Silent men around me
seem to know
there is a time for rutting
and feeding on corn
a time to sit still in cold
start the cleaning
of the firearm and stop
start the squeezing of
target practice trigger
stop again
a preconfigured notion
of manhood starts
and I stop it at its
bubbling source
thereby redefining.
Prism of behavior
action always seeking
satisfaction of some hidden
unexpressed need
Why not ask Why not
Respond in unexpected
ways, find consequences
that work
Instead of shutting ourselves
up in a locked prison
of rigid expectations.
Are you cold?
Come I will
warm you
wrap you in
my blanket
we will lie
a while together
exchanging heat
words and vows.
Though every death throughout history
is the cause of my morbid celebration
confirming the possession of this thing
called life as I stand upon the mountain
of the deceased thankful that I survive
in the daylight while they are doomed
to slumber in their everlasting night
and though blood runs through the veins
of the hand that inscribes these verses
I am yet aware my words will outlast me
promising neither reprieve nor immortality
so you, dear reader, may have the last laugh
when these lines have become my epitaph.
This is the last poem
I will ever write.
Too tired of the verses.
Maybe I said something
worthy over the last two
years, or not.
Maybe someone else will
sling some ink in my place
as I go to rest.
We could
have loved
kissed
it would have
been forbidden
judged
I could have
known your warmth
hidden cold
bad decisions
life dreams
leach places
all over now
to tell the truth
I’m glad I didn’t.
Twist fist
power
sudden tighten
nothing
passes thru
strain feign
a grain
of sand
stuck in the sieve
leaves
a vacuum.
They inhabit a different reality
safe in the cocoon of their youthful world
like expectant passengers on a quay
about to embark on an endless cruise
their adult life a great ship that will sail
across oceans of possibility.
Alas, my ship has passed over those seas
and nears its final destination
that dark port at the end of the voyage
a place of twilight then eternal night.
Though these callow souls seem quite unaware
of the current’s pull that carries all there
I’ll not waste my breath to enlighten them
for of my thoughts they neither know nor care.
A flying carpet of
sugar maple leaves
unfurls along my road.
Just enough light to glimpse
silhouettes of yellow trees
against the dove grey sky.
Tenacious… one leaf
clings to the bough
after today’s wind storm.
Amazing how many stars
fit inside my windowpane.
We visited the graveyard often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a hill
As if to place the dead skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I would
Snap photos of the markers, hoping
And simultaneously not hoping
That in one of them there would be
The wisp or specter of a ghost
When the products popped out
There was always that moment
Of ethereal mystery as the image
Faded into firm being.