Amalgamated Dreams

Riding the Rockin’ Chair

• 
  Ol’ gray morning coffee shop,
  drivers, routemen know the stop
  salesmen sup another cup
  bacon whole wheat two sunny side up
  
  all night rig runners break,
  down for chow and a cup to take
  first edition cross counter spread
  eaten over, refolded, finally read
  
  one more cup then back to the mines
  beside the ditches, between the lines

Returning

• 
  Returning to the labored
  silence of a now empty
  home
  
  Once where there was
  rains of fortune the
  planted seed of two
  hearts we shared the
  quiet held in each
  other’s thoughts
  
  Words pierce flesh
  solitude tearing the
  warm hearts with dry harsh
  winter winds
  
  Brown lifeless seed pods
  in a vase on the
  buffet next to this month’s
  bills

The Circle

• 
  The changes begin,
  the circle comes full round.
  Wood smoke, once held dear,
  hangs heavy in the morning chill.
  
  The winds of distant origin
  sweep the warmth from new fields.
  Winter wheat lies in wait
  beneath the coming frost.
  
  Where once we walked,
  laughing with spring’s beginning.
  the Iris will bloom again
  opening to the new warmth.
  
  The changes begin
  and the circle comes
  full round.

Poets

• 
  Poets are a cynical lot,
  remembering more than
  most have forgot.

  Taking a stance at
  the edge of our time.
  Holding the moment
  in forced broken rhyme.

  We are but lovers of
  life in the end,
  capturing images we
  need not defend.

  We are indeed a
  cynical lot,
  having no more than
  others have got.

Ode to a Lady

• 
  Early morns cantankerous
       billow fights for
       dawn’s first gray lights
  Slowly tumbling mystical
       winds rolling lithe
       between cirrus lovers

  Venus and Mars stand
       watch at the edge
       of awakening skies
  Auroral coming hidden
       then beneath
       percale heavens

  Quiet parting simply
       night slipping to day
       two alone go their way
  Red tears cried for
       the miss-picked velvet
       petaled rose

Shadow Summer

• 
  Together, counterparts of the whole,
  the day awakes warm wind across an
  already busy street. Stoop sitting
  with steaming coffee cups and smoldering
  cigarettes hung in loose conversation.

  They walk step for step together,
  the reflection of a black mirror,
  long from early light.
  Caressing contours
  of this most urbane setting grown
  from nurtured concrete seeds.

  Unseen they grow together
  zenith bound, becoming one.
  The image and illusion fuse
  momentarily gray.

Zen Friends and Bicycle Lovers

• 
  Through this solstice turmoil
       runs the all to certain thread
       that we be only mortal,
       fleeting as the moth
       sheds darkness for the light.
            Zen friends and bicycle lovers
            walk opposite sides
            of the street alone.

  The darkness is dead, long live
       the light new regal lord
       is born upon the golden
       chariot racing from the gate,
       behind, desperate to win.
            Zen friends and bicycle friends
            lovers lay naked
            in a chill wind.

  Amid dusk pastel hues
       ascends the golden lunar
       orb casting near light
       shadows upon gently
       flowing orchard winds.
            Zen friends and bicycle lovers
            each taking a turn
            without the other.

Soaring Winds

• 
  Soaring winds set the sails
  toward the imagined edge
  silently my psychic ship
  slips beyond the horizon

  The vastness of the supposed void
  there mercifully freeing the spirit
  but alas I am cast
  upon the rocky
  mundane shore.

  Sinking, settling timbers
  cry forth their mournful end
  so the skeleton, half buried
  combs the ebb and flow

Fool’s April Haiku

• 
  Overslept again
  missing
  April’s first
  

On Knowing Nothing

• 
  Front room to kitchen
  pacing the fine line,
  each step erodes
  the brittle edge.
  
  A sentinel stands
  at the last frontier
  gravely staring blind
  into the void.
  
  a cup of too hot coffee
  cooling while a hand rolled
  cigarette sits smoldering
  cradled in the stained concave
  of a commercial
  square glass tray.
  
  the sightless messenger
  existing only in being
  silently waits
  before the reflection-less mirror
  to receive a vision.

Amid Warring Cries For Peace

• 
  Amid warring cries for peace
  
       we have heard the lullaby
       and succumb to the dreamless sleep,
       rocked in the handmade cradle
       of the eternal holocaust.
  
