitar smolders
then bursts with
a fire's heat.

Late Roses

Pink blossoms in July,
soft petals aside wrinkled
blooms on the same stem.
Your orange dog steps carefully
through my garden, paws
light, one raised, nose twitching.
Inside, cats keep a wary distance.
Our animals mingle—
no one eats.
High sun and cotton clouds,
a gentle breeze, as if
May came after the fireworks.
More bemusement as a
soft breath of air
causes us to stir,
to rise from our sleep.

First line of a story

Courtesy of my pal Sylvia:

"Every piano player, no matter how small the hands, has a tremendous reach."

Somebody get on that!

Seven haiku

Summer splashes in
the pool, fuzzy sweaters in
winter--a child's carefree life.


Dribble, jump, turn and
air ballet before the swoosh--
fist bumps and back slaps.


Squealing tires up
the block, held tightly in my
angry pinhole sight.


Empty apartment--
now home to random trash and
chilly, weeping ghosts.


Not a sad goodbye--
skinny arms around me and
her cheek on my chest.


Bags of groceries fill
my car's trunk, as Dad stands, arms
clasped, held behind him.


A soft purr at my
side, the soundtrack to a dark
night in my green room.

Past Perfect, Present Tense

Past perfect, present tense
Safety and danger, both so near
to touch, to see, to sense--

A step back, away--a defense.
Lie low until the storm relents.
The past is present, the present tense.

I wait, in irons of suspense.
Open the present, the moment so dear--
past present, present tense.

Can I give without recompense?
It's a charmed light when comets reappear--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Lying, like cats in the sun, content
in the silent bond that I revere--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Will we live only in words we hold dear?
Words are ways which have their ends.
The past is present, present tense--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Race With the Wind, or: “Putting the ‘Ow’ in ‘Lowville’”

After a long week getting back into school mode, and not sleeping well at all, I headed west to the Tug Hill Plateau with my cycling pal JC for the Race With the Wind, a fifty-mile bike race mostly on dirt roads and snowmobile trails. On the drive back, we concluded that riding and racing teaches many things, among them the odd pronunciation of ‘Lowville.’ Read on.

I’d never seen this particular part of New York before, but I hear about it all the time in the winter: it’s a perennial winner in terms of snowfall due to the infamous ‘lake effect.’ It’s gently rolling hills, fields and forests, and the area near the race is filled with wind turbines, quiet white sentinels stretching for miles. Their blades made gentle sighs, almost breaths. A fighter jet from a nearby base ripped across the sky as we got closer.

We pulled into the parking lot to find a smaller-than-expected number of racers. Maybe some folks had a more updated weather report. I loaded my gear: spare tubes, mini pump, caffeinated gels, phone, water, and a drink called Perpetuem—it’s isotonic and hyperbolic.

Time for the start of the long, narrow drama. Shortly after rolling out, the skies opened up. Searching for an adjective, I tried to remain positive, passing on “miserable” for the more poetic “epic.” I was with the front group, doing the best I could to hold the wheel in front of me as that wheel kicked up a gritty rooster tail. These riders were the lean and hungry racer types I’d seen in the parking lot, and when they pulled away, I was somewhat relieved. Holding a wheel on a gravel road in the rain is a bit dicey. I rode at my own pace, leapfrogging two riders on mountain bikes several times, and following the pink spray-paint arrows.

The road surface varied widely, from hardpack dirt to fist-sized rocks. I was riding Fine China, my cyclocross bike, and my skinnier tires went from advantage to liability and back. The alloy frame transmitted more than I cared to know about those rocky fists under my wheels, but I kept on.

Mile 17: The road was some sort of chip-and-seal, and my tires happily and noisily bit into it, until the abrupt left onto a snowmobile trail. My front tire washed out, sliding several inches to the right as I leaned into the turn. My body responded automatically, and my right arm moved so quickly that the muscle burned immediately. I would have went down hard on my left side. Fortuitous? I think my angel gruppetto was smiling on me.

My legs burnt, my back tensed up, undoing all the magic of Friday’s massage. My Perpetuem seemed to fall short. I did the mental trick of dividing the miles I had left, saying, “Oh, I can ride 25 miles anytime.” I felt great. I felt like I had to stop. My hands got numb. I shook them out until feeling returned. My breaths steadied, and I reminded myself that I tend to get stronger the longer I go, and that it’s enough just to finish.

Forty miles in, one rider way ahead, none visible behind. I figured there were about six to eight ahead, an unknown number behind. The course doubled back a few times. I recalled this from a cursory glance at the map. Pink arrows pointing different ways. A man in a pickup at an intersection said “about four more miles.” Energized, I sped up, went through another intersection, saw another man at an intersection, who said “about six more miles.” Huh? My mood plummeted. I passed a cabin I swear I’d seen once before. Or was it twice? Arrows going both ways. Mile 50 came and went, with me alone in the woods.

I caught a glimpse of something large and white, and heard the swish of air. I was never more happy to see a wind turbine, and I knew I was close. A peek back—no one. Am I doing well? Who knows? On the gravel road, I sped up. A quick left, down the hill to the finish.

The woman’s clipboard was filled with riders who’d already returned. My heart sank. It turns out I’d missed a turn and ridden an extra six miles.

