FROM 1986 - October - page 2

Centrist

towards the center we move

motivated by a single thought,

a purpose not yet fully

understood or comprehended;

our direction changes casually

like toy soldiers placed randomly

around a make-believe battlefield;

we are components,

parts of the whole that searches

for a complete solution.

An Empty Canvas

I

the darkness fills space like paint

poured over an empty canvas,

a time, quiet and peaceful,

available for thoughts not a part

of any random selection

from deep down inside somewhere,

within a surreal space

where fantasies grow and 

sweet memories die,

before reality distorts truth

its compassion

its sense of belonging...

II

darkness fills the space inside my head

as perceptions become uniform,

the absence of rational thought prevails,

the clarity of sight weakens the

desire to reach back outside to

stabilize the the turmoil that has

become the threat to our existence and

the pleasures of our misguided attitudes.

In Between

an hour in between and we

face the initial attraction,

a day in between our words that

have been recorded on paper,

a month in between our feelings

carefully stored in memories,

a year in between us both and

we begin to prune the trees,

our troubles taped together with age

and our indifference becomes

all so easily tolerated now.

Moving

we move from one day to the next

from one opportunity to another

experience grows inside like embryos

reshaping our natural evolution;

each day is a self-fulfilling prophesy

prepared from broken sentences

and substituted by our trainers;

we bend with the rain

ride concave currents of silence

while despair grows like a new leaf

on a rubber tree plant on the patio,

curiosities are adopted to the 

politics of the day and served like

a mixed drink and hard to swallow

but drank with an air of humility.

Futile Attempts

we overlook attempts that fall 

short of unexpected feelings,

precious feelings that always

allure and secure all remaining

obstacles restraining thoughts,

constant little engines driving

our will to maintain

make sure and reinforce,

protect and maneuver all our

selfish and futile attempts that

sadly make us who we are.

FROM 1986 - October - page 1

Maturing

infants cry in their sleep

adults learn to hold their

feelings inside and sort

through indecisiveness;

we are tolerant of others

who tolerate us as we

age out of infancy and

strive towards perfection.

Dark Evil

hours after light fades

after darker than dark prevails

lanterns on the porch front

light the way inside,

only evil creeps slowing

wicked spirits of devils lurk

ever demon comes back

every soul wondrously inviting

never to be seen again.

Footsteps

I

simple were the days

when the well wasn't dry,

the bird's frozen songs

hid the spring behind,

we looked into each other's eyes

bathed in admiration, poised 

yet dwelling inside curiosity,

lights tempered without glare

fell at our footsteps,

left behind...  passed by

until retracing where we were...

II

the evening clears a path

through the day,

a mental elapse without errors

a journey from attitudes...

III

her image lies in

buried thoughts on the

floor of our imaginations...

IV

tree-lined and empty

without thoughts or feelings,

whether or not it will end,

always wondering...

V

courage rests in ambiguity

blind thoughts trespass another's domain,

we are resolved and assured 

by limitation and disruption...

VI

backwards, we look

sometimes fatally,

our past reminds us now we

are not what we were,

no longer

not even wishing or

wondering it to be...

Speaking Truth

truth rests at the bottom of the sea,

truth is spoken when lies will not suffice,

truth is broken when convenience permits,

truth disallows newcomers,

truth is marked absent on Sundays,

truth is held to be self evident,

truth is found in two negatives,

truth arrives after glass is broken,

truth seeks out and finds its specific gravity,

truth lies with the beholder,

truth is a matter of degrees,

truth accounts for most divorce,

truth is the foundation of disorder and disobedience

Thoreau's truth was Whitman's grass

no matter how one smokes it but will we

ever be dishonest enough to finally speak it?

Night Lifts

and when the dawn appears

the lifting of the night completed,

we are still the same

always pronouncing the same patterns

as appropriate solutions;

problems are substituted for

other attractions and our freedoms 

are at each other's disposal

and visible in our courtrooms;

a preface without accompanying text,

color abstractions waiting to be formed

into something meaningful and

brother sister arguments must

wait for the next rainy day.

Heaven's Stars

not such a dark night after all it was

what with all the street and house lamps 

burning not as bright as Heaven's Stars

but still worthy of our acknowledgements;

our Japanese Maple was cut back severely

as it so happens to be and both times a

more beautiful tree in a few years emerged

until it grew so bold it was cut back again

and while we were awaiting the results

our imaginations are for the spectacular;

a blue bird sits upon her eggs and wonders

if her children will grow strong and free...

a patient cat sits underneath her nest and

refuses to return home for evening supper,

crowds of people pack the highways in

desperate attempts to arrive before the holidays

loaded with cases full of season's greetings

not worried about the bills until Spring rains;

my heat soaked body is finally retrieved from the

watery furnace of one hundred and three degrees

just as my thoughts are about to digress into

the bottomless pit of forgotten memories

always replaced with more current versions

of what it might be like to live in a world of love

where all creatures became as friendly as 

those found in a public zoo where visual

consumption is quietly arranged with tickets

overlooked when Heaven's Stars appeared.

