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       Intake

If you hold your breath

and are absolutely still

then 

that little drop of oil

on the surface of the lake,

will allow itself to be halved,

so that you'll now have two,

where you just had one.

I know - wonders never cease - 

but really, what better way to get to know

your own personal surfaces,

let alone all the weather

that fell on you

and made your ripples

roll up to shore the way they do?

Granted, a huge part of this

is that small intake of breath you made 

just before you held it.

The oil that became two,

is still one. 

Taking it apart didn't

change it.

 

       The Story

The carpet, 

(made up of tiny, little fibers and backing),

tells a story.  

It tells of where it's been and 

of the sweat of those who made it,

the silences of the family who's floor it's been on and 

the occasional defiant spittle spat out 

in a word.

A story,

the end of which hasn't been written yet.

That's where you come in.

You can, if you want to, dress up,

put on a costume 

(not unlike being born)

and wear it to the party. 

And that rug?

It's there too. 

Now it's being stained

with the occasional splash of hilarity

and the quick turns of attention

that those parties are made up of.

Rolling up the rug, 

stacking the furniture, 

starting to dance - that 

is what parties are known for.

All that activity, those arms waving,

the sweat,

the rearrangement of each fiber

make a new life for the rug.

All that hilarity, 

all of those loud bursts of jocularity

are endings or beginnings,

depending on how you look at them.

Either way they are the opposite of silence.  

Either way they punctuate the quiet.

Parties aren't supposed to be quiet.

They don't have much peace either.

But Boy! do they have walls 

and chairs! 

Chairs for holding bodies.

Walls for leaning against.  

Parties are places where forgetting 

the story under your own rug, 

is necessary. 

      I Did

The weight of your body

was a dead giveaway

that this was the only time 

that you'd rest your weary head

on my shoulder.

The smooth, black pebbles,

of my stream bed never 

got picked up or admired,

never got turned over or felt deeply, let alone appreciated.

My lush, green forest and 

its sitting stump, in the center,

are empty.

The birds go on chirping.

The sun makes shadows.

I shed my sweater but still

there's that suffocating heat.

The air is everywhere.

To say "It's close" would be a serious understatement. 

The lush green of my forest

is wilting,

the leaves are just hanging,

laying on each other, 

not unlike the way we were.

I praise the change of season, the shift of your body's weight,

and the balancing act

that the sun and moon do.

        The Key

My surfaces are worn down

and fit snugly,

like a key

in a lock.

My lock 

has lots of tumblers in it.

They move, with a click, click,

and once in a while,

a clunk,

when they fall into place,

laying bare a great treasure!

Sometimes locks go keyless for years

and then they get one,

like me, for instance.

I've seen a regular multitude 

(if a multitude could ever be regular) 

of keys -

some shiny, some dull

and yet all of them having 

a particular lock to open.

        Sensation

For the life of me,

I wish I could 

lose myself in all the varieties

of sensations that surround me.

If that would happen then

my focus wouldn't be on analysis, but

on all the many 

and various sensations and sounds

that surround me.

Each

sound, image, touch, taste, smell, 

would bloom into a full-fledged flower

of sensation.

And, (to extend the flower metaphor

even further), 

I'd be able to explore its 

texture, weight, color, smell

or the why of why it smells like live, 

outside things.

      In Summary:

Really living life

makes making bouquets artistic 

without being artificial.

         The Elements

Struggle as I might,

(I know

only self-conscious men struggle),

I'm saddled with this idea

that there's more to that drop 

sliding off that rain drenched leaf,

than meets the eye.

If, 

in that little drop 

all the elements of this complex mystery exist,

then I should gather them all up

and put them in a bottle

and save them.

Listen...my boots squeak,

the rubber of my raincoat 

has only one sound...squeak.

If you can find meaning

in one, simple drop of rain,

then the last thing you need is me cluttering up your view 

of the weather

or my downpour of significance.

        Reflections

What was I thinking?

There I was looking thru the window, when all of a sudden

a reflection in the glass

startled me.

Looking thru

is what I do best, 

but then I wanted to get lost

and, sure enough!, a reflection

whisked me away.

Making sense out of incomplete pictures

requires absolute, stone cold, stillness.

The parking lot's full

and the stores are full, too!,

but then they disappeared and

reappeared!

The door opened,

the reflection flashed

and flashed again.