  We drift a warm bed made
  
       when half the world away
       a mother cries, “My Sargent Son
       of only nineteen years is dead;
       laid aside his hero father”
  
  To enter the maternal void
  
       of wedding white she bespeaks
       the seed of new cries, she carries
       tears to his shroud, accepting
       his honor within a folded flag.
  
  There alone to join as one:
  
       we have laughed and loved,
       and now fought and died,
       all in the name of freedom,
       it’s golden chariot to ride.
  
  As the one, another yet becomes,
  
       amid warring cries of peace
       we drift a warm bed made
       to enter the maternal void,
       there alone to join as one,
       as the one, another yet becomes,
       rocked in the handmade cradle
       of the eternal holocaust.

My Father's Dream

• 
  I had to learn to see
  my father's dream mirror,
  to know the flowing
  continuum of desire.
  Reflected,
  the fleeing siren
  singing beyond the edge
  draws my father's dream
  to bittersweet straits.
  
  In his dream mirror
  the image reversed
  My father's son,
  the reflection
  of myself,
  the being,
  the illusion,
  locked in mortal
  stare,
  becoming one.
  
  Rising in youth's fury
  I donned the armor
  of my father's dream,
  picking up his sword
  of temper
  going forth to slay
  the long dead dragons
  that lurked specter like
  in my father's closet.
  
  O'er the vast ranges
  I sought the beasts
  that would torment
  my father's dreams.
  
  Yet long bleached bones
  deny the quest
  and scattered scales
  bespeak the dragon's
  plight.
  
  Here upon the endless
  barren plain majestic
  borne upon a wing
  the last slow spiral
  has fell the mighty
  dream beast.
  
  Brought to its knees
  for the want of fuel
  to feed the kindled flame
  of passion.
  
  With the last expiring
  sulfurous miasmatic rattle
  of passing dragon
  the armor
  of my father's dream
  fell away
  
  Where barren lands fall
  to the furious seas
  I stand naked
  alone.
  
  My father's dream
  a fading visage
  My life illusive
  memory
  like a dragon
  taking wing
  though their bones
  lay baking
  upon some barren
  plane.

My Friend Philip Cloy

• 
  He’s a bit of an odd sort
  that one, cranky and
  hard to get along with
  that one. He’s Historical,
  I said that right I did!
  Not histeri-cal as some
  would suppose. No he’s a
  Historical Prophet he is!
  A seeker he is, of sorts, across
  the boundaries of time
  he sees and says, “Were I
  King, this history book
  would be wrong, these were
  simple doings in the lives
  of simple people.” says he
  grinning right through me.
  “These petty Kings know not
  one iota of my thoughts
  and they be only Kings
  while I…” Lays his
  head down, right where
  he lay beside that can
  he did, just laid there
  and died.

Richard Burton Died Today

• 
  Roll your “R’s” when you say
  Richard Burton died today
  August 6th, 1984, a Monday
  
  My mother wept her silent
  throbbing tears
  
  While my father, ever
  steadfast, sighed relief

Parking Lot Friends

• 
  We’re the best of
  parking lot friends
  the frequent wave
  the knowing nod
  our greetings
  never fail
  
  Before your blue Buick
  I’d park the Impala
  in the opposite row,
  three stalls over
  
  Two new executives
  young and right on time
  exchange congratulatory
  “Good morning, I’m late.”
  smiles
  
  Your dad’s old Buick
  was gone
  in its place
  that bright red
  Mustang.
  Convertible.
  
  You made Partner.

Queen Anne's Lace

• 
  Debutante dilettante
  Hungry stares
  wanton sighs
  soft velveteen treasure
  naughty
  tatting crossed thighs
  
  Demure lilting laughter
  veiled wide
  tell-me eyes
  soft silken born whispers
  haughty
  tattling lies
  
  Victorian secrets unkept
  half hidden
  half worn
  soft satin filigree accent
  knotty
  tattered and torn
  
  Suburban domestic
  enchantress
  forlorn
  soft cotton white matron
  machine
  lace adorned.

El Maestro y El Quetero

• 
  Señora Muños
  the unassuming wife
  of El Quetero
  died as quietly
  as she had lived
  
  Perhaps in her sleep
  in their shared bed
  in a windowless
  bed room
  just off her
  windowless kitchen
  
  She was the devout
  wife of the
  man of
  rockets and lights
  quetes y luces
  Castillos de Festival
  
  El Quetero made a
  quiet humble request
  Would El Maestro
  with his big gray
  station wagon
  take Señora
  to the grave yard
  
  Sitting on the bench
  seat between the
  great and diminutive man
  the young boy fought
  back tears
  
  El Maestro drove
  the hearse
  very slowly.

