Titles

Teacher, judge, critic, arbiter of pass/fail.

Therapist, counselor, seeker of unknown grail.

Good son, angry kid, loyal friend, outcast.

Late bloomer, number-wearer, second, never last.

Friendly shoulder, prickly loner—confused.

Sound shaper, channeler, painting shades of blue.

Handyman, homeowner: measure once, swear twice.

Hold-out, repeater, stumbler, ignorer of advice.

Long rambler, stream-of-consciousness swimmer.

Light seeker, push on as the day gets dimmer.

Cowboy Cornering

On the ramp from I90 to 787,

my hand out the window,

with Rush playing, I remembered

how you once called me a cowboy

for taking this same turn

with confidence and daring--

and I smiled, just then, and

pushed my right foot deeper,

enjoying the tires' sure grip

and the slight sideways force

as my orange car continued to

track firmly and truly.

Weatherman's Advice

Opposites in my head-space:

hot and cold, high and low pressure

colliding at will, mercurial,

changing in a broken rhythm

impossible to count or predict

with the cutting wind of worry

the only constant.

So much to get right, wrong

that it is easier to take the

weatherman's advice and

seek shelter until further notice,

to withdraw, turn inward,

become the observer, spotter,

watcher rather than participant

as what swirls behind my eyes

seems an alien language

or stratospheric music

sung by spirits beyond

angel-demon dichotomy

for this bewildered audience

of one, seeking the cool, dry

air of calm and patience,

but knowing that the root

of temperate is shared

with temporary.

Pace Line

The man on the bicycle is unconcerned

with the rain-slick asphalt and the brakes

that no longer work; rather, he is focused

on the wheel ahead and holding that line on

the black ribbon of road under his tires.

The man on the bicycle will hold that wheel, then

take the lead when honor and obligation require

and part the wind for his nameless accomplices

trailing behind in the water's spray, their tacit

agreement of mutual aid until the road tilts up

or someone bows out, whichever comes first.

The man on the bicycle knows that pain and

suffering are labels, words he chooses to not use

for his circumstances as his body protests his

mind's insistence with shocks of silent fire

the roadside observer will never know.

The man on the bicycle knows the absurdity of

this act, riding a circuit on a day better suited

for ducks, but the rain hits his number, pinned

to him, his whole identity now this, as he and

the others balance on their machines, legs as

fulcrums carrying them on until the white line

slides beneath them and they go slack with

ratchet clicks and beached-whale gasps as

their wheels slow and stop and they

become ordinary again.

Forecast

Forecast says cloudy with a chance of

storms today, portentous clouds that for

whatever reason are not yet ready to act--

something, anything please,

but I know fickle summer weather.

They warned of dangerous bolts

but all I have in my head is loose electricity:

all the power, none of the focus.

The light-quick worry, flashes of anxiety

drawn to prominent objects, bare and

shivering in the plains of my mind--

look closely and you may see the flash

behind my eyes countering my outward calm.

Storms will be localized and intense.

Expect limited visibility and dangerous

head-to-heart lightning that

can be lethal.

Critics

The critics in my head

are particularly vocal tonight:

an unruly sidewalk mob,

groundlings,gutter rabble, 

single-minded and strident, 

as my words try to push their way through,

catching elbows and feet every step.

What do they say? The usual:

None of this is going anywhere.

You were writing so much better

last year.

You're stupid, you put this on yourself

that you could do this--and for what?

What are you getting? No one really reads.

Oh, they might if you wrote something

worth a damn, not this drivel, no sir.

It won't always be like this, I tell myself.

Patience is the way out, the bully-beater

that will make them relent. Until then,

I will be their humble stenographer,

reporter and biographer, convince them that

their thoughts are pure genius,

totally new territory, profound

ideas expressed eloquently

and delivered with just the right

amount of force. Superb! Bravo!

Silver-tongued mastery!

I'll welcome them, catch them

off-guard with my flattery,

get them drunk on praise

and slip away from their

softened minds and do whatever

poetic thing strikes me:

observe the moon at five-minute

intervals; catalog the sounds

on the block, observe what happens

in six long breaths, find just the right

words for the shades of gray passing

overhead, read the dictionary aloud,

write imaginary dialogue for

people behind a cafe window,

order my espresso or pinot or stout

and sip slowly until the words come out.

Backyard Dusk

The city motor drone

dwindles, fades as

mid-season leaves

shuffle on limbs,

one cricket sings

over low hum of

window fans, and

above rows of

painted bricks and

a cat's green gaze,

the crowns of trees

rise and reach to

a sky gone gray.