14 November 2020

Cloud Rivers

across the sky they move, ominously silent

sacred rhythms moving collectively around

as they encircled the inhabitants of the ground

constantly flowing rivers upside down as if

their contents should simply fall out somehow

yet nothing is seen or felt or sensed by animal

flying tree to tree and without encumbrance;

muted are their sounds as they travel by

bunching together as if in some kind of parade

lights and greys and darker colors too but none

of which have adopted the color black as their

passage seems to be quite unrestrainable and

we find ourselves at the mercy of their forecast.

15 November 2020

FROM 1986 - November - page 3

Nightfall

darkness covers the day like

an eves-dropping neighbor,

we search the halls of our

imagination in silence, hours

after shadows cover our thoughts,

the day disrobes its enchantment

heads rest their weariness,

eyes, heavy at last exchange

parting glances with consciousness

and the wind bends, lending

its compassion, cooling the

climate of all our regrets.

Lines

thin lines on the paper 

disconnect an appearance,

shading and blending

curving their straightness,

a form emerges rough and crude;

thin lines on the paper turn thick,

flattened by accumulation,

form impressions mirrored by

calculations and a scientist with

a portable canvas lab makes his rounds

with wooden instruments and paint 

explores the unknown and finishes 

the puzzle with a final cube but

not enough paint to solve the riddle.

Articulation

we articulate our experiences

in nondescript bundles

wrapped in threads of doubt

and on our backs we carry all

like an Argentina pack mule;

bring your opportunities

with you wearisome traveler,

your direction is seeking even

though your way seems unclear,

and your peers move on their

own paths to their oblivions.

A Gentle Touch

and our touch wrapped around our 

bodies like an electro-magnetic field,

an eclipse of feelings...

harder at the smaller diameters,

pulled us together into tighter

ever decreasing concentric circles...

as if, when pressed together our

bodies must find a way of fitting,

must be paired as equal parts of a whole;

our pre-formed illusions drink in the

sensations like a sponge on a reservoir,

we absorb each other's influence until

our emptiness loses it attraction...

a meal eaten too quickly

without desert leaving us hungry

while all the others have been forgotten

we are left with the abstraction.

Mountain Top

one stood on a mountain top looking

for an answer until the altitude of thought

produced a not so obvious nose bleed;

one stood in a valley waist deep in flowers,

waiting for a sign from the mountain top,

a boy passed by the fields stood idle watching

then sat on a rock by the fence gate pondering;

a young man at a brisk pace walked by the

young boy and he got up and followed...

all morning he following the young man

until his tired legs forced him to sit down but first

moved to the other side and watched him disappear;

lost and scared he sat beside the road crying

wishing he had remained with his two brothers.

FROM 1986 - November - page 2

Loose Change

"Have a nice day,"

she says without a smile.

"I've had better,"

he responds to himself.

she pauses...  as if her

misplaced thoughts are

still lying on his tray;

an uncompromising "thank you,"

rolls off his lips and is

pocketed by her like loose change.

what have we accomplished here

he wonders...

Time Spent Alone

awkwardly we manage

a lunch time tune,

reporting our differences

acclaimed indifference

closes the gap as the spirit

of our conversation intertwines;

both descending and punctual

both discarded like the end of a meal,

and the time spent alone

should bring us closer

but falls short of expectations;

in search of confessions

controls our appetite for isolation,

selfishly our values mix and mingle

with fragments of memories...

we smoke our last cigarette and leave.

Song of the South

the wind's sour song

whispers gossip,

a touch of warmth

dances in the valley,

winter's chill is postponed;

the rain fill our lands with moisture

winter crops sink deep into

their soggy fields easily,

tree roots look like Bonsai

in the shallow soil...

year after year the odds torment

a faint glimmer of hope is saved

in the cellar for next year's planting;

the harvest queen, a petite idol,

rides the parade routes unmolested

as she smiles in the fake of foreclosure,

the wind's song, smooth and gentle,

covers our complexion with leaves

and the pride of our heritage is

retold every fall when the winds

decide to blow south again.

The Gamble

he chance received

poised and ready

she makes no connection

offers no depth,

perceptions or dexterity,

on the ground remain

like bulbs unplanted, 

curtains block the breeze

from windows to the world,

a gamble played out like

seven cards leave her

holding nothing except 

an intact reputation,

her chance received

once again like always

she decides to play it safe.

