sleepless night

sleepless night —
the absence
of wind

memorial

the darkness
is one long
windless nightmare,
a serenade of ghosts
in the sleeping treetops.

time won’t let me
look one inch
beyond your daydream eyes
until you snap to attention
and disappear.

lies and damned lies

it seems an unwitting act of heroism to accept a less-than-optimal fate engineered by others, particularly if one of those others is a close relative. wisdom from experience is a dog-eared card from a Trivial Pursuit game. being consigned to feign ignorance of an inevitable conclusion seems so repugnant to me, and yet I relent. place the oxygen mask on your own face before helping others around you. assume the crash position, gripping your ankles with both hands, and kiss your ass goodbye.

13 days

13 days ’til payday —
all those pennies
in the fountain

lunch hour

lunch hour —
the cash machine
eats my card

after the storm

after the storm —
dead fly
in a champagne glass

New England fog

New England fog —
where did
my weekend go?

five sayings

they say
home is where
you hang your hat.
but I’ve never ever seen you
wear a hat,
which means to me
that you might consider anywhere
a potential home.

they say
it’s better to be lucky
than good.
I’ve never heard these words
spoken by an unlucky man,
and a good man knows better
than to spout off
ridiculous sayings.

they say
tomorrow’s another day,
but when was the last time
you saw tomorrow
and demanded
that it face you today?
those of you with pens
should write down today’s date.

they say
time loves a hero:
words obviously written
by someone younger,
someone long on time
and short on heroics.
may you shun the latter
and gain the former.
that is my most sincere hope.

they say
hope is a cruel master.
actually, they didn’t say it,
I did.
I say and do lots of things,
few of them necessary
but none of them
as crucial,
hopeful and cruel
as my fatherly duty
to simply let you go.

dandelions

writing a poem
for my daughter’s wedding —
dandelions bloom

I just can't be happy today

What’s wrong with me?

It’s one of those Spring days that makes most normal people forget the New England winter, but I’m still focusing on the piles of road salt that only two months ago were heaped onto mountains of snow.

About the best I can muster is:

cloudless May sky —
the sparkle
of a broken beer bottle

not even gold glitters as brightly as the aftermath of a Single Malt Stupor. then again, it might not be the weather at all...

crab apple blossoms —
my daughter
plans her wedding

or a non-seasonal take:

planning my daughter’s wedding
the TV asks
“What’s in your wallet?”

Mother's Day

Mother’s Day --
wild lilacs
outside the bar

Mother’s Day --
a wounded pigeon
on the side of the road

Mother’s Day --
the roar of a jet
above the clouds

Main & Muscatel

lost in the glitter
of shattered glass,
a ghost stealing kisses
from a brown paper bag.
a taste of broken cork
and the love is over.
nothing to do
but to cry in the empty rail yard.
no more promises to keep
save tomorrow’s hangover.

but seriously

I should know better
than to speak my mind,
as if the sounds escaping my lips
could somehow do more
than echo in a lonely desert canyon
not found on any map.
I know now
that it is more a function of distance
than of time and place.
I realize now
that the shivering silence of my angst
is the resounding amen
of your incomprehensible bliss.

what the surroundings do

I see the future from forty-thousand feet
and have this sudden urge to crash,
miles from our destination
and never further from the truth.
the truth is
that I really can distinguish
the birdsong
from the brainwashed hymn,
and that somehow this objectivity
disqualifies me.
so many faces
reflected in that tiny diamond,
so many pairs of eyes
insisting
that I just stay out of the way.

May showers

May showers —
my daughter tells me
she’s engaged

May Day

May Day —
my foot swollen
from kicking the lawn mower

May Day —
somebody plays Elvis
on the jukebox

May Day —
a co-worker tells me
about his vasectomy