New Poems: 2022-2023

Walking home from the ledge near the waterfall

From the place where memory flirts with the space between the stars,

The darkness that separates souls, I remembered everything about that

Night. If you took all the souls, conscious and aware, and dropped them

into the vastness of space, they would fill a pixel of expansive borderless

out-there-ness.

The mist touches my face, leaving a gauze liquid façade that I don’t

Try to wipe away but rather wait for the wind to dry and I think of

The time you licked my face and then blew your breath toward me

To dry what remained of the spittle lacquer left behind, like marked

Territory.

The steps in the dark, through the forests and meadows, leaves

Crunching underneath our feet, we can hear the waterfall crashing

On the rocks below, the roar lessens as we move up the road, with

The disquiet of soundless dark creating images and arousing hurried

Fate.

Universal fate splashes us with its mist when we least expect it. It

Is up to each of us to wipe it away or wait for the winds of time to

Dry our fate depending on whether we face it or turn and run and

Deny our destiny, years later wondering what turn was missed or

Embraced.

Moments of Evolution: An Equation: B+D+G+L=Em2

Birth, the breaking free from holding cells

Of biological matter or psychological pain.

Both the same.

Death, the final evolution from which we

Can never return in the same form we now

Know too well.

Growth, the daily balance between birth and

Death, the small dismissals of yesterdays with

Determined force.

Burial, the refusal to fight any longer, a gift of

Surrender to a soul weary from the daily push

And pull reality.

Life, the blender created elixir with one part

Birth, one part death, one part growth, and

One part burial.

Evolution, the product of the life energy, be-

Witching in its ability to take what was to

What can be.

Moments, epiphanous gentle lightning that

Opens up your eyes to what you have become:

Wonder or Terror.

Listening to Horowitz

On an overcast afternoon near a shore that

Wears fog as an overcoat

Room quiet but for the phonograph needle

Gliding across a score

Artists, the ones with the divine touch, are

Subtle, a lion on the hunt

The well-thought-out approach to paint,

Words or notes the same

Subtle details are where the art is found,

Brush work on drums

Senses repel noise in all its forms, subtle

To crescendo a better run,

Stories told in steps, skips, and jumps

Hold true to the journey,

The artist venturing out every new day

The same tools, different aim

Target missed, target found, according

To the beholder’s rhyme

Sunflowers, Chopin, Galileo, Monk,

Plath, Kahlo, Morrison, Ma

Listening to Horowitz, solitary in

My afternoon thought,

Wondering, dreamily speculating,

As to Apollonian joy,

When the instruments of art join

With the humanly divine.

Riffing next in order

Here I stand or sit or sway to the comings and goings of another day, finding the tobacco not allowed sign distracting as I puff on the last Cuban cigar I bought years ago when there was a wink of time away from the embargo and Havana was a people-to-people exchange proving that people long for the same things everywhere and the fit women in their seventies showing off their still sweet bodies at the community center salon the bodies that some time before had been entertaining guests at the Tropicana where they said there was more imagination and eroticism that they could make a dead libido come alive again and how they were offered proposals of all kinds but they were artists and only the ones who needed money badly followed the rich tourists back to their hotel rooms where they wanted a show and would eventually get to that point where they degrade with kneeling positions and dirty names and you wondered how you could kiss your naïve boyfriend again and the silence that would overtake you for weeks on end because though the money helped the family it killed something sweet inside her soul and next time the offers came you rushed home poor but safe and happy so that one day you could still dance up a storm because Fidel delivered on his promise that to each would be given an opportunity to live out their days in dignity and here she is dancing well into her seventh decade on earth and people-to-people like you are happy she can.

Coming back again: Pessoa’s Mistress

I.

The twenty-four-hour place on the

Lower East Side, near the deli and

Close to where Dylan used to play.

Promises to reunite, like overdue

Bills you have good intentions to

pay, seldom finished on time.

Pretty at first glance but the

Sadness muted what would

Pass for girl-next-doorness.

Poets make commitments

They never intend to keep,

Though they think they will.

Something romantic about

Setting a date at three a.m.,

A trinity of possibilities.

II.

Tell me your story. I don’t

Have much to tell. Try me.

No, you go first. I will.

I study lonely people. It’s a

Hobby of my mine. I don’t

Comfort. Just ask why.

Lonely is just like the word says,

Lone. Lone wolf. Lone ranger.

A lone. That’s me a lonely one.

Born the only son of a lonely son

So, I saw it up close all my life.

Like nausea close by at all times.

III.

Not lonely by nature but in the

Last few years I lost my way and

Feared being near anyone again.

Her words assured me. Realizing

That lost souls found each other

At three a.m. looking for dreams.

Waiting for a mirage or a certain

Belief that she was not imaging

An affection not truly returned.

Words always capture me. His

Are no different. I believed each

Syllable and accented remark.

English spoken by a Dutch is

Exotic enough, straight forward

With an emphasis on true wit.