        Rich Colors

A brightly colored rock drops

past the window.

It's Fall,

and leaves do what they do best,

fall.

I thought the brilliantly colored rock

was a leaf at first,

but leaves don't have the weight

that this did.

It seemed like a rock 

the way it fell,

but its rich colors gave it away,

it was a bird.

    Heat

Look at rocks

after years of cooling they still 

support 

no life.

Once molten, they hissed and bubbled.

They were red rivers of stone,

cascading down and over crevices and emptied 

into molds.

Unimaginable heat!

Dense. Red. Thick.

Primal before primal, Hot before hot

Rivers of Liquid Fire!

Lava.

It was so hot that rocks melted

on contact.

Not long ago

it wound its way through

trees, houses, streets.

They all turned to ash.

Now that's hot!

Still, molten rock is a liquid

and liquids flow.

(That puts a whole new slant on -

"Go with the flow." :)

     Guarantee

A stiff upper lip still means

pretty much the same thing now 

as it did before. 

So, if you can hold this poem,

you're old enough to know

how powerful feelings can be.

Not crying when you're hurt 

might seem 

like a good thing at the time, 

but guaranteed 

it will show up

when least expected

or wanted. 

    Ballerinas

If only all my actions 

were as simple 

and as beautiful

as a dancer's step.

Then, just the thought of me

would bring to mind ballerinas,

stretched up tall,

on their tippy-toes,

with porcelain faces upturned.

Upturned, because they'd know rapture -

they'd know divinity.

If you would listen closely,

you, too!, could hear the music that they hear.

Each measure of it

would fill you  

with gladness.

Oh! 

If only it

were that simple.

    The Maid

Details, details, details! 

The middle-aged woman bustling about,

the hem of her denim skirt,

her kerchief tied severely around 

one heavy forearm

and each foot planted akimbo, 

bearing the weight of those muscular calves,

with the socks turned just so,

the ivy plant getting exactly what it needs -

food, water, light,

and the dishes done

and all that that entails,

and the floors so clean they shine.

Each and every detail,

from carpets to windows -

looked after.

Then and only then

does she allow herself a sigh.

     Like A Mist

Leaves

aren't the only things that fall,

in Fall.

Little drops of sap,

so small

that their fall would fall into oblivion

without a trace,

except that they fell

on my windshield.

     All That

If only all 

of the miscellany

of each individual point of view

would somehow coalesce

into sculpture,

then and only then,

would the only worry of ownership

be dust.

All that miscellany

provides texture 

to an otherwise barren landscape. 

The richness it provides

shows up as 

color, weight, size, and 

the countless other physical forms,

let alone the non-physical.

All of those distractions and all of 

the other drivel,

like depth perception and such,

all of that!,

are real only by agreement.

And agreements are, 

let's face it,

simply agreeable.

     Words

Each and every letter,

and all the words that they make up,

and

all of those groups of words

huddled together, stamping their feet 

against the icy-cold blasts

of those empty pages,

are joined together with all other words,

in cold defiance to the indifferent face of expectation.

Somewhere out there,

out 

in the world,

out in the cold, friendless air,

with only their stiff upper lips

to keep them warm,

they huddle.

Their memories

of friendlier times, warmer kitchens

and piping hot food,

protect them from those icy blasts of disdain

that come ripping around corners.

If you see them - ask them in,

ask them if they'd welcome

a nice, warm kitchen,

or a friendlier time.

I'd bet that they'd fashion their words

into songs, 

songs of thanks. 

The gratitude that they'd show

by forming themselves into song

would warm your heart.

        Details

Details, details, details.

Woman's work - I don't intend to belittle them, but hey!

There are just some aspects of life

that women do better -

like noticing things -

bicycles, handkerchiefs, toothbrushes,

things.

So they might not be interested in the particulars of how 

those things work,

that's menwork.

     Free Will

Here and now 

two possibilities exist:

-one) - those stones in that cold, crisp river

are only places, hard and cold, 

between two banks;

-or two) - places filled with life, texture and character.

The current changes as you round the bend.

There's no "downriver" to be seen

because the vision  of it is blocked by 

tall, red, reeds.

The stones can be 

used as places to rest on

between 

each harrowing step.

Each step is filled with possible missteps

and that 

is what makes them harrowing.

They could be wet from last night's runoff or 

it might not have rained here at all,

tucked away as it is, 

between two mountain ranges

and all of the capricious weather that happens there.