The Portrait of My Father’s Mother

• 
  Too large for his
  simple home
  this gilded crenelated
  frame worthy of
  its contents
  demands dark paneled
  expanses of a
  gentleman's den
  
  Her grace stilled in pastels
  from an era before his birth
  demure, wrapped in the elegant
  trappings of her station
  ermine stole casual across
  a satin evening gown
  frozen as he would
  remember her
  held as he would treasure her
  
  From his deathbed, withered
  clinging to this visual
  vestige of now long
  distant youth
  
  A memorial remnant of his
  boyhood dream torn asunder
  in the turmoil of her
  enduring allegiance
  counterpoint to his father’s
  increasing distance

Summer’s Turn

• 
  July sunshine streaming
  Through August winds carrying
  The heavy promise of September
  Rains until today
  Stepping from light to shadow
  Cold comes seeping into bare feet
  Long sleeves grudgingly
  Unrolled

Streams

• 
  I caught a fleeting glimpse
  through my father’s eyes
  
  the story of a river
  is not how wide or how deep
  but from whence it comes
  and to where it flows
  
  calm silent solemn patience
  leads her frail searching foot falls
  traversing ancient knotted
  roots intertwined, over woven
  to the edge of the stream
  
  there we cast him upon the flowing
  water, finally free set adrift to
  run the soft cascades of
  his favorite trout stream

Two Voices Speaking Simultaneously

• 
  You have every right
  to be upset with me.
  I came unannounced           Stealing
  to visit him                           the warmth
  and be with you                   from candle
                                              flame cold
  We will banter                     light
  he and I                              illuminates
  recalling and                      old surfaces
  regaling                              polished
  while you sit                       exteriors
  quietly reading                   angular
  the last few pages             smile
  savoring those                   flat
  last few                              laughter
  words.
  
  Politely present
  practice poise
  enduring                              stealing
  time worn                            eyeful
  versions of                          glances
  lost loves                            soft cloth
  and                                     drape caress
  labors glossed,                   full round
  triumphant                          thigh line
  youth’s decline                   descending
                                             with
  Two old men spar               bells
  exchanging practiced         on
  subtle jabs, each
  with dancer’s pride
  showing off his                  the book
  fancy footwork                   finished
                                            returning
                                            from some
                                            literary
                                            distance
                                            with
                                            dancing
                                            eyes

I Always Wanted

• 
  our discussions ranged as far a field
  as you and I could possibly
  push and pull apart the frail
  sheer fabric spanning
  hues and ethereal concepts,
  mind visions, verbal art
  
  we walked on into the summer
  evening holding hands
  exchanging carefully posed
  dialectic postures
  intellectual positions taken
  from formal lithographs
  
  the staccato rhythm of echoed
  steps receding down long
  cloistered halls of academia
  
  I always wanted
  
  to be with you in silent contemplation
  of afternoon woodlands light
  dappling across trillium's bloom
  
  sitting side by side before the
  autumn evening fire wood smoke
  perfume mingling with
  mulled wine
  
  drowsy snuggled near sleep
  mapping feeling cool skin
  the length of you contour
  matching the length of me
  
  I always wanted
  to just hold you
  and sleep

No Liberty

• 
  As rising wind bent supple limb
  I turned quick, the tree gave
  a short sharp sigh
  No liberty have I this house
  though here do I presume
  this porch
  
  Ominous thunder unrelenting
  from mounting summer storm
  lacing heavy falling rain
  through twisting maple leaves
  
  I would have shut the windows
  to the rain but no liberty
  have I this house
  
  What majesty this house does
  hold, full and frail
  replete and torn
  it whispers soft kept secrets
  
  The rain now a gossamer
  veil, a black cat sits expectantly
  just inside the closed glass
  doors, mute requests for food
  or a scratch behind the ears
  
  Yet I cannot oblige
  No liberty have I this house

Adrift

• 
  Sitting alone, except for the
  insistent cat at my ankles,
  across the day-room, through
  the open door
  I watched my father sleep.
  Propped up with pillows,
  covered with an unwrinkled
  sheet to guard against the
  coming evening's chill
  
  He was not sleeping but adrift
  
  Hunkered down against Spring's
  last morning frost with steaming
  coffee fresh from the thermos
  and a cigarette, lit from the last,
  intently watching his rod tip
  for the tell-tale tickle
  of a Brown trout. Perhaps a
  third to join the other two
  already nestled in his grass
  lined creel.
  
