A tiny sphere.
Puncture and poof,
it begins.
Sharing dividing,
what is divided
dividing
according to
the code: the
dee oxee r-eye bose
code, knew
klee ick ass id.
Calibrated
star dust.
An organic
space suit for the
adventurous
and curious
shot into
the waiting wet
rabbit hole
to this world
not less strange
than Alice's.
Sitting in Egg Harbor -
din slowly rising
as people fuel up for Saturday.
High voices of children,
tenor of dishes and silver,
alto and baritone voices
counterpoint to my waiting,
sipping dark roast coffee
slowly cooling. I keep
looking at the door
they're late, I wonder why,
maybe lost again -
turning south instead of North
on Arlington Heights road -
like they did before.
That's often the way of things,
unaware you're lost
you don't think of turning around.
If considered
by the t-shirts I sleep in -
blue, pink, teal, orange,
gray and lime -
time does not exist.
Six shirts washed
and folded warm,
placed in a drawer.
Ah, I tell myself,
you're good for another
six weeks.
When I reach for a clean one
approximately the next day
and only, say, the lime one is left,
I know my world has collapsed
into t-shirt time,
the black hole of laundry.
Calculate I've run
35-40 therapy groups
the past five weeks,
sat through a gazillion
snoring meetings,
the cats have inhaled
a truckload of Fancy Feast,
and I watched five
(at least) must-see movies
now, its all a blur
the size of a burr.
Soon I'll re-wash the
rainbow of sleepwear,
fold them warm and
put them in the dresser.
Another condensed season
of t-shirt time
begins.
if you're sluicing life a row boat
and your s.o. with a motor,
is this a problem or a difference
to be enjoyed, and employed?
my s.o. saw the boats as problem
while I thought the difference good,
I learned to race a motor boat
he learned to slow and take a look.
defined as problem it was wedge
as difference the very spice of life,
he criticized the rowing about,
in the end the wedge won out.
since outcome came from attitude,
in affairs of mind and heart
complementary should be
the yin and yang: not lose or win.
ban the opposites of life
unless your filling up the tub,
making ice or blowing steam,
playing the rival softball team.
I just deleted the entry
I began entering 2 hours ago
when an idea entered my mind
and I entertained it until
the first line made an entrance
as a phrase and entrained with
others entered the world of
words except I forgot to enter:
save.
It was a brilliant piece of
writing, my piece de resistance
meant to be a piece of my latest
book which I've been piecing
together like pieces of a
quilt like my grandma pieced
together only out of cloth pieces
but I missed the last piece
for which I now have no peace:
save.
What I really mean to say is:
shit.
Rumi wrote his poems from Heaven
Frost penned at his farm,
Whyte writes from an inner edge
Dickinson from the heart.
Different places, yet the same,
Still I'd like to know
Where I write from most the time,
Where Muse and I are one.
Perhaps I write on top a bridge
(Perhaps the bridge: my poems),
To my right is cosmic flight
To my left are stones.
Underneath, mystery flows
Its running quiets soul,
Wind stirs embers in the mind --
Muse begins to row.
Poles of paradox: rock and space
By them I'm torn apart,
But on this bridge where two are one:
My Muse and I find art.
[alternate ending]
My muse and I both fart.
partly sunny today -
a few leaves begin to turn,
groceries just put away,
cats lazy and lounge;
feelings soft, silent
as the neighborhood,
passion rises for a nap
but longs for fire.
coffee is brewing
hair is bad but I don't care
it must be Sunday
napping with the cats
waking up at 10 a.m.