Those stones might've had a fine coat of slime,

that would make them even more treacherous.

We'll never know.

You can if you want to, 

go down to your local river

and marvel at all the thorny leaves

that prick you

as you make those tiny, little adjustments in your stride

just in getting there.

And once there, 

you can skip stones and watch them disappear

under water or maybe 

the sun will warm you

as you stretch out,

in a place that doesn't have too many stones.

Maybe it'll even be warm enough

to take off your shoes.

You'll never know, unless you go.

     Shadow

There it was -

the shadow of our house on that fir, plain as day,

with the sun at about two or three.

The day, itself, was sharp as needles.

Even the clouds had distinction.

The shadow only darkened 

some of the fir's branches -

otherwise nothing.

There are many ways to interpret that,

but for me, now, the only way is 

to look closely at 

the clouds and know 

how everything is really very simple

and elegant.

     Pebbles

Each of them,

each one,

each shinny and black pebble,

covers the stream bed,

and blankets the warm, water course,

so that there are no sharp things that might cut.

Each pebble is shinny and round and black

and smooth. And I don't believe that there's any ragged edges

on any of them.

They're so smooth, they're almost friendly -

friendly enough to cradle feet.

     Glory 

 

OK, All right already! 

I'll do it! 

I'll write something about it!... 

 

Imagine this if you will - 

a hazy, lazy day 

replete with partly

overcast skies, temperamental clouds and grayness 

everywhere! 

 

And then, 

The Sun! 

Alive!  

Life! 

 

What more could possibly be said 

that could in any way, 

top that! 

     Choice  

  

Believe it or not - 

choice -

is what makes us different  

from ALL 

the other animals.  

  

That's our trunk,   

our roots,  

the knurled tree that we are.  

  

You will probably,  

(in your own life and in your own way), 

hear it put differently,  

(and that might be good).  

But keep in mind 

you'll be around 

a whole lot longer than any weather you collect,  

like snow on your boughs.

  

It can't hurt you,

cold yes,  

but hurt you no.

You can choose 

if you want to,

to rot from inside.  

 

     Vision  

  

Each and every snowflake falling outside, 

on all the sidewalks, 

yet to be shoveled,

and on all the snowballs, 

yet to be thrown,

and on all the snowmen, 

yet to be built,

and on all the hats, 

on all the heads  

AND

each and every eye looking out 

of each and every window,  

are, 

all of them!, 

each one!

a birth.  

Each one filled with  

anticipation, 

expectation, 

a womb, 

a destiny.   

  

And here I sit,  

feeling less than miraculous,  

wanting to live, 

once and for all, 

in the appreciation and the knowing.  

  

But deep down in my bones I know  

that I've got to appreciate each and every

snowflake, snowball, snowman, 

sidewalk,  eye, hat, head - 

before I'd ever get to appreciate  

the big picture.  

  

But, be that as it may -  

I can still want to.  

     Beauty 

 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

It's the eye of the damn "beholder" 

that's so hard to open. 

 

It's definitely not you -  

so please go with this:

 

Maybe beauty is in this canopy 

of crimson and orange colored clouds, 

of late day. 

Maybe it's in this warm breeze, 

faintly throbbing

off this expanse of sand. 

Who knows? 

Maybe it's in the face 

of that round moon, 

hanging up there

above that pyramid 

or in those palm fronds

gently pointing down. 

 

Wherever it's found, 

on the hot dunes of July, 

or the rain drenched leaves 

of the jungle, 

wherever, 

each part of it,

is already part of 

a well mapped-out area, 

("out there" as opposed to "in here", 

and most of those "map makers" 

were thought to be crazy). 

 

Wherever it's found, 

whatever nationality it has, 

whatever language its mother used at feeding time, 

a simple smile says it all. 

 

Some people go far away to find beauty, 

some people go next door. 

It (beauty) 

just sits around and waits

and sometimes yawns. 

(It may take a while.)

 

 

Resignation 

 

Once the dust clears and the dirt settles, 

there's no doubt about it, 

this caravan will continue on 

with or without me. 

 

In some ways 

its slow, steady progress 

is like a deep and low gong of recognition,  

spreading warmth and comfort, 

throughout all of my body. 

 

The surface of the road jostles me, 

spills my drink,

and sometimes is as chaotic as 

a roomful of kids. 

