Somewhere in California
a midnight one-eyed bus shoots
lettuce farm past lettuce farm
to abutment and a kiss.
Now the morning papers cry
15 sleeping Mexicans
glowed an hour or more.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
Had he seen the psychiatrist then,
nine years and six children ago,
the doctor would have said,
“Never mind whether you
should marry the girl.
That’s not the question.
Go home, go to bed.
Come see me
next Tuesday at ten.
We’ll begin to unbraid you.”
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
dedicated my sweet Romanian friend Vasile
a moment to swim
in your eyes
in your smile
the flavor of life
No season of the year is best
for being homeless though
autumn warns the worst is near
and those who sleep in doorways
want to learn their options as to where
it might be best to spend the winter while
those who spend summer in the garden
sneak under doors and over transoms.
Folks step on bugs indoors and bring
their winter needs for shelter to an end.
This time of year before the holidays,
folks with roofs are toasty while
homeless bugs and people aren’t
although it’s true that fewer bugs
have to live outside all winter.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
The house where love died
Carried voices with no meaning inside
Only the outside air whispered life
The charming garden had faith
Empty lips of comfort
All grew soft and far and silent
Trees bent their heads
Mysteriously crying
Winds stole thoughts away
No home in the moon’s light
Alone and frightened
In the unfriendly night
Desperately willing
The sunny morning danced
A subtle beguiling smile
Wept tears of gold and jade
Through tides of darkness
White radiant words flew
Known hearts found peace
In the home of truth
driving bracing
force of rain
washes through us
and our town
carries with it
remnants of who we
were, so now we
must become again.
When we were kids
growing up in the city
we had prairies
and a little hill
and we’d put Stevie
in a barrel and push him
down the hill.
He’d laugh and scream
all the way down.
He loved the whole trip
and wanted to do it again.
As little boys we were
happy to oblige him.
Everyone grew up
and went to college,
moved to the suburbs,
got married and had kids
except Stevie who stutters
except when he sings.
Every midnight he gets
on the subway
with his empty thermos
and barrels back home.
On Sundays they say
he sounds like Pavarotti
in the church choir.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.