gotta love Sunday
mind is wandering
lands on novel I'm reading
three cheers for Sunday
brushing cat hair off
my pants then check my planner
thinking of Monday
language cannot convey
the depth breath beauty or challenge
of poets' felt vision
yet poets persist
it is a mountain to climb
seemingly impossible
but you take the first word and begin
climbing resting struggling
exhilaration - moments when it seems
you'll make the point
then the scaling feels endless
but you keep going for the moment
you can lift yourself up
and plant your signature
on top of the world briefly
knowing the wonder of it is still buried
in stoney words
yet the rock contains a light
never anticipated
It is being at the crack of dawn
finding the finger-hold of dusk
the beginning and end at once
that is never seen before its gone,
you know it's there
and that watching for it is futile
but you can be present with it
at the end of a dock with feet dangling,
in your periphery solid and liquid meet,
facing the shore we imagine birth
turning back toward the water
we can walk no further
but if we didn't need a turn,
if we faced both ways,
the edge of the dock would be one thing.
last night
putting away my stoneware and "silver"
I realized
they'd been in my service
35 years
since my first apartment
a couple chips on plate and bowl
one has a stain
the shape of lips
a missing fork or two
three coffee cups sized for a doll house
think about it
all the times the spoons and forks
in and out of my mouth
bowls crusted with yesterday's oatmeal
times 35 years
one thousand six hundred seventy weeks
such a long relationship
with things appreciated but not loved:
I'm not into kitchen stuff
useful my criteria for utensil beauty
if I loved eating tools
would likely have replaced them all
by now
many times
not looking forward the next two weeks
at work so I'm trying
not to look forward or back around
tomorrow the best I can do
I think
to keep my frequency resonant
with the perfume of a warm meadow
dotted with wildflowers
and bees pistol hopping for sweets
dragonflies hovering
darting an dipping
showing off florescent sheen
gold and green in the sun
yes
that will be my happy place
the next two weeks while trying to fill
insanity's bill for mental health
could I have written a sadder poem
What part of me wants to cry;
the sky is clear of clouds
the sun high and healing
breezes intermittent
bring cool to balance,
I see nothing that smacks
of drizzle or gloom, rather
a dazzling invitation from life
to life, yet
something within cannot partake,
perhaps it's been camouflaged
yellow and red
imitating this season's first
tulips and daffodils;
I will touch this fragment of grief
pretending to be some other beauty
so not to be left out
as it once must have been.
did not enjoy my day at work
irritable inside
fillin' my role on the outside
did some breathing and yoga
a little qigong
even meditated briefly
reminded myself how fortunate
to be employed
laughed when I could
. . . still crabby
a crab day
day of the crab
I like eating crab
I need a sweatshirt in my house
a t-shirt in the yard
typing this with bluish fingers
makes staying in very hard
an extra blanket on the bed
as if thirty below
my toes turn red inside my socks
like when shoveling snow
a pair of shorts hang by the door
for when I venture out
sink my bare feet in the grass
enjoy the tulips sprout
in two months when weather warms
the chill inside be gone
I'll sit here sweaty and complain
then turn the AC on
home today with a headache
which was asked to leave -
its overstayed its welcome
not invited in the first place
but rode the damp april wind
into The Caves of Sinus
some have sensitive souls
I have delicate facial cavities -
a few of us have all the luck
lying down is worse than sitting
so I'm at the computer
putting the guest into words
so far
its not taken the hint
the first hot day this spring
though the breeze carries
whispers of winter
bare arms legs and feet
buzz with the same joy
as the bee
flying zig-zag circles
above the evergreen bush
a tree bud
swollen with anticipation
reminds me of being nine
and ten days left
before summer vacation
morning sun spills in
drapes the wide arm of my chair
Mocha Joe* stretched out
cup of joe near by
blinds trace bars across this page
temporarily
empty yogurt cup
a good book on the table
but now I must pee
*Mocha Joe is a cat
I am selfish
all I want to do
is write poems
insignificant or significant
to play with words
express things beyond myself
each verse a miracle of sorts
I've come to be annoyed
with people
needing help and attention
mindless chit-chattering
(myself included)
if I were able to write
to my heart's content
I'm pretty sure
I'd love people again
Two roads diverged in the woods
and I, I've been torn ever since,
so to trek without a trail
will make quite a difference.
