Revisionist

“The present wins every battle, but the past always wins the war,” Mick Herron, The Secret Hours 

“It was a successful marriage,” his sister said. 
“We bought a house, raised two kids...”
Sharon let the history hang there,
an almost visible ellipsis suggesting a future
of one accomplishment after another,
each succeeding victory outdoing the others.

Bobby only nodded, not in agreement,
remembering the howling fights, the infidelities,
the tears and picked-up pieces,
but why argue? Why disagree?
Whatever’d happened happened,
no changing any of it now.

If it helped her to rearrange
the living room furniture,
then who was he to tell her 
she’d misplaced the coffee table
beside the wrong chair?

George Frank

had built a house
with his hands in Vermont.
Stone foundation,
gravity fed water from
an artesian spring,
every board milled
from trees on the property.
He was the kind
of laborer who rich men
would pay by the hour
to spend three months
building a stone fireplace.
He’d take a long time
choosing each stone.
He was a craftsman.
Of stone, lumber,
and the needs of
rich men’s wives
for a man who
knew how
to pay attention.

***************************

Jesus

Jesus, I hope the truck runs.
Jesus, I hope the generator starts.
Jesus, I hope the well pump runs.
Jesus, I hope the horse isn’t lame,
the drought ends,
the rain ends,
the hay isn’t moldy.
Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder
if I’m unqualified
to be the atheist I aspire to be.

*******************************

Tattooed

I see the stars,
I wonder,
About my fall.
A height that is literary
Speaks like
A sacred duty.
Come to kiss away
The pain,
The chaotic universe
Is still awake.
I rest my head
On a dewdrop,
Everything is fragile
And hilarious,
If life is a freedom walk.
I want to drown my fear,
In the river
Of joy and pain.
A flower grew back
In my garden,
And I tattooed it
On my bare chest.

 

First snow augury__

The first snow of the season
A fine powdered mix w sleet
Arrived with such fury
& Then melted so quick

I think of anger and egos

Mashing together like some sort of emotional smashed potatoes
Well salted and ready to devour

I think of a possible end of days
And then I smile
Knowing like love &Beauty
It never ends
---

bird listening


in the predawn light,
it’s just me, these quilts, 
and the morning birdsong.
do they sing for each other?

I listen, deciphering notes.
a melody becomes clear, 
and then there’s the lyrics:
chirping-pshhhhing-pewing lyrics.

as if I spoke bird,
I recognize them instantly,
coming from the winter wren
outside my bedroom window. 

its song is a love song. 
can’t you hear it? 
it’s the same one I sing, alone,
in this predawn light.

Old Flames
 
There was one who stalked me 
and one whose name I never knew.  
There were several with large breasts 
and there were a few with small breasts 
and there was one who was genuinely kind. 
Some liked adventure 
and some liked staying home
and most of them hated the books I read 
and none of them read the books I wrote. 
Most of them were beautiful, 
even if only in the eye of the beholder. 
Most had dark hair 
but there were a couple of blondes 
and even a redhead. 
Most of them loved me for a minute 
and they all finally moved on, 
mostly to parts unknown. 
But this was long ago 
and I wish them happiness 
and I hope they have found 
what they needed
as did I when I found my Jill. 
Some of these are the same 
and some are different 
and maybe it’s all imagined. 
I am old but they are young forever. 
Even when we die, 
all of this will echo someplace. 
Do you wonder, when you look at a grave, 
if it is any different than your own? 
 
 
 
 
You and Me
 
The destroyed ride buses
and sometimes take walks alone
or stare out windows
on rainy afternoons.
The feel the weight of regret
heavy in their chests
but don’t always know exactly
what that means.
The destroyed
might have pets or children
or be married
but still prefer solitude.
They are everywhere,
reading books or drinking coffee,
wishing for things that never were.
You might think them odd or invisible
until you look in a mirror
on your way to a couch, beside a window,
with a storm raging
everywhere.

to change the course


i often find myself

depressed as i reflect

on my life


there seems there

is nothing i can do

to change the course

of this roller coaster

is on as it seems it is

only picking up steam

as i get older


i'm certain that means

nothing good


as i watch countless

old friends succumb

to this mortal world


i guess the best part

of being a loner is

i can suffer alone


and not bring someone

down with me


sure, a loving hand

along the way would

be great


usually, that hand

is waving goodbye


you hear no enough


you get the point
-----------------------------------------------------------------
a sense of calm


one of those nights

you look at the bottle

of lotion and think

why bother


these are the years

you should have

become a monk


lived in the mountains


attained a sense of

calm while on the

edge of death


can't exactly find that

in the suburbs unless

the heroin is cut with

something exciting


rinse and repeat


each day it seems

the circle is closing

but not nearly fast

enough


there's this woman

on the east coast

that swears she

loves me


i remind her all

the time i'll be

dead way sooner

than she will


she might want to

get here faster than

she was planning

Backwards


I keep falling farther behind.
I can not learn the latest technology.
I begin to forget the old 
Software that is no longer available. 

I keep falling back 
To carbon paper and typewriters,
Slide rules and number two pencils. 
Some of which I could not use.

I am falling back now past fountain pens,
Back to quills and parchment. 
I am sure to fall further 
To papyrus and blocks of clay,

Farther still to rock walls
Scratched with stones
Or stained with plant pigments. 
Back now to carved bones,
Strange zigzags on trees.

Back I go to body gestures 
And odd noises made
With tongue and teeth and lips. 

Back, back to before a thought
Could form in any head.
Only fears now and desires,
Pangs of hunger, pain and aches.

Back, back until there is no more
Than a fish's understanding,
One moment at a time,
Forgotten as soon as it arrives. 




Bide Your Time


Let the sadness creep over you
As it tends to this time of night.
There is so much you could weep for
In this world and in your life.

Let it have these moments.
They will pass.
The empty space left behind
Can be filled with other emotions

When their proper hour arrives.