Perspective

The low sun throws

long shadows,

dark daggers across

the road, its eastern fire

out-shined by the

ambulance's lights

coming out of the

vanishing point

up a mile or so,

lights in my eyes

before the sound as other

southbound drivers and I

pull to the side--

a gesture of respect as

much as anything in this

wide, quiet road, an

acknowledgment of

this mortality messenger and

that even the worst commute

is probably better than that.

The Doe

There was a flash of tan

and white amid the green

as the trail serpentined

through the woods.

My bike and the doe halted

maybe fifty feet apart,

and her eyes and ears

turned to me as the brakes

chirped. Her tail flicked

as she held her gaze and

the moment stretched,

hands falling off clocks

somewhere as time opened

up into the middle of eternity.

She nibbled and scratched,

grooming like the cats at home,

glancing back up now and again.

She casually fed on leaves,

walking slowly now, leaving

me in her blind spot as

she ambled away and the

moment closed and

time resumed.

Hard Time

No one tells me what to do,

you tell me no but I do it anyway,

'cuz I'm my own person,

the student says amid the

familiar desks, chairs, windows,

grubby floor tiles. He is a

shape, too: a box in a seating chart,

a check in a column, a lump at a desk,

all hard angles, sounding off

his song that he would swear is

unique in its singular note

of defiance, saying I AM--

the walls and the floors

have heard it all before,

small-room big talk

that rings out and dissipates

like chalk erased into

clouds of choking dust,

shouting it out over others' heads,

brazen morning orator issuing

forth from his rocky outcrop,

this risk-taker, cliff diver,

reckless driver, nothing without

his audience, sycophant circle

minions for each other,

thug-lite insubordination brothers,

soon to be free from this

sentence of kindergarten to twelfth,

hard time on the inside.

The Measure of a Day

Tell me, what is the measure of a day?

A hand's sweep, lines through a list?

When darkness comes, what will stay?

Open, welcoming hands or clenched fists?

Tired arms at ease, unladen but sure

remembering the weight of morning labor?

a calling out, a yearning, a thirst for more,

dwindling minutes, shrinking light to savor?

Free me, for now, from the tyranny of time

and things set aside, work left undone.

Roads unexplored, mountains unclimbed

will surely wait for another day's sun.

Breathe, as still water mirrors the dark sky

and a doubled moon fills my grateful eyes.

Temple Bells

If you believe,

       then the temple bells will ring.

Hold the rock in your hand,

       in quiet, the crystal sings.

The soul is a prisoner

       yearning to be free.

Do not ask others, you forge the key.

The bells, the bird, they are there

       in the earth of your chest,

       in the temple of you, sacred, blessed.

Spires and crosses point to heaven,

       but find your path within.

       Any moment is ripe to begin.

Grief and anger still the bells--

       Lift them off, cut them off,

       free yourself from a personal hell.

Let your spirit like water flow,

       know by going where it is to go.

See what your self-faith brings.

If you believe,

       your temple bells will ring.

Remember Me

Remember me after

the robes are put away,

the candles are snuffed,

and the grave speakers

have had their say.

Remember me after

the repeated oath's

words echo and fade,

when the recessional

music has played.

Remember me when

this group is gone,

all on separate paths.

With your shoes worn down,

remember how I last.

Remember me when

you are bravely alone,

when good truly is sown,

to know and do what's right,

to keep me, your honor,

clear and bright.

Soar

Sometimes I'm the sadistic kid

with the magnifying glass--

     sometimes I'm the ant,

     confused by focused heat. 

Sometimes I'm the home-run ball

flying over the fence--

     then I'm the same ball,

     later, forgotten past distant

     cheers on the green field.

Sometimes I'm the ray of light

piercing deepest darkness,

     at others I am the void,

     inky and indistinct.

Sometimes I'm that voice

across the hall, strange and

detached from myself.

     Then I'm the silence after

     the 3 a.m. phone.

Sometimes I'm the spring song

of birds and peepers--

     and at others the crunch and crack

     of angry ice underfoot, wet enough

     to slip, sharp enough to cut.

Sometimes I'm the jury in my head,

robed, dark and stern—and

     then again the man on trial,

     shackled and humbled beneath

     the high bench.

Sometimes I dig deep, a

blind rodent running on

instinct--

     but then again,

     occasionally, I am

     something else, feeling

     warm air carry me in

     great spirals, a trust

     in the invisible.