Sitting on Saturday morning,
coffee fresh brewed
cats lounging nearby,
I am tired enough to do nothing
all day;
I think how so much of my life
Is fulfilling others' demands,
even the stupid ones;
so why do I, sometimes,
during crazy rushing work weeks
house the cool flame of delight;
I think,
what could there possibly be
to fuel one drop of joy
in this bonkers busy-ness;
three thoughts park and idle my mind:
the freedom to create within my cage,
helping others succeed within theirs,
and the chance to write poems and things
on my days off.
Oh . . . a fourth idea dawns:
keeping my cats in cat food
but really
I think bliss just is
state of being unmarred by judgment
or adoring a flaw-full mate
vibe of certain amplitude
or the mood of quiet hearts
self-forgetting I am thou
or self-remembering up til now
folding socks when no one cares
dusting mop boards up the stairs
long hours shopping for a dress
raving the one she likes as best
dis-identifying with flesh
or trying to move the earth enmeshed
caring though respect is gone
you've been dumped the night time long
a frilly card to melt the heart
or be silly or a tart
?
what's it like to be alone
what of the sadness in it
what's it like not to be
to those she said who love it
imagine the first born vibe
come from nothing ever heard
yet nothing's presence we know
inside our pith of heart and bone
she said with those that shun alone
I've loneliness of perception:
unless a similar world is shared
we look
but sans reflection
but all that love the still are in it
alone is never alone within it
oh what joy what relief
I had called time a tricky thief
but it was only bad subtraction
brought about my false reaction
to my birthday which is today
I am a year less
than I had professed
the past few months
since about may
illusion it is
illusion I'll take
of gaining a year with my birthday cake
my math-dud mind so easily teased
by errant digits my brain had seized
so happy birthday to me to me
from scare of an extra year I'm free
later the blazing light from candles
won't be much dimmed but less to handle
well
its back to work tomorrow
my contemplative side is lost in sorrow
I was made for loose or unplanned hours
eating whenever
occasional showers
I must have birthed in the work-hard line
instead of the one for grapes and wine
I'd be more help within the world
in my overstuffed chair all curled
with pen and paper books at hand
coffee pot ready
housework banned
computer buzzing internet ready
my mind would produce genius steady
its certain some mistake was made
but tomorrow its back to the place I'm paid
don't get it wrong
I'm grateful you see
it just not where my mind flies free
when my cats sleep throughout the year
they remind me of Christmas
for they become peace on earth
innocence
and contentment with what is
they practice all year long
just for Christmas day
several times each 24 hours
rehearsing a yuletide nap
and today
Christmas day
I'd like to blow their tender essence
into the hearts and minds of men
women and children everywhere
as for my feline friends
when they wake up this afternoon
all they'll want is fresh canned food
and the holiday massage
that I practice throughout the year
one of my cats said
write about mercury in fish
another cat said
write about endangered jungle cats
the third said
write about global warming
I think they're pulling my leg
what they really want
is for me to stop writing
and rub them
tell them how handsome they are
give them some treats
but we don't need cats
to tug at our legs
we pull our own
to relieve immense problems
when all we really want
(what would make our day)
is some version of
a hug with praise and cookies
today I'm restless
can't sit still
keep thinking
I've got energy for something
unused
or too much of a good thing
maybe if I eat a sandwich
I'll know what to do
with myself
(back from sandwich)
someone made a snowman
across the street
scarf hat buttons funny face
java curled up in my lap
warm on this cold day
rubbed him under the chin
and enjoyed the bliss
on his face
still restless but
a little more grounded
think I'll go out
and bring in the mail
ever get to a point where all seems pointless
which means of course you're standing on a point
that doesn't really exist
point is a sharp curious word to use
it indicates direction of perception
or a pixel print on digital paper
the former is to show someone the way
whether it be a finger or compass needle
the latter indicates a part of things
a third way being the essence of what's said
nutshells boiled down the bottom line
the crux of stuff a legal distillation
the gist the core a naked nub or pith
now to the point whatever is the point
sometimes people act like points and point
show the way model for or lead
and one human's a miniature of men
are iron ore zinc salt and seed
and one with courage goes right to the thrust
sharing daring baring what is meant
we show we are we share whatever is
so I present my thoughts because they are
and by this verse they now extend to you
I don't have much time
to write so I'll pen haiku,
cobwebs on my wall.
