Long ago ’round blazing campfires they sat
Hearts open to the heavens
Giving themselves over to their dreams
For the moment forgetting–
the forsaken space separating them
from the other side
No pretenders left
Nothing left to pretend
Rebellious spirits dancing
Past their time
Well past the point of return
Wishes for a shooting star lost
Nothing left but cold embers
Waiting for one last golden sunset
No need for happiness
when everything goes your way
No need for joy
when the day overflows with sunshine
No need for thanksgiving
when there is plenty
or when there’s no decision to make
about which direction to take
No need to tell your story
with the happy ending–
the one where things worked out
Tell that story another day
No need for Friday night poetry
when music and dance fills the air
Give thanks tonight for your loneliness
Helping you remember just what happiness is
Written in Tucson, Arizona, Winter 1970
If we’re lucky enough
We grow old
With wisdom, love and health
No regrets
No clinging to what we can never hold onto
Only with joy in our heart
Should we hold this moment
For it’s all we have
And when we think about it
It’s all we ever really need
thin streak of sunlight
…gracing the lake’s calm surface
……a dying man’s cough
They said his poetry killed him
Actually not his poetry–
But the long sleepless nights
Filled with shameless darkness
The sort you only know
If you stare long enough
Into the abyss of your soul
Looking for something to confess–
Something to take away the pain
Good poetry isn’t easy
Unless it rips your guts out
Stripping you naked of the clothes
You wore to first communion–
That inconvenient place of passive confession
Where all the other strangers stood watch
As you took your first drink–
Tasted the salty blood of life
And where are they now–the strangers
When you need a witness
As the last thread of pride slips off your shoulder
Into the tall empty glass you call your life–
The glass giving you the courage
To mouth your pathetic confessions
Before he died
He whispered with stinking breath to his only sister–
Something about an idea for a new poem–
One about an bitter old man who died
Because he drank his own blood
Hoping he might live through one more night
And at the break of dawn
Confess one last time to a stranger
At year end, the mystery returns
That sense of timeless beauty
Memories of things we’ve longed to know
Inexplicable things, hovering about
Like smoke from a burned out candle
It comes in the earliest morning hours
At times, starting in a dream
Lingering in our eyes
And other untouchable places
Not destinations, but places tugging at our hearts
The candle’s flame lasts only so long
Soon it turns itself over to the darkness
Leaving us to wonder about the mysteries
Born into us from the beginning
Dying at each year’s end
If you look closely, you will see
The masterpiece Winter painted
Along mighty Erie’s shore
In the darkness, well into the early morning light
You will see his fondness for ever so subtle shades of gray
How one by one he bends, sheaths the tall ornamental grass
In rounded silvery whiteness
And how he paints ripply footprints at the water’s edge
If you look closely, you will see
The fluttering gulls in the distance
Seemingly small, yet not insignificant
Every detail a pixel of life
There’s more, if you look closer
If you’re willing to brazen the biting wind
Like the pile of jagged sticks, and mossy green rocks from summer
Now a single creamy white ice sculpture
And if you hold your eyes and heart wide open
You can read the painter’s signature
Written in the battleship gray sky—
December
Sometimes I question myself–
Whether I can ever live up
To your expectations of me–
That unfulfilled part of you
Which you foist on me
Sometimes I’d rather be a stranger
To you, everyone, even myself
Then I could stop being the chameleon–
The pretender that pretends to be
Whatever you or I think I should be
I hated my parents for the longest time
Because they wouldn’t let me be who I wanted to be
Then I stopped hating them
When I realized my ideas for myself
Were even worse than those they had for me
My vision grows more blurred each day by all the notions–
Lame ideas about who I am, what I should be
That’s a good thing–
Sometimes we spend too much time looking for ourselves
When all we need is to just be
So much, maybe everything, is lost in translation–
those tiny steps we take between heartbeats
Like the steps I’ve taken backward and forward on holidays
in those worn out shoes I wear on special occasions only–
trying to remember myself, and Martins Ferry–
that place this life remembers as its beginning, and
that place I loath and love like some hopelessly confused clown
dancing in the headlights of strangers’ cars–
cars running over my dreams
which know no way to die on their own
We forget it’s all an illusion–
every last blink of experience
flowing into and out of us
like some forgotten river–
maybe the Ohio, and
then again maybe not
Martins Ferry clings to me–
some terribly worn, out of style suit of clothes–
in synch with my special shoes, but painfully dull and empty
like the now abandoned house on Indiana Street
where my winter dreams began in the warm family room
where a short-needled Christmas tree stood every year–
the same corner where I cried in quiet desperation
hoping a dream would some day carry me far away
Now I want to go back–