 

There's no doubt tho, 

I get treated 

with a certain kind of deference, 

(which is usually a good thing)

because long-ago, 

I  stopped wanting to be 

other 

than myself.

     Gardening 

 

Pulling this way and that,  

the dirt,  

the bed-covers, 

the petals, 

all of them are 

delicate, painstaking, early morning, farming things. 

 

The heat of the sun 

(even when it's hiding) 

quickens the dullest blood 

pulling it down

its course. 

 

What isn't noticed tho 

is the stretch and reach  

of the growing thing toward 

its goal. 

That is the future!

 

But whether past, present OR future, 

hope lives on,  

in the green buds and willingness  

to have and hold 

any kind of moisture.

     My Suit Of Armor 

 

Today's the day 

I put on my suit of armor. 

It's the only one I've got. 

I almost lost it tho,

because I trashed it,  

failed to oil it or dust it,

let alone wear it. 

Instead, 

I used it for storage. 

 

I piled junk in there, 

loads of stuff

books and junk. 

 

Regardless of the dirt that weighed it down, 

regardless, 

there is this whole new world of shadow and reflection 

in there

and all I have to do to take part in it  

is put it on.  

So I will!

And the whole thing became invisible. 

Now,  

when I do something, 

like refill the dishwashing liquid, 

I get this whole brand new world of experience, 

replete with shadow and reflection, 

saying - 

"no question 'bout it, 

'tis done!". 

     Waiting 

 

Patiently I waited, 

with bowed head I waited, 

I waited so long I forgot what 

I was waiting for. 

 

Then what I waited for 

happened 

and I remembered what it was. 

Now, it doesn't matter.

     Making Sense Out Of It All 

 

Any sensations that you've ever had, 

ever can have, 

or ever will have, 

have already been had. 

 

Does knowing that 

make what you smell, 

smell less? 

Or the rain that you hear,  

pitter-pattering against those panes, 

sound less? 

 

Or, 

when you're cold and the blanket doesn't quite cover 

your toes, 

does knowing that somebody else shivered, 

warm you? 

 

I think not! 

(a little reality check there) 

 

Our minds are wonderful things, 

but they're only things. 

Things break down 

and often do. 

 

Our hearts tho 

are different, 

they beat with indefatigable energy  

and patiently listen 

while words spill from our lips.

     Surprise! 

How many times has the door opened onto something other 

than what you expected? 

 

Surprise! 

 

When somebody rings the doorbell

it can be exciting. 

 

Anything 

lends itself to surprise 

and often does, 

like front doorbells ringing. 

 

The dark of the hallway

and the metallic creaking of floorboards, 

help send alerts

throughout the house.

     Grace 

 

Here I sit with all my engines running  

and nowhere to go.  

Well...nowhere out there perhaps, 

but somewhere, 

worlds,  

in here.  

What 

am I waiting for?  

 

An invitation?

Somebody who has already been there?  

Here? 

 

In the quiet, in the stillness, 

in the boredom of repetition 

comes a free bird 

winging its way home. 

Home happens to be 

a bunch of carefully twisted  

roots and twigs. 

 

Being lucky, it found some rabbit's fur 

to line its nest.  

 

Look at that mom's repetitive beakstrokes, 

picking off the bugs and things, 

that only she 

can see. 

 

If only I

could've been sure that my mom 

would pick off 

all the bugs and things 

that would hinder my flight.

Well...

poise might've been mine. 

 

Without it, 

I had to pick off all the bugs and 

   things   

myself. 

 

I was forced to learn to appreciate 

all the crap and litter,

the carefully twisted roots and twigs 

of my own home, 

my own nest. 

 

 

 

              True Love 

 

There's a place in my heart that's got 

your name on it.  What 

I call it matters most only 

when I need it. 

Then and only then,

does it fill me with 

a name. 

 

A popular song calls it one thing, 

a poem calls it another.  

 

The Arts wouldn't be nearly so pretty 

or pricey, 

if they'd just be recognized 

for what they are -

examples of it.  

 

Now, I suppose you want me to name it. 

And if I did what next? 

I know -

next time you brushed shoulders with it 

at the mall, 

you might recognize it! 

And God only knows what 

you'd do with it then. 

 

Sure! 

There's a relief that comes from knowing 

a things name. 

Sure!

OK. 