cat hair everywhere
complements the litter tracks,
time to take a nap.
books calling my name
an easy chair invites me,
mold grows in the fridge.
you could say I live
symbiotic with all life,
watching fruit flies dance.
lots of ladybugs around
flitting about
but easily found
they're different from most other bugs
they don't have alien mandibular mugs
no right angle legs or 360 eyes
or segmented bodies or toothpick thighs
just a shiny bittersweet dome
is where the lady makes her home
kind of like a built-in yurt
a ready umbrella or polka-dot skirt
and check out those dots
I think its a code
that only other ladybugs know
every time I open my door
I find one on my ceiling or floor
but these femme creatures never spook
because of the shape their bug-ness took
it's been a while since I've written
not happy about that
my time taken up with work
is so against my religion
but it is a learning experience
that much I can't complain about
discovering things about myself
and putting what I knew in words
for example I never knew
in words what is the difference
between the service I give direct
and that completed indirectly
I get a kick out of the latter
like getting something done quickly
knowing it makes someone else's
responsibilities easier
knowing I could have put it off
I like helping on the fly
(but I knew that)
getting cereal off the top
shelf at the grocery store
for a person of lesser height
or giving directions on the street
doing things with or expected
is service yes but it's not fun
(it is to some but not to me)
feeling more a burden than a
joyfully given gift
I don't get that good feeling
helping others do their stuff
or waiting on them as a guest
(perhaps I'm not selfless enough)
but if by taking care of biz
or being where I aim to be
another is lifted or moves along
bliss tells me I have served
even so
it's been a while since I've written
not happy about that
a foreman not a yeoman now
and here I sit the same old cow
but inside I feel it stretching
the sleeping lion lifts its head
courage the groggy feline said
my presence will cause them all to pause
while compassion blunts my claws
it will be hard to bare my teeth
squeezed inside your skinny sheath
but if you need it I can pounce
roaring scares them when it counts
and hunters above will never see
the lazy cat you're born to be
those below will always find
a lioness is mostly kind
I think that's what the feline said
rising from her yeoman bed
so, I'm up for promotion at work
to be middle management
having a new challenge enticing
thought of fitting in I irk
having all the qualifications
the obvious choice from within
pay to be negotiated
before I take this ball and run
know I can do it
have the right stuff
but what will happen to other dreams
should I step the ladder up
when the salary's enough
if I hadn't peace inside
I'd hop a plane to Mexico
before becoming one of them
rebels must maintain some pride
the challenge would be to keep my counsel
using humor as a sword
bridging below and above
down to lead and up to dazzle
in the middle
will I frazzle
a fright
piles here piles there
crumbs and dust bears everywhere
stacks of papers on desk and chairs
the bowl needs scrubbing
(the cats don't care)
the kitchen floor tells many tales
a hieroglyph of spots and smells
laundry overflows the hampers
like too much soap creates disaster
my desk is cleared off in the middle
enough to work unless I wiggle
too far left too far right
stand up sit down fight fight fight
the shower liner in my tub
an abstract painting all in mold
the essence lyric
brush strokes bold
yet here I sit so happy to write
a beacon in a den of blight
this morning I sat with my cat java
watching the play of light and shade
on the wall made by leaves
jigging around with a light breeze
through the ash trees out in front
as the sun went higher the art
thin grey branches and pointed leaves
crawled down the wall onto the carpet
and disappeared in the dark weave
java curled up to take a nap
another cup of coffee for me
and pondered how simple pleasures can be
either that
or I'm becoming a cat . . .