  The rod tip turns
  
  With practiced measured patience
  he safely sets the coffee aside
  and caresses the rod, finger
  touch upon the line
  
  The rod tip turns again
  
  "Hot damn" says he and deftly sets
  the hook
  
  "Hot damn!" His exclamation
  rises with the sharp bending
  of the rod, the drag screaming
  as the trout turns, three pound
  mono filament tears the stream's
  mirror surface
  
  Slowly reeling, in command, rod
  held high, tip turning, taught
  line slanting toward the unseen
  prize
  
  Whispers, so as not to startle but
  to sooth, "Come to me. Come to Papa."
  
  The trout turns again, the
  drag speaks its high pitch
  complaint, fishing line tears
  another momentary fissure
  across the flowing stream
  and then goes slack
  
  Weary of the beguiling trout
  reeling in the soft slack-line
  holding hope until the mouth worn
  worm surfaces.
  
  Better for this fight, not broken
  his practiced hand sets a new worm
  to hook, lets slip a silken cast
  and reaches without looking for
  his now cool cup of coffee.
  
  Then again to drift

Holding Dear The Night In A Dream

• 
  sleep came fleeting, a scant breeze
  barely aloft the humid night air
  they walked slowly, stretching time
  tentatively hand in hand
  unsure of the path
  across moon shadows laced
  with the sharp bark
  of night dogs
  
  sleep came on cat’s feet, stalking,
  scenting the heavy air, pause
  two children alone together
  not knowing life’s course
  fingers interlaced
  neither leading or following
  quick shallow breaths
  tight hearts pounding
  
  sleep came in silent release, day’s last
  lingering concerns displaced
  leaving deep shadows in the
  embrace of forest’s undergrowth
  weaving through tendril vines
  shoulders touching hands
  clasped tight to ward off
  trepidation darkness
  
  dream as an extension of day lights
  the inner recesses of sleep
  following in each others foot
  steps, desire’s siren song
  calling from the heart
  of the forest glen
  pushing deeper pulled by
  an unknown promise
  
  dream as a mind story unfolding
  revelations showing at each new crease
  stopping by sudden unspoken need
  exertions panting leans against
  the cool smooth beech’s skin
  soft loam under foot
  quiet hand never leaves
  gentle holding hand
  
  dream as an artesian spring over
  flowing relentlessly over filling
  continuing the journey of
  unspoken need now oblivious
  to primal night fears
  willful hesitation giving way
  to instinctual surrender
  racing to the forest edge
  
  dreams as a misty shrouded vision
  a reflection in a window
  emerging from forest’s last
  holding grasp to collapse side
  by side enveloped by soft
  meadow grasses bathed in
  bright moonlight drifting
  to sleep beneath a starry canopy
  
  sleep came with hushed breathing
  holding dear the night in a dream

I Watched Her

• 
  I watched her surreptitiously
  stealing side long glances
  wondering.
  She had the giving-heart
  filled with native promise
  overflowing.
  She was attentive listening
  excited by new words and meanings
  thirsting.
  
  I stood quietly, calming the
  strong beat of my heart, while
  the fire within me raged.
  
  I offered an empty glass, she drank deep.
  
  As the fire died down I could
  see it consumed her. Gone were so
  simple promises, the giving-heart
  long since bereft, laid bare.
  
  In the dying light of that selfish
  fire I could see she had not
  changed only my view of her.
  She had heard too many words,
  meanings blurred. She kept
  hidden and held dear her
  promises.

Richard “Gene” Johnson

• 
  Richard “Gene” Johnson
  was released from life today.
  He did no go quietly, he never
  surrendered.
  
  “Gene wa’n’t like that!”
  
  Brother Husband Father Gene
  was a giant of a man seen
  through the eyes of his
  favored grand kids.
  
  “Gene’d git right down and play”
  
  His eyes sparkled when he
  spoke of his work, dedicated
  until the last hour. Honor
  and duty the Staff Sargent’s
  watch words.
  
  “Dang near kilt him to put down that wrench.”
  
  We will gather together to remember
  through a veil of tears and a
  gale of laughter the spirit of
  a man missed but never forgotten.
  
