must not do it aug 17, 2024

  

I must not do it

even if I ache too much

I must hold back

must tell myself to hold on

 and accept whatever gifts she gives

as insignificant as they might be like

 The echoes of whispers in the dark of night

these are my own wishes bouncing back at me

not any reflection of what she is or wants

 this all too mysterious an existence

of saying nothing

 I read clues from the shadows and tea leaves

 I must refrain; I must not do it

 must keep to my own road

even if there are times when

 I see her on her own and ache to cross over

 to greet her

 this I must not do

I know it would only get me lost in the woods

full of wolves and my own desires

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Our furry friends

 March 2, 2026 

We always outlive them, our furry friends, who when Young we adore them for their looks or silly disposition,or  tender hearts, that over time, grows into something much, much more, family, friend, a loved one who's stayed firmly at our side through good and bad times, missed all the more because it was there for us often when no one else was, a companion who we could not live without but must somehow do so now, not too overstated affection, we know their place and yet wanted more time with them, this is the Fate we accept when we accept them into our lives, the vow we take to make certain they get all they need while they are in our care, especially love. we will always miss them, if not always as acutely as we do now, at this moment when they passing is so recent. we will always love them, now and forever

Tipping point (from Bear mountain mountain)Mountain poems) Oct. 17, 2024

 

I know the leaves have

Already changed

Where she resides,

The tipping point of

When gold and red turn brown

And yet as I drive north

On a road that hugs a river

I cling to their aspect of beauty,

Taking in the painted tips

Remembering the tender lips,

the tree crowns

bulging out, making me ache

to touch, as I cling

to memory as these remaining

leaves cling,

the colors seeping into me

along with the growing chill

as the world changes

and I know I will have to

live with the barren world

when they are gone,

until spring brings green again,

yet it is not the same,

this image of leaves,

the color of the sky

the darkness in her eyes,

the setting sun peeking

perpetually through,

always drawing me back

always making me

think far too much

about what I miss,

when I miss her

most

 

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Poetry Journal May 2012

I don’t understand!

I don’t understand!

I DON’T UNDERSTAND!

This intensity of pain, nails scraped across the chalk board of her soul, a sound once inside my head, I can’t get out, a buzz saw ripping at my brain.

What did I do to inspire such pain.

I am not that important to her and yet I get this roar of it in my head, a screech so utterly raw my nerves ache just remembering it.

I don’t understand!

Did I rip off the scab of some old wound or have I created a new wound in her, that voice in my ears, as I staggered up that hill.

I don’t understand!

I don’t understand!

Maybe I never will.

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On the street where she lives

 August 25th 2014 

I hear by one time best friend's voice singing as I drive up the street where she lives,

His favorite song which has since become mine like a Broadway recital in words I get to play the role of the man wearing the gray top hat too scared to stop even for a stoplight since this is not a street I meant to drive on cast here by chance Force to Bear witness the water tower shopping center before passing the church and then her home,

On my way to a place where she is not terrified I might see her first bird like in a window high up smoke billowing from her lips as if she was a dragon my friend's voice growing louder in my head about the street where she lives because I cannot drive faster I must adore it bumper to bumper traffic light after traffic light until inching forward I have gone past and resisted even the remote temptation to stop or stand there looking up to be there on the street where she lives draw there by faith or accident just as I was with all things started me still on the street where she lives

rust. aug 3, 2024

  

it is not dust

we must mistrust

but rust

the slow painful decay of years

Shakespeare complained that

 virtue retained will someday b

e the purview of worms

and yet we dare not abandon ourselves

 and our wonton desires

that we let fall to rust

when we must trust what is in us

 this need to feed

this polish of meddle we get

from the rub of heavenly bodies

the sweat of it keeping us trim

 it is not dust I mistrust

but the rust of ill use

the need to press on

 in, out, and beyond

 to keep intact that piece

we need most in our lives

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Brave New world

January 13th 2026 

2 weeks into the brand new year and I still reside in the old one and maybe the many years prior to it, when I could still look ahead, while these days I mostly look behind, all a matter of dealing with each day as it comes, counting them off the way an inmate does, I am in no hurry to get over with, 2/3 of my life still residing in a century that has passed, while around me, spring chickens rise, having no recollection of any other century except for the one we're in, they can still look ahead with confidence that life has hope for something better than they have it now, a brave New world I will never experience