a feline hunter in the wild
suburban maze of yards and streets
eat and play
groom and sleep
hiss and scratch
purr and paw
and require a lot of treats
I wonder how many Cheerios
I've eaten so far in my life
how many bowls over the years
let's say there were only a hundred o's
in every bowl and say I've had
one hundred bowls per year the past
thirty-five rounds that I've led
three hundred fifty thousand o's
my brother and I used to fight
about who got more Cheerios
in their bowl him or me
you have more its not fair
said with an indignant stare
if I'd known how many I'd crunch
and chew and swallow over time
having a few more or less
would not have triggered such distress
anyway I digress
for I was only curious
about how many o's I've had
at least three hundred fifty thousand
at work
finished a subway sandwich
and chips
and yogurt
all around me were people
with various kinds of mental illness
and personality disorders
Len could be a stand-up comic
Pat is a wonderful artist
acrylic or oils
a stupendous advocate in Rachel
the musician Reeve writes his own songs
sings them and plays guitar
they're people who live next door
shop next to us in the grocery store
drive the honda just ahead
Melinda and Tim
write beautiful poetry
usually not
about their Schizophrenia
our amateur chef is Ryan
bam
Mick is selling stunning photos
of the windy city
over the net
I'm fortunate to eat my lunch
monday through friday
with so many interesting teachers
the trees were still this morning
so still
even in the steady shower
a long time watching
not a leaf moved
or branch bobbed
thought at first
the trees were concentrating
on drawing up the ample water
all their energy
underground
rooting around
still watching
behind the glass door
standing still I knew it
for the first time
perfect patience
trees standing
with no wind to move them
undiminished
one two three cheers
for Al Gore
setting his sights high
asking for more
than some percent reduction
emissions and dependencies
by 2018 or 2030
or 2050
being largely oil-free
within ten years
hope enough people catch
the vision
then a ground swell
now that
would be truly amazing
of course I'm always
up for a challenge
and love the Earth
not everyone does we know
but all that human energy
focused on the renewable
imagine the leap it would be
another one to lift mankind
and not just giant . . .
gi-normous
almost home
spotted an american goldfinch
knee deep in puddle
side of road
no other traffic
stopped the car
watched the yellow fellow
splash and flash
with chickadees and sparrows
were I a bird
I admit
wanting to be the piece of sun
regaled in black
stopping drivers in their tracks
sunny flew off
I drove away
thinking that thinking
"your ego's too large"
a tad cliche
humility whispers
brown is the goal
my spirit counters
do not do that soul
under the bushel thing
feed the cats clean the box
sweep the floor air creatures need
two wings for flight
I am one finch
ten sparrows and chicks
magic mix
of earth and fire
for shine
required
not needing to be right
even if you are:
emotional intelligence
distilled to a byte
today I'd rather say
bite me
today I'd rather say
you don't know
what the slick
you're talkin' about
get outta here
or maybe choose to argue
loud voiced
not listening
emotional diligence
tires today
I'd rather say
spew you
but I won't
not because I'm good
(obviously)
because its how
I'd like the world to be
so today
taking a walk
in the neighborhood
a thirty-something man
I've waved to several times
stood at the end of his drive
holding a cat
he was holding the cat
so I'd stop and chat
to bite or not to bite
the long haired calico
was gorgeous
what the hell
I stopped to stroke the bait
she's very pretty is she yours
the feisty feline hissed and bit
not hard enough to break the skin
I grin
do you live nearby
in the area
beautiful day
nice meeting you and ferocious cat
a wave a smile
on my way
thinking
I'm a sucker for fur
he's too young
but yep
still got it
when I was kid
I loved the far off song
of an ice cream truck
coming my way
drumsticks fudge-bars popsicles dream-sicles
ice cream sandwiches
strawberry sundaes eskimo pies
ran to the house
hey mom can I have a dime
why not
but mom . . .
(no matter what time of day
mom always said
it will spoil your dinner)
still I always hoped
and it was ever pleasant
to hear the truck nearby
today
if the ice cream truck
drives by one more time
playing
do your ears hang low
I will throw a grenade
