self-made light ~ a poem


, , ,

yellow roses against a white clapboard fence
have nothing to fear from red roses nearby
with their come-hither beauty and flagrant scent
for yellow roses bloom with a self-made light
and the bright airy promise of a summer day


gypsy boy ~ a poem


, , , ,

sometimes i dream dreams i don’t want to dream
like the one i had about you last night
you were digging into a patch of hard ground
barely making a dent but still you dug thrusting
the blade into the earth over and over again

when you stopped for a moment to acknowledge me
i saw your eyes had lost their ever-so-welcoming
look of sardonic good humor that i remember so well
instead they were glazed and weary accepting of defeat

you said i’m tired of running and i said that’s why i came
to tell you that i knew though this didn’t make much sense
even in the context of the dream even if you were
always just a gypsy boy roaming about in one place

next time when i fall asleep thinking about you
about why i haven’t seen you in such a long time
i’m going to will my subconscious to come up with
a happier dream so that i’ll wake up maybe not
with a smile on my face but at least in a better
frame of mind than the one i woke up in today

wonder of her breathing ~ a poem


, , , , ,

when I was a child I once watched you sleep.
you were napping on the couch after
a midday shower with a white towel
loosely wrapped about your body.
i’m not sure why I watched but something
about your even breathing, your moist skin,
and the simple gold chain with a cross that
lay in a straggle upon your chest made me
want to fix the scene in my mind,
so that one day i would remember being
11 years old watching my mother napping,
and witnessing the wonder of her breathing
and feeling a peacefulness I wished
would always be hers. today was that day.

…for thereby some have entertained angels unawares ~ a poem and a memory


, , , ,

his being was elsewhere
it showed in his face
which was fragile and pale
it showed in his eyes
which were distant and lost

he lay half on the curb
half in the street
and cars leaving target
turning right at the exit
were close to running him over
mine was one of those cars

a few blocks away
unsure and ashamed
i turned back and
i saw that his body still
lay half in the street
and his being was still
somewhere else

when i walked over to him
i realized he was very young
barely out of his teens
i said do you need an ambulance
he just looked up with vacant eyes
i bent down then to implore
that he lie closer to the building
you’re going to get run over i said
the cars will run you over

for a short while he remained
somewhere else but finally
a certain awareness came over
his youthful gentle ancient face
and he slowly pushed himself up
fully onto the sidewalk

i felt the need to leave something
so i reached into my pocket
and gave him what bills I had
and as he sat looking up
i saw the barest of acknowledgment
spark within the depths of his eyes
the spark of light we all know
that connects each to each
no matter our conditions
and i found myself saying
in spite of what i believe
god bless you take care
then i returned to my car
and cried all the way home

skyfall ~ poem


, , , , ,

she drove and drove into the day
into a sky of azure gray

she drove and drove into the night
without another car in sight

she drove and drove up to a cliff
and wondered quietly – what if?

but this was not a passing thought
for she got out and jumped right off

and then the strangest thing came true
she sprouted wings of azure blue

and as she floated on the wind
blue feathers soon became her skin

and everything seemed far away
except the sky of bluest gray

and so it was she flew and flew
into an ever-deepening blue

angels all around ~ a poem


, , , , , , ,

angels are swarming
angels from the past
they talk to me in code
and I somehow understand

this one spoke about
the boatman from siddhartha
and the beauty of his struggle
(as if angels ever struggle)

this other stopped to ask
for a compass, the drawing kind
(I guess angels need to draw
concentric circles now and then)

another told me he’d been
mistaken for a hooligan
(what’s a hooligan? he asked)

they’re innocents, all
though ancient in spirit
they’re earthbound now
dragging molting wings
if wings remain

but their smiles are genuine
and so is their joy
and because I’m on to them
they’ve started to swarm
swarm all around
speaking in a cryptic code
only I understand

11:22 ~ a poem, inspired by mayakovsky (from the archives)


, , ,

11:22 pm
a train is passing by
it is far away
miles away
from where you live
but for a moment
you feel the rush
the quake
the stream

all is not quiet
it is not a time to rise
and address
the ages
and all creation

and yet
the white fog
the streetlamps
the distant lighted view
all wait
for just one word
from you