Restrained

morning finds us returned

to our displeasures,.

forced by a loss of necessity

revolving determination,

an April fools way of life

constant as any struggle;

we are participants

of an economic climate,

a shield that prevents a

little daylight loneliness;

it creeps around us early

attending to our dreams and

most of our illusions,

regardless of any forecast

or social positioning;

we grieve for the weekend's conclusion

like any mourning relative might be,

we are haunted by our youth,

its vitality and unspoiled freshness;

restrained by habits, we are

always one step ahead of

our pursuers as the morning finds

us wanting to avoid the day.

FROM 1986 - November - page 1

Why or Why Not?

I write because of

feelings inside

moist and pliable

remain unmolded;

my thoughts

my real feelings

too frequently unspoken

an inside expression

for recognition

whether good or bad

I am afforded thought

individual and different

often influenced by

passing tides;

I write because it

arouses senses

forcing words down

through a funnel

and only the finest

well chosen ones

appear from the bottom;

I write because of

cognitive process

during the day for

what I want it seems

can only be controlled

under superficial conditions,

creating anything chosen

that may help to relax

myself during the day.

Dreaming

how aimlessly moments float

sensationally secluded,

how unnoticed each day passes

with nothing real or remembered,

when annoying pranks stimulate imaginations,

when tenement shacks of thought

permeate the avenues of sleep

and we awake to find ourselves

drenched in the maddening overtures 

of yet another fickle dream.

Effortlessly

thoughts twirl and swirl

dance in the wind preceding,

rhythms and illusions of rhythms,

illusions and movements of illusions,

movements and rhythms of movements,

formed by a vision to create a

of effortless execution flowing

from the music's memory

and through her eyes are gracefully

balanced before they arrive;

she knows where they will be

and the lights on the stage

and the wooden floors

become props for the viewer

when discerning tastes must

always match her perception.

Passing Days

down inside and drawn upon

opening a perspective

new and fashionable

not without a wrinkle

and all the final adjustments...

hardly a day passes when

answering her own questions

renewed acquaintances

touch underneath softly,

a notion of caring and

all her energy unfolds,

responsive yes...

but too innocent to have.

A Word

a word

an expression

threatens extinction

fly south on a

winter migration;

wings flap silent

outside the window

a silent

destination described

by a simple

word or phrase.

FROM 1986 - December - page 3

Passing By

you pass by

I stare like a school boy

tempted by the fragrance

of your appearance;

you pass by

and I think about all those

I could have known...

our lives

our memories

and fragments rearranged

by faint recollections,

offered when too many

questions have been asked;

you pass by

and I understand why the

photographs have yellowed,

innocent's strong voice has

turned to a whisper and what I

once was belongs to another;

all the dreams have become 

short stories told around camp

fires with make believe characters

and non-fictional plots;

you pass by

and I see opportunities unfolding

and someone holding you tenderly;

you pass by,

and I want to be the father I never had.

Remembering

in his heart he writes thoughts

by which to be remembered,

accounts of good fortune,

daydreams of successes mixed

with sadness and suffering,

his fantasies a lost reality

an unachievable enemy

a detailed account of a "wished for" life;

and, the "real world" becomes

his nemesis and he its scapegoat,

a confused purpose forces a cold

bleakness to be seen year long,

an unfaithful mistress he must wait for

never being satisfied

never letting the scrambled letters

in his heart spell out "love".

The Daughter

she spends time in her bedroom with 

loud music to block out the arguing,

she strays away from home so much so

now because her parents fight with words

and statements and indifferent attitudes,

she wants to form mutual bonds with others

but the pain of missed laughter drags at

feet as she walks around anywhere and

her head held upwards hiding the

reluctance that she must return home,

she is ashamed of her parents and

embarrassed around peers even when

they were not aware of her situation,

she is a lady to be admired, living in a home

where love is scrapped off the welcome mat,

courage lives inside her determination

not to yield to the pass over of love that

she has often believed to be her fault,

from her anger she reaches out through

music to her father...  to correct...

It's Their Nature

in the sky

high above my head

a naked tree

stands crooked,

a single parent

fighting for survival,

in a tree

a family of black birds I see

huddled all together

in their nest,

deep inside the hollow trunk

two squirrels cuddle for warmth,

from around her

weathered roots, the washed away

soil has left her tentative;

a good nor'easter would

uproot her in no time...

the wind plays a melancholy tune

as her branches it passes,

a companion tree was

taken years ago so the story goes

and on her own she remains,

she feeds her animal children

what she can but each year it lessens,

a month ago,

an offer for her wood was made

but nothing ever happened

and she frets one day she'll be gone...

she'll age twenty more 

before this winter's over

and each day she taunt herself

to hold out until spring.

