Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

Perfect Edge

Knifing my way around
the edge of the sqaure
pan of brownies, I say,
"Everyone wants the middle piece."

She says, "I am not a middler,"
while grabbing two inches of crisp edge.

I grab one whole side of edge,
"A perfect relationship is found
in sharing."

She smiles, "We both love the edge."

I say, "And eat the middle
if there is room."

She declares, "There is always
room in the middle between us."

“Where do we learn to work like this?”

From Sisyphus and his endless, uphill rock-rolling where we end up 
tired as the smell of last night’s cod hanging in the kitchen
or done like a dung beetle after rolling the last dung ball of the day.
Imagine letting the ball fall and go rolling into the sea
where ocean waves release upon the shore 
like the unclenching of a fist that has unlearned 
the slow steps of a pallbearer treading again and again 
upon the sacred ways, red as worn, sanctuary carpet 
in the morning light.  To skip like a flower girl 
throwing rose petals left and right and into the face 
of the ring-bearer who carries his symbol of infinite 
love, careful not to let it drop and bust, a shattered jar
of rainbow-colored gumballs, where chance
could have them bounce and reel under a pew 
and disturb the slow, rolling of bones turning over
in the graves of hard-working saints, long-dead and gone.

Wander Disturbed

"Therefore the prudent will keep silent in such a time;
    for it is an evil time." - The Prophet Amos
Not a peep.
Not a whisper.
Not even a glance over the shoulder
that says, "I know something.  Ask Me."
Words will wander, unspoken,
persistently maunder, untold,
swirled like dust balls under the sofa
where one step too close
moves the air which stirs the word
and the cadence is disarranged
and a mouth opens to speak,
for disturbed roars.

Consider the design elements of prayer

If one injuncts another to pray without ceasing,
rather than taking offense at being told what to do
raise a glass and say, Cheers.  Consider yourself
a fiber artist weaving threads with every painting
you hang on your walls; if the colors clash
the red chicken will peel itself off the blue paint
and begin to strut around the kitchen daring
anyone to pick it up and place the bird 
back on its canvas roost.  Some might view 
this strange occurrence as a meal
in the manner of all who hunger
for the strippings from easy marks,
simple do-gooders and granola eaters;
ogrish brutes will always be brutes.
Tonight, there will be those hoping to rest 
safely on the frozen ground to get a glimpse 
of Jupiter and Mars kissing in the starlight,
each amazed that distance, and crossing distance,
means everything to a universe creating 
more and more space between itself
in every lonesome moment.

Sometimes Perhaps

While strolling through the park
I remembered, "Those who stoned 
Stephen removed their cloaks."

She added, "And laid them at the feet
of Saul."

I said, "I thought the criminal
was the one to be stripped."

She replied, "Sometimes rocks
bring so much hurt.  Even when
they are not thrown."

"So what about g*d giving us 
what we need for tomorrow?"

She paused, looking at leafless limbs, 
"Perhaps we are in the time
when the prophet says, If ten people 
remain in one house, they shall die."

“Every Two Inches of Snowfall”

I follow the path that my shovel pushes
to the street.  Five times today, with every 
two inches of snowfall because three inches 
of snow can be so heavy and it is best to
stay on top of it.  Two inches, five times, 
is faster than ten inches heaved one shovelful
after one shovelful after another shovelful.

My back is fifty years older than the time
my brother and I trudged the neighborhood
knocking on doors, asking for five dollars
to clear a driveway.  I remember our hushed
talk blown away from our mouths by the wind 
and snow as soon as we tried to say, “I’ll do 
this side.”  “You do the sidewalks.”  Sharing 
five dollars!  And frozen fingers and frozen feet.

Today, I don’t pay myself to clear my drive.
The rewards are plenty: the scrape of steel 
on concrete and a way made from home to the road,
seeing the twigs and sticks from the river birch
brought down by moans from the wind
poking up out of the snow waiting to become
arms for tomorrow’s snowman, and the smell
of Tuscan chicken cooking in the crockpot
each time I come in from the garage.

After dinner, one more time layering
and bending over to tie my boots for
the last two inches of this day.  Then, done,
I go stand in the center of the street 
turning one way and then the other way.
Neighbors with snowblowers rattle
and attack the entire snowfall at once.
Their ease creates a racket and yet
there are snow fountains all around me
from these strange metal beasts,
so unlike stone dolphins spouting water
or fat cherubs pouring streams from vases.

Before going to bed when I hear quiet 
in the neighborhood, I go out one last time
not to shovel but to stand on the front porch
frozen, as if I had been standing in that cold 
for hours, and listen to the sound of hushed 
nothing moving with the snow in the wind, 
making tiny drifts over my slippered feet.