Unpacking all that it can carry,

grief finds a destination in my thoughts.

It chooses the spaces where it wants to be.

It’s not being brash, or intentionally unkind.

Memories, the ensemble within,

seek to be worn, over and over.

Buttoned close to me as love perseveres.

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She was talking about a time

when she had a few too many,

and had no idea where she was.

In a dark alley, exposed and vulnerable.

Her youth speaking, shrugging away the danger

she was in that night, but with the insight of reflection

said, “We all get lost at some point in our lives.

Places where even the wind is afraid to go.”

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Love might have been there somewhere.

In between your elsewhere days.

But you made me guess

most of the time. I resented you for it.

And I was terrible at both.

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What would you have done, if when we first met,

I’d said we would someday sleep with 3 small dogs,

as we do now? Would you have said thank you,

nice to meet you, have a nice life and ended our date?

Silly question, I suppose, knowing you now as I do.

I prefer to think you would have more likely said,

Just three? Let’s get a fourth as soon as possible!

“Did your ...

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The water near the shore is uncommonly still.

Reflecting an uncertain sky like a mirror.

Small clouds stirred by an impatient breeze.

Below, the blazing-white egrets,

set against lesser and envious hues,

eagerly search for their evening meals.

Their spindle-like legs, lifting gracefully

and purposefully, one after another,

working in concert to find what their ...

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I wish there was a physical place to visit.
A place I know I could always find you
to let you know how we are doing.
And maybe to keep you from being lonely
down there among the departed.

Though in this place I’d be climbing
a precarious cliff, trying to get up and over the top
to the other side of without and disquiet.
Once there, I know you’d ask me to stay.

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My wife puts on classical music for the dogs
when she leaves, hoping it will help them
forgive her absence while she is away.

Sometimes she doesn’t do this for them;
when they pee in the house, for instance.
Though her anger about this sort of thing is brief.

Let me explain:

When she comes through the door
their tails are always furiously wagging,
the universal sign of canine acquit...

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Riding our bikes along the levy trail,

the willow tree’s branches

hang low over the path

in the early afternoon haze.

I reach up like a thief

to grab a handful of leaves,

mischievously tossing them up in the air.

As they scatter and float in the wind

behind me, riding through them,

she reaches out to capture a few.

Later, the rescued leaves

are a...

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I sometimes feel your absence as if it were dust,

easily disturbed by currents of sorrow,

only to settle on the remnants you left behind.

With some effort, I sweep the delicate memories

into a bin that is never full, so you won't worry that I'm okay.

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The coffee maker is sounding
its’ morning music in late November.
Without mercy, always the hardest
working appliance when we are here.

A grey and overcast sea our frequent companion;
considered through rain-spattered windows
from hit-and-run squalls at first light.

The shorebirds, restless and racing
the foaming surf back and forth.
Familiar friends we will visit soon enough.

The ...

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You were content knowing someone
would be there with you in the morning.

I found calm in knowing
it would have to end
between misplaced hearts.
Cinders burning without flame.

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My brother and I captured insects

to watch them squirm on the tin cellar door.

A merciless ordeal in the humid summer heat.

A cruelty of young boys I’m still trying to forgive.

Down in the cellar, were dust-covered shelves

lined with jars of fruits and vegetables of all kinds.

The dark and the dust and the musty smell

fired our imaginations. Instead, we saw shrunken hea...

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Looking back though, I found comfort

in ephemeral things. Birds flying in formation,

off to southern climes. Wood from a fire,

always destined to be embers.

None of these things lingered

beyond their established purpose,

but they were always predictable,

offering modest shelter

from your meandering heart.

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If I were a poet and could write in a fine hand
I'd write her a letter only she'd understand.

I'd write it down by the shore
where the water helps articulate so much.

I tell her of my desire to pen something beautiful for her,
but she says I needn't bother to write anything down.
She already knows the words I would place on the paper.

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I attack the treacherous malady

with a persistent sense of humor. 

A spirit I am bound to by need of faith

in its’ ability to keep the wild-eyed dogs at bay.

It's one of my best defenses. 

One not quantifiable in lab tests.

I use it every day without fail

to seal the darkness at the borderlands of thought,

and laugh at the hapless incongruity of it all.

As far...

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“Dinner might be awkward
if we don't care for each other.
Maybe coffee would be better for this.”, she said
with tactical honesty over the phone.

“Let's do that.”, I offered.
“I'll suggest dinner afterwards.
If we both agree, it’ll be a good sign
things are going well.”

Over coffee, her eyes seemed to smile.
“You brought me chocolates!
How did you know about my addiction?”

“Somet...

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War Talk

"I see you on the other side 
of our parents' intolerance and violence.
I think we could be friends somewhere else."