Sometimes,

I soar.

Messages (7/17/12)

Lake water stroking

the shore, wind passing over

me like breath, sunlight

flashing on, off through my closed

eyelids, saying all is well.

Ashen Lament (7/16/12)

We threw our wood

into the fire--

we could have

built something

to hold us

or

shelter us,

but, oh,

how that

fire blazed.

Adirondack Haiku and Tanka (7/15/12)

A day's talking is

done—now the rain's soft patter

outside is enough.

Inside, low light and

a soft chair; outside, peaks reach

into the dark night.

An unlocked door, a

room with a bed—sleep well, and

pay in the morning.

July, and wood stacked

by the hearth promises light,

heat for short, cold days.

Question after an

arduous climb: insight

or just a light head?

On the peak's leeward

side—moss and flowers cling to

scant dirt on hard rock.

Returning to camp

at night, my light finds five pairs

of yellow eyes that

watch from the pine's boughs: raccoons

beginning the second shift.

Blog break

I'm venturing away from my computer for two entire days, so there will be a brief hiccup in this third year of July poems. I will be writing, however. Expect more poems later this week. I have a feeling that stars will align and the muse will be afoot. Thank you for reading.

Hours Deep

It is now, the night

hours deep and the

air a conduit for

train and river sounds

that my body slows

with the day's efforts

in my limbs, my bones,

my breaths coming

deep and without thought

like someone else working

the bellows of my chest,

thoughts and head-chatter

gone slack like a sail

when the wind quiets

and the water stills.

Mountain Spring

Water moving up and out

back to the light again

carrying traces of where

it has been, holding the

taste of glacial rock heaves,

cool, dark earth—the part of

the mountain that only water

sees, as it flows, under pressure

not its own, upward, stronger

than gravity's reach, welcoming

tighter, smaller spaces that

only increase its speed, then

quietly opening to sunlight,

sliding smoothly over silver

rock, welcomed by weary

hikers on their own way

up or down—show me, water,

how you mold yourself,

change shape, fearlessly,

in this journey without source,

from light to darkness

and back again.

Closer

We are imperfect beings,

seeing pinhole visions of

the infinite and eternal--

more than a glance would

wipe us out. We don't get

to see it all, but we do get

windows opening and closing,

a curtain briefly pulled back,

a light flashing on, then off.

These are earned things, through

the movements of body and spirit,

empathy, love, hard work getting

us closer, but always still a

baroque of the ultimate,

apprentice visions, shadows of

a master, an outline of the

weightless dancer, a chorus of

angels carried lightly by breath

through a reed. The tune

is the same.

Star chasers, riding toward

mountains that seem static

but really do get closer.

Base Camp

In my head, sometimes I'm the

climber who stays at the base

camp, soporific and satisfied on the

thick air, deep breaths bringing

calm, but wonder and longing as well

as he looks up toward ledges iced with danger

and then the haughty, arrogant summit,

its silence a dare and a promise

of clear vision, of everything shrinking

beneath the one who dares, standing

strong in the wind and the sharp sun,

knowing that there's no more to be done,

this clear ending point, this last step--

the treacherous route that tells only

part of the story, nothing of the euphoric

missteps and saves and leaps over those

crevasses that lurk deep inside,

the peak in the chest, in the gut,

in the mind, that worry that gets

the last word--All of these thoughts in

the idleness of the base camper, longing

to sink his ax and crampons into the

sheer ice face, to know that if it

is to be, it is he who decides, who

takes those steps as far as

nature and fate allow.

High Peaks Blues

Gonna carry my rock up the mountain,

carry my rock up the mountain,

feel it every step of the way.

Feel my troubles weighing me down,

weighing me down,

for the last time today.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high with all the rest.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high and I'll feel blessed.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

haul it up and let it go.

Now a rock is a rock, and a man is a man--

A rock is a rock and a man is a man--

Simple words, and I know it for sure.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

won't feel that weight anymore.

When I come back down, gonna

be a new man, be a new man.

Look up at that high gray peak,

can't see my troubles,

from where I am,

from where I am.

Between Blue and Me

Hearts don't grow on trees

beg, and you won't receive

even prose has its thorns

wrinkled as the day you were born

walk the thick ice, slick and strong

know “goodbye” is not “so long”

Cry me an ocean:

all depth, no motion

a teardrop on the sea

just between blue and me.