It lights a cig and brings the coffee.  

It holds another's wrinkled hand.  

Name That.

 

Autumn

Autumn sits heavy on the trees, 

on the leaves, 

on the houses, 

on the roofs.

And what sunshine there is,

clings to things 

it would otherwise be illuminating.

Even the shadows get big and burly

and hitch up their trousers

to lumber about.

With each step that they take

(after the earth stops shaking),

comes the appreciation that time,

(inexorably measured by the sun's progress),

passes

and with its passing go all the shadows 

into the Night

and that's when they, 

(the Calming Noises),

come out.

And when it's night and hard to see

or know the season, 

I'm a little warmed in knowing 

that some time  

has passed.

     Color By Numbers

Ask any wise person and you'll be told

that your truth, your response to the moment,

is different from all the others.

And that this is, 

(in no way!), 

a denigration. 

It's merely a cry 

from the moment's creator -

saying "Thanks!".

Ask any painter and you'll be told

that your truth, your response to the moment,

is different from all the others.

And that this is 

(in no way!), 

a denigration.

It's merely a cry 

from the moment's creator -

saying "Thanks!".

Get The Picture?

     Contrast

Give me a vast horizon any day,

and add to it recognizable forms -

say a church steeple, a farmhouse, 

a trailer with a wooden bed, 

a windblown hair bonnet, 

small hands clutching a shawl,

and I'll fill in rest -

a deeply rutted, dirt lane,

a hay-colored shed and, of course...horses.

Their snorting,

softly reverberating thru the semi-dark,

makes little noises...

The light in there is soft 

on the eyes. 

What little of it there is 

rises like dust

when they go by. 

Clop, clop, clop clop.

That's the noise they make.  

Unlike Mary, 

I don't wish for a supposed 

purity of perception 

in say, a clod of earth.

Rather for me,

I stand in the middle of my perceptions.

Always. 

They epitomize for me,

moments 

of identification.

So, clop clop, clop clop -

those sounds tell me things...

like how hard the earth is, 

how old the horse,

how damp the air, 

how dry the straw -

more. 

The way I'm in the middle is that each

object in the barn 

is subjected to the light of my 

interpretation,

much the same as that pitchfork is 

partly illumined

by that slanting, late day sun. 

     Fall

Leaves

Leaves

Leaves

The branches are full 

of them.

The trees are full 

of them.

All possible colors are in 

there.

Burnt orange is there,

and it's one of my favorites.

Leaves talk when you walk.

They talk allot 

when you walk allot, 

and when you've got nothin' to say

they say it all. 

(Granted their vocabulary is limited, 

but what the heck!)

When a stiff wind kicks up, 

it's as if you're in a crowd of people murmuring.

     The Power of Imagination

You're in a barn.

Smell it. 

If you've never been in a barn -

too bad.  But! 

you've probably been in a dark, dank, closet before, 

so...

replace the smell of the new cut grass 

with the that of that closet and Presto! 

You got it - The Smell!

On the dirt floor of the barn, 

you'll find 

rusted, pitted nails.

Just nails.

Thousands of them!

They hold the place up.

Bend over. Pick some of them up. 

but be careful!, as you do it.

The sharp part, 

(the part that's rusted),

will cut you, 

if you move too fast.

The burnt-orange rust 

finds a way into the small, sweaty places

of your palm.

Fold your hand over them, 

hold them, 

remember 

all the nails you've ever held - 

the rough ones,

the smooth ones, 

the shiny ones, 

the new ones.

They all have hammer histories.

     Howling At The Moon

Why me?

Why?  Why?  Why?

It's not fair!

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

Why now?

Why now?  

Why now?

Why not later?

Later. Later

Why me?

Why?  Why?  Why?

It's not fair!

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

Why now?

Why now?  

Why now?

Why not later?

Later. Later

        Just Your Typical Knight 

           In Shinning Armor

What can I say?

God said it all, 

when He granted me, you.

For the life of me,

(even at its lowest ebb),

when I would have gladly given up the ghost,

you were there.

Thanks.

     Life = Art

It all began with something that's got no shape. 

After hours & hours of nothing - 

something 

happened.

Something Remarkable -

not much, I'll grant you,

but something.

The minds on this globe can be pictured easily -

like pinpricks in aluminum foil

with a light bulb behind it.

Hold that thought.

That "something that's got no shape",

holds the foil.