  “Gene’d say that was too much fuss.”

The River Run

• 
  On opposite banks of the river
  we will stand our ground
  watching each other.
  Watching the water that runs
  flat and cold and deep.
  
  I have watched you now for years
  as we have watched the river run.
  I have watched your complexion turn
  touched by summer’s long sun.
  I have seen you turn cold shoulder
  against the cutting of winter wind.
  
  Steadfast there upon the opposite
  shore you stand.
  
  Through the flowing river
  of time my heart leaps
  pulse racing, breath short
  at just the distant sight of you.

Cathedral

• 
  After the world is laid to rest
  well before the first light of dawn
  silent darkness shrouds
  majestic spires reaching up
  to touch the stars
  
       A pilgrimage
       responding
       to a calling
       without course
  
  Standing very still, willing calm,
  surrendering, only to be present
  letting the night settle
  around me
  
       The journey
       becomes me
       complete in
       the first step
  
  In time the mind's darkness of night
  breaks, the obscuring veil is torn,
  ever so slowly celestial light contrasts
  the earth and sky
  
       long countless miles
       parched
       beneath midday sun
       continuing
  
  Half seen steps lead into the
  unfinished foundation, reaching posts
  and crossbeams promise a glorified
  sanctuary, the labor of man's strong hands,
  the vision of a fearless heart
  
       cleansing travel
       removing the past
       weights
       leaving the world
  
  In this soaring hallowed emptiness,
  amid half laid walls latticed with
  rough hewn timbers, creation's
  presence stirs, its living energy
  as the laying of hands, uplifting
  
       bone weary
       stripped bare
       well fed
       arriving home

The Traveler

• 
  The traveler may come back
  But he will not return
  
  Martha an’ me, we’ve lived here
  all our lives, our folks did too,
  an’ their folks as well.
  We grew up two blocks from
  here, her backyard across the
  fence from ours.

Starbucks in the Bible Belt

• 
  She asked, “What's an iced coffee?”
  And I thought, “Your are from around
  here, ain’t’cha.”
  
  Like rubbernecked tourists
  visiting just another
  Gift Shoppe
  during a 10 minute layover
  peeking and poking
  absently fondling coffee cups
  like newly found ancient
  artifacts of an undiscovered
  culture
  
  “Martha, what in the world is this
  Shade Grown Coffee?”
  
  “What can I make for you today, Sir?”
  
  “Y’all got any Sweet Tea?”

Howerton

• 
  Your father’s old
  drafting table
  sat in the shed for so long
  the varnish blistered and
  began to peel
  
  Twisting warped table top
  Twice repaired shattered leg
  
  He stood before this drafting table
  smoothing a vast expanse
  of clean white paper
  His dream arose a specter
  before him
  plotted, measured, straight edged
  ruled vision of utopia

Kitchen Scene

• 
  Drawing eight inches
  of leather stropped
  cold Sheffield steel
  through supple smooth
  skin of a
  Scotch Bonnet
  
  Searing touch
  the tip of the tongue
  tease tasting
  open petals of an
  edible flower
  
  Raw long lengths
  of firm muscle
  lashed and bound
  massaged with
  virgin olive oil

Two Pennies

• 
  They threw pennies
  at the feet
  of the man
  asleep
  
  When he awoke,
  as in a dream
  they turned
  away
  
  He rose to walk,
  leaving them
  in his wake
  
  From a distance
  he spoke softly
  his words carried
  clearly across
  the silence
  
  “Take up the pennies,
  cast down your
  crowns.”
  
  After he spoke,
  as in a dream
  they turned
  away
  
  Fingering tight
  drawstring pouches
  absently counting
  gold sovereigns
  contained

Back to the wall

• 
  White washed adobe
  silhouettes and shadows
  retell the last chapter
  of others who have
  stood against this wall
  
  Battered then broken
  at the hands
  of Pius righteous
  believers
  
  The body crumples
  The spirit soars

Turning from Nietzsche

• 
  Setting aside the
  dog eared volume
  turning to face
  a five year old
  opponent across
  a low slate
  chess board
  
  Amusement in the
  face of innocence
  fades in the shadow of a Queen’s Gambit
  wielded by such a
  small hand

VGlen

• 
  VGlen didn’t wake
  up today
  
  Sleeping the peace
  of his paintings
  
  Wrapped in the comfort
  of hand woven
  blankets
  
  Today he will realize
  the punch line
  for the wonderful
  cosmic joke
  he told
  in the art of his
  days
  in the lives of his
  nights