this time by choice to wear those shoes and that suit
Something tugs at my heart on Thanksgiving and Christmas
Making even the sadness and loneliness look good
Just one more time to sit on the family room floor
and play with my toys
while Mom and Dad argue in the kitchen about money, relatives
and so many other empty things filling life–
things that are also part of love
I remember as a young boy loving Memorial Day
because of the small parade in our town Martins Ferry
honoring those who died serving our country, and
the family picnic when family members usually at war with each other came together, and
how the holiday symbolized school would soon be out for the summer, and
how the sun lingered and dallied much longer
allowing us to play early and late in the day, and
how we felt eternal like childhood was forever
If somebody asked you
what’s your story–
What would you say
What answer would you give
that’s completely unrehearsed
Without presupposition
Unconditioned
Absent any pretense
Just being–
in the gentle spring breeze
Steadying us
Yet blowing us away
Like the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine
we feel things at times
that go beyond words
exceeding that something inside
that wants to express
yet we know
deep down inside, we know
that we’re alive–
feeling beings–
sensing our way through life
we never know when
it might come back to us
an old high school photograph
could whirl us back in time
helping us remember what we forgot
at times, things we never knew
had become a part of us
it’s always in the silence
when the mind is still
and the heart is free to roam about
mending itself
knitting back together lost parts of us
forgotten things that long to be remembered
giving back to us
that sense of who we really are
martins ferry boys
three adventurous bodhis
never far from home
white blossoms, red leaves
……plum tree celebrating spring
…………………..the neighbor’s cat dies
all seeing death know
……it explains life’s true drama
………………………tough act to follow
tulips in full blown
……painted flowers all about
……………gray skies this morning
so much going on
……things we never imagined
…………….like your broken heart
sunlight on water
……in the land of rising sun
………………..peace, not far away
sun-lit red tulips
……honoring the whole of life
…………beauty beyond words
a royal wedding
……bin laden buried at sea
…………transient moments
justice, not easy
……not to be taken lightly
…………bin laden is dead
red-winged black bird pair
……sweet voices singing spring songs
…………wind through the marsh reeds
sunrise on the lake
……orange streaks on blue gray water
…………a new day begins
calm after the storm
……easier than you might think–
…………being filled with peace
heavy winds and rain
spring storm, impermanent art
nature’s bold brush strokes
sit a spell, relax
when the moment comes calling
embrace it, let go
raindrops, mud puddles
……torrents tormenting tulips
…………awaiting sunshine
there is a reversion, aversion, mystical illusion
that we somehow fall upon, then into
there is an ephemeral elation
no relation to the weak-kneed conclusion
about life, and what it’s all about
there is a sadness, madness
utterly ridiculous gladness
we allow to lull us to sleep each night
there is an emptiness
a profound parsed instant
when we realize we are nothing more
than a faint whisper in a universe ever changing
rusted gate handle
…a reminder time goes on
……white apple blossoms
part of an old wall
…broken white stucco, red bricks
……tulips everywhere
tops of barren trees
…reaching into blue gray sky
……raindrops, sudden tears
listen to the rain
…falling gently on the roof
……morning awakens
life is beautiful
…with all its imperfections
……we become better
soft morning sunlight
…white magnolia blossoms
……the karmic wheel turns
no easy answers
then again, no good questions
truth makes its own way
Seemingly an ideal
Something for which to hope
A fairy tale land, maybe
Just out of reach–
Like most dreams
Yet close enough
To keep us coming back
pussy willow buds
…soon velvety white flowers
……all beginnings end
a lone sparrow sings
…mom’s grave, a granite pillow
……breath to breath we live
two notes, two heron
…soon a lake erie sunset
……mother nature sings
along the danube
…a violin concerto
……the street gypsies dance
For just one moment
I forgot myself–
Who I am
Who I think I am
Who I think others think I am
It was a relief–
to be free of myself
And all the things associated
with who I think I am
For one moment
I had the chance
to be something beyond thoughts
Something time doesn’t wear down
Something with no need to die
late afternoon sun
…something deeper in us longs
……with each breath we die
………purple crocuses
……amidst leftover fall leaves
…childhood spring memories
Love the trees
…for who they are
Love the flowers
…for they set us free
Love the birds nesting in treetops
…for they teach us to find home
in the higher part of ourselves
Love the sunset
…for reminding us life is a gift
we must give back
to keep it going
Kindness in all things–
toward the sunrise, sunset
Even enemies
Tops of trees, naked
No waiting, in the moment
Blue heron appears
her mom’s very old
she calls her
hoping the guilt will die
not her mother
the sun rises without reason in one moment
and sets without remorse in the next
sooner or later we all end
as suddenly as we began
night fall, loon’s last call
…lone star on the horizon
……the world fills with dreams
