Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

Said and Done

I have written about joys lived
and unhappiness suffered 
for many days and years.
The pages break time down.
Line after line ties my body
to ink on bound paper.
The spirit travels by moving
forward and backward
between today and the past.
I hope to not have to choose
with my last act of free will
between becoming a drop 
in the ocean or remaining myself
or vanishing into nothingness.
Some sort of combination
depending upon my mood
sounds nice.  To not have
sunsets and the laughter 
of a beloved surrounding
me on a calm evening
seems like a loss.  Will I care?
I hope so.  And, after all has been said
and done, I hope that my cares
blend with the cares of others
in some peaceful and decent way.

Off

Last night a book
leapt off the shelf
and fell open to a page
that I have not read in years.

Sometimes I take my eyes
off the mist
pocketed in the ridges
and valleys below me.

The morning song
of the birds gave
the crickets and frogs
the day off.

A breeze blows
off and on
stirring the fine hair
of my daughter.

The words I write
are meant to be
peeled off the pages
of these seasons.

We All Must Go Too

I remember when a daughter
magically became one year older
so that she could ride a horse
with her older sister.  

Such precise alchemy
occurs only on paper
when a pen writes one number
instead of another.

The rain will continue
to fall outside my window
and nobody will know
when the wand waved.

If one girl is brave enough
to step through her fear
and join her sister in an adventure
then we all must go too.

Unlock

I try to follow the inner workings of those exhibits
found in places where history is stored.  My eyes,
though, lose focus.  Shrieks of joy from children
delighting in balls bouncing and the turning of gears
while levers move up and down urge me on 
back to when I saw with purer vision.  I know that I too
once held my face to the glass placed between myself
and the larger mysteries of life that were duplicated
before me.  To some it has been given.  To others
it has not been given.  In which crowd do I find myself?
A long time ago someone handed me a set of keys.
I have yet to find the doors which each one opens.  
Perhaps I will wait until company arrives and together
we will unlock fate and hope.

I Hope You Feel Better Soon

Writes a daughter on a small note
in her beginner's handwriting
lines veering up then down
random letters capitalized
because a child sees important things
where bigger people fail to look. 

I do not remember 

what ailment or sickness she saw in me
which called her to pour forth care.
A cold.  A bruised bone.  A headache.

I do not remember.

I pasted the note in my journal
and now some two decades later
I come across her words
my mind tormented and anguished
by choices made though not my own
which I remember with each breath.

It has been twenty years for me
to begin to feel better soon.

The Shape of Today

I said, "I dreamed I was a bird eating
a couple of seeds before flying off 
to a bird bath for a sip of water."

She said, "Imagine how many persons
sat inside their homes looking out
windows upon your performance."

I said, "I should have charged admission
in exchange for the free food and drink."

She said, "Watching in the here and now
may make room for a note or two 
in our journal to be read in twenty years."

I said, "I am fortunate to have many days
to be joyfully remembered in the distant
future."

She said, "The ordinariness of today
shapes the shape of the days bringing
a close to the banquet of life."

A Banquet

How many more horrors must humanity create
before some sort of deity deigns to arrive on the scene?
I have created my own share of trouble causing hurts
I never meant to inflict upon those whose love surrounds me.
Paradox happens, says a cute bumper sticker with a picture
of the sun shining through some storm clouds.  Some (many?)
helped others escape through fences and borders carrying
babies against their breast while many (most?) watched
the events on the evening news exclaiming with outrage
from comfortable chairs.  I have trouble with being simple
when a learned mystic calls for simplicity in the attentive
heart.  In my mind complexity has no home in places
where fires rage and to pause and practice any form 
of mindful breathing as bombs fall all around is a form 
of madness.  The world as infinite manifestations 
of multiplicity gets up and gets dressed every morning 
and may pay a visit, if the quiet is just right,
to a place where food has been laid out for a banquet
in the midst of fallen down buildings where ashen-faced
people arrive as if delivered by angels.

Notes from Daughters

We should not miss the further complexity
of being a human being by pointing to
one flaw after another and dismissing any
innate goodness in our nature.  One bad apple
just tastes bad and should not be brought
to the banquet table.  Beware of those who tell 
others what to do because of the length 
of their list of rules.  Visit, instead, places of adventure
tucked away in valleys.  Sit behind a roadside
lemonade stand and sell a cup or two for a quarter.
And on days of sickness pull out those notes 
written by daughters in unsure handwriting 
filled with I love yous and You're the best daddy.