Taking the Heat of Sleep

• 
  Taking the heat of sleep
  into the perfect still chill
  of October’s silent gray dawn
  
  Allowing near frost air
  to lay upon exposed flesh
  releasing the last whispers
  of fleeting body dreams
  
  Contracting
  
  Alone with subtle moving morning
  chill sitting silent
  letting the cold wash over me
  
  The expanse of the universe
  drains away
  all that remains is the body
  enveloped in the moment
  
  Singular
  
  No yesterday or tomorrow
  only
  the sterling cold cutting now

Androgynous Cops

• 
  Androgynous cops
  frequenting a
  fancy coffee shop
  sultry latino
  heartbreak songs
  paint red heat
  and cold hearts
  slow motion tango
  hangs fluid
  her partner staid, stoic
  distant
  
  Habitually hiking
  her Sam Brown
  resettling jangled
  cruiser keys
  subtle comfort
  brushing touch
  the holstered
  side arm

Blind Pottery

• 
  Laying hands holding life
  not the perfect finished
  tea cup
  
  A slug of wet clay
  wedged
  leaning in
  back
  elbows
  wrists
  turning refolding
  worked
  set
  centered
  
  Lifted with
  broken hands
  
  In the darkness
  
  Lifted with the sight
  of touch
  
  Wet clay resists
  breathes
  yields fluid form
  in substance
  
  Yet the vessel
  is in the
  void

I Was So Slow

• 
  I was so slow
  and stupid sitting slack jawed
  while you leaned into a
  counter of whole wheat dough
  
  I sat lethargic daydreaming
  some distant adventure while
  you kneaded, leaned,
  pushed then rhythmically
  repeated
  
  The living food of rising
  bread brought into abundance
  by the caress of your loving
  hands while I drift at the
  edge of sleep
  
  Your heart torn, the first resistant
  tear of crusty oven fresh bread
  broken in my calloused hands
  intent only on satisfying
  my hunger

The Arrogance of Ignorance

• 
  He shot off his mouth spewing
  platitudes
  A polyester playboy fingering
  his gold chains while he over
  tipped the hostess at a
  seat-yourself all-you-can-eat
  buffet
  
  He marked himself with the scented
  stain of sweeping generalizations
  
  “Of course they want the
  same things I want.
  Who wouldn’t?”

Instant Impenetrable Darkness

• 
  instant impenetrable darkness
  in less than a breath
  electrical sighs
  stop
  radio classical music
  silence
  luminous pc screens
  render ethereal
  fading
  ghost remains
  
  silence enveloping
  blanketing the
  moment
  panic
  until i can find the first
  flashlight
  then a candle
  
  in a distant room moonlight
  casts louvered shadows
  upon the floor
  in natural night darkness
  soft cotton clouds drift before
  the waxing moon
  
  tarnished brass candlesticks
  stand in good stead
  two single flames at the
  kitchen table
  casting shadows back to a
  time before
  an age when evening
  surrendered to sleep

We Fill Our Lives

• 
  We fill our lives
  with the noise
  of the moment
  
  She comes to me
  softly in the morning
  to hold me dear
  
  She with a last
  glass of wine
  I with a first
  cup of coffee
  
  Each half the world away

The Ladies Were Dancing

• 
  The ladies were dancing
       just after dawn
  Leaping and bounding
       a fawn tags along
  Legs all akimbo
       testing the music
  Not knowing the song
  
  They stop short to listen
       for a beat
       then a measure
  Turn nonchalant
       and amble along
  
  Drifting through tall grass
       high stepping fancy
       all White Tail lace
  Furtive fawn glances
       keeping apace
  
  So the ladies go dancing

Did not grow up

• 
  His children did not
  grow up in his father's
  house
  
  He cut his hair short
  as he should
  
  He shined his wingtips
  as he should
  
  He wore shirt and tie
  as he should
  
  He went to work
  Sundays to church
  
  He marched.
  
  His children did not
  grow up in his father's
  house
  
  You ran away as soon
  as you could
  
  You stayed away as long
  as you could
  
  You changed the world as much
  as you could
  
  You sang the songs
  protested the wrongs
  
  You marched.
  
  Our children did not
  grow up in our father's
  house
  
  They are page space tagging
  as they can
  
  They are jam mix ripping
  as they can
  
  They are wry Cyber sliding
  as they can
  
  They run the net
  computers alone
  
  They march.

