No Hands

Nearly home, I take my hands
from the bar and the bike tracks straight.
My long shadow fills the road as
I sit up and look around, and
the earth is alive with the wind's breath.
The bike wants to stay upright, a friend says--
comforting personification that makes us a team,
this willful soul-giving to a machine.
My hands fall to my sides, as slight shifts
in my weight—automatic, really--
keep the course now. Balance and motion:
what more do I truly need?

Rise

Free me from my tired refrains:
Not good enough, will never be
as I sing it again, love in vain,
looking for years, unable to see.

Balance what I feel and what I know,
like the cycling moon, light and dark.
It takes effort to keep doors closed--
is that better than a shot off its mark?

Anything lived is never really gone.
Find words to forgive, but not forget.
Lines in my heart run on and on,
and tomorrow and I have not met.

Words, imprecise, always taste of surprise.
With the winding road, may I also rise.

Teach

Spend a day with us in a crowded, hot room:
Read the roster, have a plan, pick up the book.
Tell me then that the 2:35 bell comes too soon.
They're all here: leaders, dreamers and crooks.

Society's motley progeny arrives at our door.
Country's falling behind, we've heard for years.
Give all, but be prepared when asked for more.
Still, success outweighs failure, to be clear.

I cringe, look away, when I hear kids these days--
we were all there, wandering in some hazy past,
finding our way through an adolescent maze.
Remember time's river, flowing deep and fast.

Do not ever let a shaky grasp limit reach.
Know that those who can, will always teach.

One-Way Eyes

Prone to rage and shame,
I'm a weapon with no aim.
Pushing away whoever's close,
test those I need the most.

It's harder to write than revise,
looking out from one-way eyes.

Pictures have scripts that fit:
that's me, the kid who can't hit.
Quiet and gifted, sent away;
lived it then, feel it here today.

Look back too long, this moment dies,
looking out from one-way eyes.

I'm in the cave, can't stop--
keep the drill to the rock.
Remember a touch, laugh, smile,
so much softer back a while.

How present am I, feeling old highs?
Looking out from one-way eyes.

Believer

Looking at my T-shirt
with its quick slashes of ink
human-like outstretched arms
forming a Chinese character
standing for peace I believe
you asked
small gold cross hanging
around your tanned neck
Are you a believer
And I said yes
which is always a good answer
I believe
and still do
even as our minds
drew different conclusions
or so I believe

Morning Mirror

Reaching out, bristly
and stiff, shades of brown and gray
greet me after dreams
retreat like nocturnal beasts.
In the mirror, a day's growth.

Water Over Rock

Look away from the relentless clock.
Change is not always something seen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

Tense already, as I wake with a shock--
Am I running too rich or too lean?
Look away from the cruel, mocking clock.

How to carve myself out of this stifling block?
Michelangelo's angel was there, unseen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

What will summon inspiration's knock?
I climb a green hill to see where I've been,
and turn away from the indifferent clock.

In a small boat freed from the dock,
I think of waves, and lulls in between.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

Soon, words become keys to the locks:
my habits, faults, allegiance to routine,
tied to the unfeeling, cold clock.
Give me the patience of water shaping rock.

Where You Going?

Twilight, and I pilot my bike
down an empty city street.
Pastel pink and blue softens
silent gray concrete.
A flashing sign: “Detour,”
arrow pointing left—I stop,
things happen.

My mind wanders (those wheels never stop)
and I'm a farmer in my head, end of
the day, wondering about my crops,
if it's a good year, and how long I will
continue to till and sow these familiar,
lonesome fields of bachelorhood.

Wheelchair man, doing quick spins
mid-street, as if dancing to music,
rolls up, stops. Vietnam vet, he says.

His hands, black from the chair's wheels; his
pot belly, creeping out from his shirt; his
gray stubble; rattly coffee cup containing three
Canadian dollars and not much more, he tells me.
Do you work for the police?

More questions: Where do you live, how far
have you gone? Me, to him: Where you going?
Got no home, he says. Going to Troy. The street breathes,
I keep my wondering quiet for now, let
the canyon-echo traffic fill the space.

A cab appears, he hails it.
Cabbie, heavy subcontinent accent, loads his
suitcase, the chair. Where you going? More mumbles,
the cup rattles, and I wonder what I have
in my back pocket.

Another moment hangs, a dangling
cigarette in his lip, unlit, as I wait
for something to happen.

Take care, bud, I say twice.
You, too.

The cabbie drops the lever into drive,
and pulls away. Where you going?

Good question.

Going Somewhere?

Rank, file and legion
in the large, mirrored room,
lines of runners, belts spinning
furiously beneath them,
humming insect drone--
they run hard and fast,
gaining no ground,
eyes ahead, fixed on screens
filled with beautiful people
that the runners can't
quite reach.

Conditioned

I sit, shades drawn, windows shut
against the piercing heat of a
July day that feels closer to the sun,
pale fingers on cool black keys,
phone chirping with heat alerts
and news of cooling stations--
maybe I'll doze off in my conditioned
air, and dream of a paleolithic me,
sun-burnished and bare-footed,
maybe a spear in my hand,
making quick time over
hot dusty ground, picking berries or
tracking a beast—will I wake in
shame, in my cool artificial twilight,
that narrow island of comfort,
remembering that brave, burnished
hard man, under a slightly younger sun
that's just as hot, just as fierce?

Waiting

I am a boat in irons
waiting for a kind wind
to sail me on, sure and steady,
ready to begin again.

A flute lies still
waiting for an unseen hand
and the promise of breath
to play a song like no other can.

An ember glows, pulsing
brightly on this darkest night--
warm me, raise my own flame,
call on me to dance again.