"Can we go there sometime soon?"

"I don't know if it's possible, but I hope so.
I have to go now I hear more rockets coming.
So, I'll see you tomorrow I hope."

"I'd like that very much."

-Image Artist: Banksy

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I’m worried about the ashes now,

as I try and make my peace

with dispersing what is left behind.

How will I know which ashes

listened to my troubles?

Which were part of her smile?

All I can really be certain of

is love will cast who she was

over the welcoming sea,

along the North Coast, 

where she would want to be.

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I happen upon the crimson display.
The leaves are in the process
of completing their purpose,
but still giving to those who see them.

I accept their gift without hesitation,
and will welcome back their kindred
come Spring, and all they will offer.

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It lie there near our planted flowers,

where it passed. Done with all the insect things

a dragonfly must attend to in the brief time it has.

And those wings! Like stained glass panels

still shimmering in the early Fall light!

Our dogs were curious too, but maybe

more interested in the motionless creature’s value

as a snack, or possibly something to play with – ewww!

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With open displays of love and laughter,
and affection still in the fore,
a family friend admired how it all seemed
and felt so genuine, so at ease after all these years.

“This is how families should be.”, she observed.
But she couldn’t see the crimes and misdemeanors
of the past, and the forgiveness behind them.

Later, we cut the September celebration cake
and shared it with all who w...

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I remember turtle fishing with my grandfather

when I was a kid. We went around the lake in his boat,

checking the huge and fearsome hooks he used.

He pulled one up with the bait gone, the hook bent almost straight.

Later on, that very hot, Midwest summer day, he couldn’t seem to understand

why my brother and I didn’t want to go swimming there.

I recall thinking it ...

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Your disheveled hair

before ten in the morning,

while taking our first sips of coffee

on the deck with our dogs nearby.

The fragrance of your neck;

especially when it’s not from a bottle.

Delicate, original, and only yours.

Your sadness for old shoes

left in the weather, forgotten and worn,

while trying them on again to give them hope.

And blaming m...

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You, the fire, immersed in burning it all

with the heat of a blue-white flame

aimed at my good intentions.

There was no comfort there.

Where love was sought

I found wolves at the door.

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My heart sometimes lies to me.

It says things it knows I want to hear,

knowing full well I will believe.

The constructions it builds there

tell me love isn’t a burden.

But here I am, fooled once again,

as grief returns to collect its price.

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Her feelings and attachments
always felt messy.
Wild and uncharted too.

Attending to them was work for us both.
Broken sometimes works out,
but I had to walk away this time.

Not because I didn't care,
but I just couldn't breathe underneath

the weight of all her damage.

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In the past, she smiled

because in the moment

it seemed like the right thing to do.

There was a labor to it.

Her new smile is an improvement;

it doesn't have effort behind it.

Maybe I had something to do with this,

but I want to be the reason for it now.

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An elderly woman I know well,
carries some burdens with contentment;
compassion and empathy, to be more specific.

She tells me she doesn't mind their weight
because they always give back to her,
but in ways that really cannot be held.

Nevertheless, she welcomes their influence.

Her constant companions; she charges no fare
for the comfortable rooms she keeps for them.

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She always says "I love you Button."

I sometimes say "You’re like the end of a good day."

She often smiles when I say this and asks,

“Which parts though? I like to know,

so I can be sure of what I did right."

And I can't stop telling her about all of them.

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She had broken pieces when we met.

Some of the shards piercing her still,

revealing a disquiet of scars.

Love, the brigand that put them there.

When I gave her cut flowers

she had no chance of seeing

the field of understanding and tenderness

from which they came.

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A friend of mine recently broke up

with his girlfriend of many years.

She had a young son when they met.

He had become a loving father to the boy.

But the boy’s mother, as it turned out,

was never really in the relationship

for the long term; other reasons it seemed.

I visit him at his place of work

where people who collect things frequent.

Lately, we haven’t ...

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After showing me the difference

between being stupid at love

and being stupid in love,

I realized I didn't want anything from you,

just everything with you.

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I taught you to drive in my five-hundred-dollar car

with power everything from Detroit.

Some of it still worked, if coaxed.

The fucking brakes were so sensitive

I hit my head on the dash

when you pressed the pedal too hard.

The car stopped, but not my memories.

We drove to the beach at night

and launched bottle rockets out into the sea

from the pitted chrome f...

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I didn't want to be angry.

I didn't want to sort the differences

between the wounds that had been dressed,

and those that were abandoned.

Was it our intention

to give up on the remains?

I'm not sure, but it will always be

how I think of you, and how empty

the second chances left us.

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The things I kept I put away for a time.

Photographs, and other small items that clung to grief.