I Want To Be Alone

• 
  I want to be alone
  
  lonely and cold.
  
  feel the cold night air seep
  under single covers
  
  I have slept out my dreams
  
  damp twice used towel
  beneath my feet
  
  I will do laundry today
  or maybe tomorrow.
  
  
  being silent
  listening
  
  
  when the furnace kicks out
  no rustling or pitter-pattering
  no busy-ness, no fuss
  
  
  up and dressed,
  packed for the day
  leaving this room
  closing the door
  like a motel room
  disappearing
  when the door is closed
  
  walking away,
  through the lobby
  of my own home
  hoping not to
  bump into
  someone I know
  
  I long to hear my own thoughts
  without the guilt of
  having to steal them

Burning the Brush Pile

• 
  I waited
  
  After a summer of stories
  spreading like wildfire
  burning drought
  scarring our lawns
  parching our lives
  
  I waited for this
  long gray day with its
  on-again off-again
  cold soaking drizzle
  
  this November evening
  the neighbors must
  think me daft to start a
  fire in the rain
  
  the primordial spark
  then small tasting flame
  grows in a tinder hollow
  first beating breathing
  hungry heart of fire
  
  hunkering down
  sitting on heels
  shovel handle
  staff at hand
  
  willing the fire to live
  a human windward shield
  my back soaked
  the small light playing
  in early evening
  shadows
  
  sputtering, guttering
  twist licking turning
  small flames embrace
  dry branches dead leaves
  
  sizzle quickly
  burning the brush pile
  has begun there is no
  turning back as there is
  no turning back to place
  the limbs upon the trees
  
  more drizzle damp fuel
  placed upon the rising
  pyre steam wood smoke
  carried alee by not so
  gentle evening breezes
  
  as darkness encroaches
  the breadth of now
  involved fire lashes out
  brighter for the night
  a primal circle of light
  
  radiant heat contrasts
  the rain soaked side of me
  that faces from the flames
  chilled through to bone
  an unkind balance met
  
  now roaring in a wind
  whipped frenzy fly ash
  glows dancing
  high into clouded
  night blinking out
  
  circle light in darkness
  alone drawn across ages
  of silent sentries standing
  face front to warmth
  back to nightmares
  
  rising now beating back
  light cold rain
  this living ravenous
  ethereal entity calls
  out for greater sacrifice
  
  I will wait
  as the brush pile burns

The Immediacy of Dreams:

The Convergence of Being and Meaning

• 
  No single light cuts through
  an image of cacophony dreams
  sibilant whispers
  white-noise voices
  continuous word picture
  illusions drift shifting
  disquieting unsilence
  each desperate grasping
  demanding the attention
  of his moment
  
  Empty the dishwasher
  put away clean
  to make room for those
  cluttering the counter
  
  Seeking measured order
  in the mundane ritual
  of dutiful daily chores
  in his moment
  
  Hash Browns into a hot skillet
  salt, pepper, a drizzle of olive oil
  two eggs over easy in the
  well seasoned cast iron
  
  Push clear to one end of the
  kitchen table the detritus of
  this weeks bills, prescription
  notes, bird books and the flyer
  announcing imminent school
  year functions
  
  Thirsting for the release
  of physical exertion
  to quench the dream desires
  in his moment
  
  Set in that clear space the
  steaming breakfast plate
  toast on the side
  
  Reflecting upon the
  morning haiku
  
       dew diamond pendants
       in symmetric suspension
       grace last night's cobwebs
  
  so both fed and nourished
  in his moment

The Ice Storm: Beyond Desperation

• 
  Asynchronous
  battery driven clocks
  tick-clicking
  the heart beat
  of the empty house
  over the
  whisper-whir
  of the refrigerator
  powered by the
  constant thrum
  of the generator
  
  
  When the fridge
  finishes this
  cooling cycle
  I will kill
  the generator
  
  
  The refrigerator
  sealed
  will hold
  until tonight
  when darkness
  will again
  demand
  the light.

The Obit Ritual

• 
  Idle curiosity
  slowing down in life traffic
  to rubber neck
  sightseeing the posted
  accounts of issues and accidents
  
  Morbid curiosity
  fine sieve filtering
  each salient detail
  grasping for correlations
  between the moment and the future
  
  Mortal curiosity
  soulful recollections
  of cherished shared memories
  embracing the comforts
  of our anticipated passing