Seeing a warmth underneath

Like a schoolboy who trash

Talks back to keep sanity.

Past three a.m. our appointed

Time. Sitting for a few hours

Conjuring up a reunion scene.

You know the theater of the

Mind. We are the heroes in

Plots and twists contrived.

One past adventure came when

He said he would but days later

He disappeared into thin air.

V.

Sensing a break, the enchantress’

Story now bared, wishing that

She could see in me her wish.

VI.

A waitress comes over. Asking,

Sir, you have been sitting here

For hours, do you need coffee?

Begging forgiveness for taking

Up the space, I reply, I thought

She would be coming back again.

Sayings for a Saturday

Time passes without a dam

To contain its immense power.

You can be overcome by its

Strength or you can find a way

To jump in, double-Dutch-style,

And frolic the day away.

Listening is the body’s way to

Slow down time. Noise is the

Way time leaves you to fend

For yourself. Contemplation

Is time undressing in front

You and inviting you to stay.

Most action is wasted reaction.

Thinking and assessing before

Acting is wisdom spicing up your

Decision. Experience is action

Unplanned allowing come-what-

May to teach tough lessons.

Every moment of every day is

An adventure. Every adventure

Is a moment discovered with true

Intention. Days without adventure

Are days where the joy of being is

Imprisoned in a cage of indecision.

Humility and kindness are the two

Children of love and faith. Charity

And Forgiveness, the arduous work

Of being humble and kind. Time

Becomes life when acts of kindness

Reveal purpose and worthy ends.

Nature is to the senses as ideas are

To the mind. The Universe calls us

To its bosom to recall the dust of

Where we were and are destined to

Return by letting nature and time

Play in the circle of enduring life.

Sounds, letters, words—all explain

The wonders of the earth. Beings,

Such as you and me, communicate in

A manner that allows for things

Getting done, but to converse with

The Universe one must sacrifice.

Pain and Pleasure, like tension and

Release, are pull/push principles

That make all of nature work. All

Things work because the life force

Gravity maintains all in balance.

Community is the life force seeking

To balance humanity. Family is the

Community in a smaller scale. When

One feels alone, one should seek out

Nature. The universe cares for those

alone by invitation to nature’s table.

Coming and going, staying and moving

Are the life cycle at work. One must

Decide to come or go or stay. Only

Sleep, through dreaming, allows for

All the stages to exist simultaneously

In harmony with the natural scheme.

Resilience is the life force calluses

One earns through the hard work of

Taking on life adventures even when

Your heart says you can’t. Endurance

Is resilience over many life years.

Birth and Death are two sides of one

Coin. Becoming an adult is deciding

To flip the coin and living through

Whatever lands. Not everyone gets

To be an adult. True consciousness

is the realization of being an adult.

Living is the ultimate form of being.

Living every moment in conscious

Awareness, as a resilient adult, in

Harmony with the universal balance

Of nature and humanity while taking

On whatever adventure beckons.

Clouds and Waves

Clouds and waves float and crash

Each in their own way.

Cape Cod good-bye days where

Answers subtly walk by.

Martinis and Martha’s Vineyard

Little houses on the square.

Damp and moldy book sellers

On the muddy roadside.

Long silent highway hours

Portending the inevitable.

Small cabins shelter from the

Blowing summer wind.

Clouds and waves telling me

What I had not heard.

Hanging on for dear life: HOFDL

Irrelevant pantomime by stick figured

Bots on handheld devices that every

Few seconds go Tik Tok.

Fame for a few seconds, followers to

Follow, influence for hire, million

Dollar perfumed fake smiles.

Eyes positioned and primed to take

In every new mention, every surprise,

Every present juicy indiscretion.

Privacy is gradations of publicity, less

Is not more, and being ignored is worse

Than being wrongly maligned.

Likes and emojis, letters for words OMG,

LOL, LMAO, ADIH, IFYP, TIME, QQ, OMDB,

WTF, AYMM, CWOT, FAWC.

Lies and truths are of equal in value.

One easier to create the other easier to

Ignore like true and real emotions.

Nothing matters when nothing matters.

Everything matters when nothing

Matters. Matter is a relative term.

No turning back now. No off ramp

From this clover leaf merry-go-round.

Just hang on for dear life, oh my.

Here we

Here we, you and I, cry as the masks

Fall by the wayside,

As the shadow strip tease reveals

Itself telling us

What we already know.

Here we, yesterday and tomorrow, sigh

At what is to come,

At what the things we did in quiet hours

Have become,

What surprises now?

Here we, regret and sorrow, push the

Rock upon our shoulders,

Upon the cliffs where the wind rings

Wet and hollow,

What penance is this?

Here we, mask and shadow, sit in

Wonderous marvel,

Sit on a shore reminiscent of a home

Left and lost long ago,

Where are we now?

Here we, mother and child, see the

True moments,