Poetry

Unlike ripples fading away,
old dreams can’t be kept at bay.

More than living. You know, our life. The path is not straight.

Dishes are done and there is quiet.
Trading my phone for stillness, I
Pour half a glass of red in an old jam jar.

You should know this house is
my mother’s; be mad at her; maybe
visit her at Parkview Clinic

There are poems I intend to write
That land on the purgatorial backburner
Never to be revisited
Because the poem was conceived
In a distinct and fleeting moment.

In ancient times the knights rode out
to cheers and loud applause,
To fight our foes, those armed heroes, took up our common cause,

Do you ever feel like a shirt,
With wooden clips pinning your shoulders to the line,
Left blowing in the wind to dry,

There are days I am disillusioned,
When I am bereft of my purpose,
Alone in my office,

On a lazy Sunday,
I sit in the sun,
reading a book by the swing.
Some shadows watch over
the unturned page,

Princess bedside and stand-up telephones. Landlines. Ma Bell. Telephone booths. Victrolas. 78 and 45 rpm records. Ash trays. Analog photography.Alarm clocks. Walkman. Transistor radios.Beta and VHS. Tape cassettes.Vacuum tubes. IBM desktop typewriters. Blockbuster stores. Telegrams.News reels at the movies. Air mail and Special Delivery.Three cent stamps. Fountain pens. Oldsmobile. Pontiac. Nash Rambler. Plymouth.Spark plugs. Packard. Edsel. Rumble seats. Leaded gasoline. Rhodesia. […]

high tech and high touch
treatment scans and MRI’s
where is the high touch

I felt the ache in my head,
The cranial vessels’ pulsing beat,
My restless, trembling legs in bed,
The tingling in the soles of my feet.

“Can you please let me go?”
She pleaded with tears in her eyes

I walk past the morgue in the hospital
Underbelly on my way to the key shop,
Resigned to replacing the keys I lost
Two weeks ago.

It’s times like these, with the certainty of our assumptions, no longer certain,that bring a richer appreciation for the touchstones and the lifelines, for the heartfelt friends and the fond rituals that carry us through each day,for the ones who remind us our roots hold braided branches strong enough to bear roses, and of all the reasons, like […]

It is a long story. This is a short version: I was about to die.

I dreamt I had a garden
in the backyard of a home
that doesn’t actually exist.

Do you notice me?
Do you see my soul?
Or does attire blind you?

When I am old, I want to look back
And feel like my life really mattered.

Epic, open, please!
Numerous charts to complete.
Will you ever load?

Beautiful life so often forsaken
Let sounds of the night gently awaken
The burning desire to live

A mother in the NICU
waiting room thinks aloud,
If God were listening

I do not understand love, as mightily as I strive

Year after year flowing through halls
A healing river of humanity