Okay, so I rode more miles than anyone else. There’s no special jersey for that. Considering the circumstances, I’m happy with how I did. The weather cleared, the view was beautiful, and that sweet post-race endorphin buzz was coming on. Pass/fail? Pass.

Fire and Water

Anger and guilt go together for me. In that order. I got good at it at an early age. I can remember running up the stairs after my mother; my father was not far behind. I can remember my own yelling, my mom’s crying, and my dad’s deep, calm voice. What I can’t remember is what caused all of this. I also can’t remember how many times it happened. More than once, I’m sure, but I’ve distilled it all down to this one scene that I replay in my mind.

What happened that made me so angry? Whatever it was, it was a match struck in a dry forest. The match disappeared in the flames of anger. Deliberately set. A type of arson. Anger is an accelerant, a shortcut that scorches and consumes other emotions. It’s voracious and pernicious. I started this fire, and it wiped away all traces of its origin.

As I grew up, Mom and Dad were loving, but not very expressive, demonstrative or animated. I do remember Dad’s hearty laugh from downstairs. In trying to reconstruct this scene, I've surmised that my anger was a way to provoke an emotional response. I've learned through life and teaching that all of us at times need that, and that negative attention is better than none at all.

The pattern was established: Get angry; watch Mom crack and run off, into the bedroom and shut the door, crying. Dad comforts me as I beg to see Mom, to apologize. He calmly says, "Not right now. Wait a while." Is this comfort what I was seeking all along? The guilt floods in now, a wall of water putting out the flames, but presenting new dangers as its waves pull me—pull me under.

These emotions were very confusing to a child, and I’m still trying to find the words for them, all these years later. I'm still trying to find why I reach for the match at times. It happens with those closest to me. Is it a level of intimacy? A test of love? Fire and water. A rough metaphor that works for now.

A Tale of Two Rides

On Monday it was neither raining, nor too hot. Perfect riding weather. My schedule, however, lent itself to errands, and one stop led to another. I soon found myself in the belly of the beast: Crossgates Mall. I had to venture in to get the battery replaced in my heart-rate monitor that I use while cycling. It tells me useful things, like "you're barely working," "you're sort of working," and "whoa, you're at about 90%, bro." By the time I'd stopped to browse at the phone-accessory kiosk, I knew that artificial lighting and smarmy mall-air had nearly gotten to me. "Need any help?" the young man asked. Yes. I quickly came to my senses and broke out, determined to ride the next day.

I rode to my allergist's on Tuesday, to get two shots of the things that make me sneeze. The hope is that after about five years of weekly needle sticks, I won't be as allergic to these things. I've concluded that Albany is not very bike-friendly, something I'd written in my ride journal but must have forgotten. Washington Avenue sucks, no matter what time of day it is.

The nurse, prepping the twin syringes, noticed my helmet. Assuming a tone of surprise and slight disapproval, she asked, "You rode your BIKE here?" I replied, "yes." More questions, inflected just a tad higher: "From where? Where did you leave the bike?" I'd ridden a whopping four miles. "Downtown... There's a bike rack in front of this building." Slight pause. "Oh." One needle. The other needle.

I want to practice what I preach. I want to use my bike for short errands. I like leaving my car parked. I just wish it was easier, and safer. It's a fact that cyclists are safer when there are more of us. (Holland is the best example.) But it's just not enjoyable riding down Washington Avenue, especially when it widens and speeds increase by the SUNY campus. There are no alternative routes that are any better. There's the perception problem as well: the nurse's attitude is not unusual. It's part of the car culture. The cycling idealists will say that one more bike will make a difference. This rider may not see that difference for a long time.

Ride number two: club ride out of Schodack, 5 pm, with the regular crew. We rolled out and quickly got up to cruising speed, south on Route 150. Ah, that's better. Sure, a tight pack of cyclists has its dangers, but we're all competent and aware riders--and we're more easily noticed by drivers. We even get positive attention at times: waves, thumbs up, that sort of thing.

Dennis led the way, with his cue sheet clipped to the bars. We dropped down to 9J for some easy rolling along the river. Gary took a huge pull, and I was next in line, just before the route turned left and climbed. Oh, great. Just like on TV, those who'd been sitting in moved to the front as Gary and I felt the burn up the first substantial hill. Two rights and we were descending the ridge we'd just climbed.

This climb-and-descend pattern continued, and I wondered aloud what our normally mild-mannered ride leader had been thinking. Then again, I'd wanted a hard ride. My legs burn, sure, but I don't think of it as pain, and certainly not as suffering. I like riding with a group, measuring my progress, and seeing how my body and mind respond to the shifts in terrain. This all clicks on an emotional level as well, with the ups and downs, the group dynamics, the periods of effort and recovery. It's life. The road rises for everyone.

The ride went from hilly to rolling, with riders splitting up and regrouping as the evening unfolded. Unsure if a county-line sprint was happening, I went for it--and got it, as a rider behind me groaned. I told him, hey, I got that sprint, but I'm no king of the mountains tonight.

I seemed to get stronger as the ride continued. Proper hydration, terrain changes, good mojo, cooler temps? Who knows. We all got back safely, kibbitzed about club rides, pro races, travel, the coming school year. Two rides in one day. One practical, both necessary.

May you rise with the road.