I kept them at a distance. A kind of shelter

until time made them possible to face again.

I realized, after the immediacy of pain and loss,

that I wasn’t going to let it be about being empty

or deserted, for which I’ve been grateful,

but that it would be about the love tha...

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The only way to say goodbye now
is to struggle with the grief as it comes.
It crests and subsides, again and again.

As it is at the shore,
the surf leaves the sand altered
but not washed away.

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Thinking about you back then,
leaving you always seemed a possibility.
I barely escaped with my ability to care about love.

My comfort being alone frightened you the most.
You couldn’t change the monsters you imagined
lurking behind what I was at peace with.

Staying together was always
what you wanted to talk about.
But at the time, I knew I'd rather drive a truck.

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You said I love you for the first time
as you stepped from my car;
in a hurry to check us in at the crowded restaurant
while the car and I were headed for the gravel lot.

In that brief moment my hobnailed pause,
unintendedly cruel, must have made you feel
you had betrayed your vulnerable heart.

I considered your courage as you hesitated.
Disarmed by your words, but with clarity in the ...

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I pulled off the two-lane California Highway.

Searching for my independence at seventeen.

The sign said:

FRUIT CUTTERS WANTED - $1.50 PER CRATE!

The Mexican women were no doubt puzzled

by the presence of someone so young –

and white, if I’m being honest,  

whose blisters and cuts would likely be plentiful

by the end of the warm summer day.

The elderly w...

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I hear someone say this,

pointing to the random plants

growing free and wild along the trail.

These “weeds” have flowers of amber,

crimson and violet. Beauty that has much to express,

but maybe too faintly in a clamorous world.

But this is why we love this path.

All the raiment of flora is exactly this; untended,

free to find its way to where it will be

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I might have been around ten or eleven years old,

visiting relatives in their Appalachian Mountain home.

We could not wait until the fireflies began

their summer night’s performance, as I recall.

The view from my reflections returns me there.

Our great-aunt picks up a slow-moving, winged beetle

and shows us how to carefully tie a thread to its back leg

and watch it fly in...

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They've served me well, and comfortably.
These small, everyday biases and prejudices.
Still, I want to find a way to break away from them.
Away from these little sways
before they become immense.

It's not going to be easy.
They always exact a price,
on myself and others.
I hope I haven't waited too long
and that it's not too late.

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Our weekend on the coast

lies just a few miles ahead.

The cows we pass to our right 

continue chewing their indifference.

She knows it's coming again.

"First bovine sighting: 3:15pm.

Some call them cows.", I say

with all the silliness I can muster. 

My overused quip

still sparks a very slight beam

in her indulgent eyes.

"That look, right there!"...

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I didn't earn it at first.

Love was like wind.

I could sense it all around her,

but I could not see any use for it. 

Still, with patience, we walked

in tall stands of trees together.

Ones that had been there for so long, 

red-barked and towering with wisdom.

The branches quivered and stirred

as we passed their anchored homes.

Murmurs perhaps, of their disco...

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Sorting through belongings
a good friend left behind,
I encountered a secret panel
in the back of a dusty book shelf.
Behind it was a collection of anime figurines.

All female, plastic and scantily clad, of course.
While admiring the details
of these strange but beautiful things,
his mother stepped into the room.
I was red-faced, caught in the act!

She simply smiled with a knowing lo...

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I don't know your names.

I'm horrible at botany,

you flowers and trees

with views of the low hills to the west.

I adorn them with my own monikers

when I walk among them.

I don't mean to offend, and it seems they don't mind.

They are familiar acquaintances,

so I tell myself they are probably happy

to be called something.

Yellow Top Plant,

Crooke...

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Dipping your toes in the spring,

I held your hand there.

Later, I showed you how to skip a rock across the water.

The joy on your face when you got it just right,

I will never forget.

To our right, a murmur of starlings

blacked out our piece of the sky.

It wasn't theirs to have, nor was it ours.

As the feathered swifts swirled away,

we saw the early ...

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The scientist, one of a team tending to the Large Collider,
a member of a profession not known for poetry,
takes pages and pages of notes from the latest experiments
studying the accelerated particles of neutrons and protons.
Trying to understand the secrets of the smallest parts
of the natural world, and how they might behave in the air around us.

Within his journal, filled with mathemati...

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The poetry she was reading
couldn’t have been nearly as beautiful
as the sunlight dancing all around her, as I recall.

Tracing shadows and illuminations across her face.

Freckles of light cast through her hat with a ribbon

peeked through in the most delightful way.

As brief and temporary as this panorama was,

my memory begs to differ with me

every time I visit the canvas...

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You feel sorry for shooting stars 
because they're so brief.

I say that can't be right.
You're how I feel when I see one.

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