All Quite Natural

she is afraid to stand up to her daughter and

to her husband, yet, she talks back to both,

she is afraid to stand up and comfort her sister

and brother, yet, she grumbles and complains

whenever their backs are turned in other directions,

the dog and cat have trained her to respond

to their needs whenever they moan or groan

and totally consumed with her subordinate role

she withdraws with a book whenever she can,

to escape the reality of her tortured life and

see depression from inside a contained atmosphere

a restrictive environment that's been coerced

and she performs in a different style from her own,

unique and always uncomfortable and hides well

from the crowed influence of her family in

the trenches of habit and keeps busy at work;

she knows what she must do and does it

forcing herself to courage and persistence with

determination and flexibility of course as she

adopts a little self confidence and leans on

small accomplishments and learns the final

lesson that she must first stand up to herself.

FROM 1986 - December - page 2

This Year

this year

the one whose time

is almost gone,

began with

all its features in order;

this year,

took us off center

painting our promises

with opaque colors;

this year,

passed away quickly,

filled us with laughter

tested our strength

and determination;

this year,

absorbed our sorrow

and cried when it could

not remove our pain.

Often

often,

I have thought of you

of us,

in silence

in darkness

your feelings wrapped

around mine

and the scent of

your awareness

matched to mine,

like blood types;

often,

I dare to mention

then deny

myself the obligation,

building the excitement

of desire beyond

its toleration,

imagining our first 

embrace and often I

think about it

until I see you.

Perhaps

perhaps,

we shall never awaken

to the fear from within;

perhaps,

we shall dream what others

will often achieve;

perhaps,

our speculation is academic

but worth the time 

to ponder...  to wonder...

to be prepared;

perhaps,

this is a fruitless exercise

perhaps,

but what else is there to do?

Desire

and like poison, my desire for you

is slowly burning my consciousness,

I dream of nothing else

I concentrate on us together

what it would be like 

what I would feel

sensations...  excitement...

and the pleasure I could give back;

unlock from storage

from a deep freezer

to yield to the temptations

to stray...  

to sample the fruit from a tree

grown in a different garden;

a weakness I must guard against

like having too much candy...

is the pain of the cavity worth its sweetness?

Day's End

and as the day's end brings

brings with it sunset, a

new beginning is announced...

cars have on, 

their not quite needed headlights,

some return to families

some stop off for a beer;

I ask myself which way do I go from here?

which way seems less lonely?

FROM 1986 - December - page 1

Lingering Tomorrow

the sun drops

on the roof like

unheard rain;

a blessing from

the real thing;

all the leaves

have blown free

from their branches

onto a neighbor's yard;

for now, a

season concentrates

its efforts on us, a

slow burning fire

flickers across 

our faces placing

us behind the bars of

warmth.  we 

are drawn together

temporarily;

the future hesitates

to be part of

our conversation

although tomorrow

lingers on the

edge of today.

Categories

defined by the

categories in which

we participate,

fortunes are made

not from our back

pockets nor from

our inherent survival

with others, but

from an understanding

of ourselves.

Shared Adversity

once it was easy

an act of balancing,

carefully executed;

our lives touched

each other like the ocean

returning to the shore;

constant and everyone

played on our beaches

as if it was their backyard;

once it was easy to belong

but only briefly;

four years in a foreign land

frozen in the tropic heat

to a common cause, as

factory workers pulling together

in support of shared adversity;

once in was easy

to be without direction,

life's puppet without strings,

dangling on interests

in several areas,

seemingly committed... a

franchise temporarily

opened for business;

once it was easy to

share one's superficial feelings,

tied down by apron strings

made it impossible to predict

an annual forecast,

and the years passed by 

as fleeting as the birds

migrating south;

once it was easy

to replace purpose

like worn-out clothes;

once it was easy

just to be... but

no more.

Seasonal

an umbrella day brings

its own resolutions,

predictable...

predictable, when staying

in bed is the only reasonable

thing to do since

the sun never made it

to our side last night and

we are left with a day

of dull shadows;

can we jump ship and swim

to another shore?

are we the victims of our

own circumstances?

a foregone conclusion

in some parts but not theses 

parts...  not today;

our blessings were seasonal

and for the most part dry,

most peculiar for this 

time of year since a

rainy day brings its own

isolation with determination

left for the sunshine.

Tuesday's Rain

time moves like twin caterpillars

arching their backs in opposition 

to actually move ahead some;

Tuesday's rain collects in reservoirs

feeding two trees side-by-side standing

their foliage contrasting

one dying, one surviving

the former last was planted;

and, the brothers competed daily

yet neither was cut for firewood

until the drought scorched their integrity,

a reprieve came in the form of a mild winter.