10.17.2018

The Eleventh Hour

One of my poems appears in this gorgeous volume, Silkworm 11: The Eleventh Hour. Silkworm is the annual review of my beloved Florence Poets Society. I am so proud of this book and our group, the members of which I am endlessly grateful to and inspired by, wonderful poets, each and every one. Here’s my poem from Silkworm 11
 “Just a Few Small Things I Like”
I like the way
you open windows
in any kind of weather
as if to say hello morning air
thank you for visiting

I like the way
your fingers
navigate a messy ponytail
on weekday evenings
when you let your hair down

I like the way
you say you love me
even when you’re pissed off



10.13.2018

Skulks Amongst Us


Skulks have claimed this land of ours,
infiltrating amongst us so we cannot see
them tracking our pain to its anxious end,

as though there ever whiffed an end
to the gaudy display of our
collective skulkishness. When all we see

is today, not tomorrow, we refuse to see
the consequences of our anxiety, ending
as it will when we skulks celebrate our

pain. It will be our loss to see in the end.


Trying TRITINA in the Imaginary Garden!

10.05.2018

The Floating World


When despair
fills your body so fully
that breathing
becomes a focal point
bringing memories
of floating near ceilings
like a quirky witch
observing reality
from relative distance
you realize
that the upside-down
is actually quite familiar
and you possess the tools
to move through even this
in power

10.01.2018

The Building Shakes When Trains Go By


It’s hard to understand
dreams from which screaming
I must be shaken awake
but have no memory

And what about
this waking nightmare
we are all walking alongside
in broad daylight

The nights are getting longer
as horrors grow bolder
lying outright
under penalty of perjury

Shakily I wonder
when the trains start running

9.13.2018

For Now


Clouds
drape the mountain
like a blanket
comforting
us valley dwellers
who peek
with one eye open
as from under covers
relatively safe
from the incredulities
to come tomorrow


Music prompt in the Imaginary Garden: MADE FOR NOW

9.09.2018

Contrary to Popular Belief


Blue sky is but the underbelly
of human collective darkness
a crucible within which
sinnings like cymbals crash
brightening stormclouds
cornfield drummer’s
rap rings out
like a
shot


Trying NONET in the Imaginary Garden

9.07.2018

Avoi-dance


One
with
quiet
three over
under-emphasis
on urgent-gravitational
case for revolution against
        silent-misery


For Toni's prompt in the Garden: STEP INTO THE VOID

9.03.2018

Lover


Blood
red
lipstick
brightening
her cannibal mouth,
dewy-fresh cheeks, a grinning fool
for love, for everything she’s lost,
    purposely avoids.

9.01.2018

A Sketch, by Nashawannuck Pond, on a Sunday in August


My daughter
sits by the water
sketching a figure

She uses a pencil eraser
that can be pinched and shaped
to accommodate needing to remove
small details from small spaces

She is free with her pencil
confident with her lines
knows just what she wants
to go where

She sketches two women embracing

Mostly she draws them
looking at one another
or eyes closed
rapt

But these two hold on
with strong eyes
focused out of the page
against the viewer
as if
to keep one another safe
from gaze


Camera FLASH in the Imaginary Garden!

8.31.2018

Curves Ahead


I wish
I could see this world
and especially myself
through my daughter’s eyes

She draws beautiful women
with impossibly voluptuous curves
while I feel my own
and sigh

8.11.2018

Might As Well Jump


Almost arrogantly tall, striding light
but unaware
that epic height offers no protection,
fly without care
as those with power to envelop you
come from nowhere--
If martyrdom awaits, better to soar,
rage your warning to tomorrow’s tall child--


Forms in the Imaginary Garden: CAVATINA

8.04.2018

Observation 8-2018



I saw a baseball cap
sporting the slogan
Make Orwell Fiction Again
and it brought a slight chuckle
but not a real laugh
because of course I recognized
terrible truth

The most dystopian feature
of new reality
is the constant background drone
of military planes
always present
in our pristine Valley sky
each always slowly banking
as though it forgot something
and had to turn around
to head back home
suspended
like it wants to get a real good
look at me

They’re circling the farm fields
even peeking through on days
heavy with thunder clouds
and they’re circling the city
of Springfield
bending in and out of view
from the tall windows
of my sixth-floor cubicle
many times each work day
banking above train tracks
and the YMCA
often in pairs

I swear one appears
from behind Mount Tom
every time I drive south
along the Connecticut River
and pass the Oxbow
always startling
seeming to brake and suspend
so still
observing until I turn right
and out of sight

You might say well
there’s an air reserve base nearby
and we’ve long had these planes
populating our skies
but I know
what it was like before
and how it is now
a marked difference
that crept up on us
like so many other losses
we didn’t see coming at first

I hate those fucking planes
and I trust my own eyes and ears
thank you very much
they are the last defense
of we fools
in what has never been
fiction

7.26.2018

Mostly Uncomfortable


I want
to wear a t-shirt
with your face on the front
and stride
all bold and pushy
hollering
toward the light

It would be like me
to find my footing
and set out
seeking the Big Revelation
only to learn it’s contained
in specks of dust
floating by my window

7.15.2018

At the Convention


Imagi
    -nation
casts spell side

Saddle front
           ways kitty
corner so

In every
  direction
   wondrousness


Tricubes in the Imaginary Garden!

7.03.2018

Independence Day 2018


Is it just my eyes
or is everything hazy now
like we are living
on the edge of a brush fire
or conversely
sending dispatches
from inside a dirty dish sponge

In this kind of haze
you must imagine the worst
in any human interaction
wanton awfulness
of which now we are capable
the kind
that refuses to be unthunk

This haze
weighs everything down
like America’s
heavy thundershirt
choking sopping tamping numbing
so we cannot even make out
the fireworks

7.01.2018

Scribbled Observation #854


With my notebook
across a coffeeshop
from a kid
writing in his notebook
noticing him
noticing my daughter
as she walks by
not noticing him
looking back down
writing in his notebook
about her
as I write in mine
about him