Snapshot

Within the curling print's white

border his hands say “ta-dah!”

as if producing the little teapot

from thin air--this would-be magician

in his plaid shirt and horn rimmed glasses

under a hanging light in a humble kitchen

his thick hair rising like a dark wave

over his beach of a forehead above

sliver-moon brows

he's here in this ordinary

moment, a man and his tea as

his eyes meet the camera's one,

this time-stopping Cyclops whose

metal-and-glass gaze makes

anyone fall under its split-second

spell--and I guess, then, that it is

magic after all.

Ode to Coffee

My dark, bitter goddess,

pulse-quickener, mind-sharp

miracle bean, sunrise rouser--

it's you I serve—the master

becomes the slave to you,

equatorial, tropical queen,

and I worship every morning--

your siren song, my alarm,

dispelling the fog of my mind

like your misty mountain home,

calling me from sleep in tangled

sheets as the sun streams

and I prepare the chalice for

our ritual, a clumsy acolyte

fumbling through the temple

of a quiet, still kitchen.

Ode to Words

I praise hidden thoughts that loop again,

ideas amorphous and vague given shape,

spinning freely from a liberating pen,

that evolving step between man and ape--

how is it, these lines sinuous and ornate,

can amuse, anger, evoke love and hate?

Shooting like arrows as the mind reloads,

things that calm, caress, hit and explode--

a ticker in the mind, running all the time,

scalding, harsh, smooth, sometimes rhymed,

mercurial messengers under some command--

obedient, insolent, issued from mouth and hand

getting us closer to it—all the way? Not quite.

Dispelling some darkness to light the night.

Magnets

ever have a day like that

when you become magnetic

in the aisles in a store

attracting people and

their laden shopping carts

pulling pedestrians off

the sidewalk without

them even knowing right

in the path of your car

which you of course slow

for the little iron filings

willed by something beyond

themselves to behave this way

not like yesterday when you

pushed everything

away—got a

clear shot up the street

down the road

through the thicket of

an undulating crowd

with your little mysterious

force field working silently?

science says the earth's

magnetic field

(which keeps us safe)

changes poles over time

due to what's deep inside

so why not us too?

Between Spark and Fire

Seductive shadow chaser

trilling in night air,

enough to ignite desire,

a hand-over-flame dare.

Bring the heat to this

iced heart--

show the way,

celestial star chart.

Fire and fuel are we

close at hand,

no choice but

chemistry's command.

Chase the shadows out,

become so dear,

melt the frozen coiled fear--

Live between spark and fire,

together we conspire.

Lie List

No, I'm not seeing anyone else.

Sure, I'll leave your money on the shelf.

I really have something to do.

Would I ever, ever lie to you?

I'm very experienced in this area.

Fancy free? Nothing's scarier.

I just want to be alone.

Nothing incriminating in my phone.

It's not you, it's me.

You're the one I've waited to see.

Of course I did well in school.

Of course I'll return your tools.

How many? Six, seven—no, eight.

But no, not tonight... I work late.

I'll wash your clothes, fold them too.

Have I ever, ever lied to you?

Fire's Promise

Let me light the lamp of you

your mercurial fuel--

it's me, it's what I do

bring me near and you'll

see and feel--

a shadowless flame

shimmers the bending light

makes wrinkles in time

wicks dip deeply in ancient oil--

endless reserves are there

once one finds it--

sweet pain of flame, the

tingle before the burn,

take me there again and again.

We blaze for a time, light and heat--

settling in to a steady flame

like hands pressed in prayer--

pointing up, not out--

heavenward, a halo of light,

a star in someone else's sky.

Dusk, Late June

Words in speeches echo, get

carried off in impatient air--

dozens of different scripts quietly

running, writing under square caps--

blue and white gowns over colors of souls,

tiger lilies for her, confetti and platitudes,

and the names called hang briefly and

they amble, saunter, swagger, sidle

across the ordinary grass as if it were

a high-wire or runway or pit of coals

as the ice-cream truck's song fades in and out

like childhood itself carried on the air

and the sun sinks slowly and fate smiles today

as dark clouds roll south and thin wispy

fingers overhead reach eastward, stretching

the sky as the sun is pulled down and away

beyond the plains and the purple rays

reach over hundreds of watts of smiles

on the darkening field and some are

lit within, radiating outward before

breaking rank, absorbed by the crowd--

little halos of light grab moments of time

to be seen again as they grow

into what some already know

and fill out shapes and outlines made today

on the island of grass inside the track

and the restless sky is pulling, moving overhead,

urging us all on into a sweet firefly night

as headlights find ways out and home

to never precisely return again.