I gave you sweet still water
You craved sparkling fake fruity plastic
I gave you a cool mountain stream
You wanted the violent rush of a dam release
I gave you the fine linen sheets
You wanted satin and lace
I showed you the aching blue sky
You preferred neon lights that beckoned to your adrenalin fueled laughter
I gave you back to your subway life
But you came back again and again for respite and healing.
Look forever into the western sky.
Horizon of emptiness, hollowed out soul
Nothing but a dream of getting out to the place where horizons are buildings, people, noise, hurry, excitement, HAPPINESS
Leave behind silence. Leave behind ceaseless wind. Leave behind a curve of unspoken secrets of those back there in the quiet terror
Keep close. And late at night, take out in a spasm of regret the splashes of ugly memories on those who would rather forget. In the silent aftermath of desperate longing for absolution, the spill of harsh kitchen light and tickticktick of the stupid clock that sees all and knows nothing.
It never goes away, those dark grindings of heat and cold that pass through landscapes alive with voices crying
A passing train offers golden squares of light where people are laughing and talking and pretending to be normal but nobody is really normal
Another generation of lust and dust yearns to find the horizon of freedom in the western sky
I woke up to silence this morning.
Internal silence. The quietness of mind and body that is all too rare for these older bones. Mental fog? None. Achy muscles, gone.
A mental list of things I could do formed and swirled like a throng of blackbirds wheeling effortlessly, cohesively
Tasks, ideas, plans, they wove an intricate pattern of instinctive order out of daily chaos and intransigence
What was formerly a tumbling rock slide insurmountable opened up to a path to the other side, the true resting place
I will enjoy this clarity and energy for the short time it is here, without the spectre of chronic pain that hovers, lurks and waits to once again strike
Oh, the blessed quiet
I smelled spring in the air today and it was magnificent in all its damp, rotting mulch glory
A watery sun broke through some of the clouds and bathed all the dead grass with a brassy glow
it released more aroma of the hay fields down the road, alfalfa turning up the allergy meter to almost intolerable
but it still felt damned good and warm and my skin expanded to its normal size after some weeks of shrinking as close to my insides as possible
it was tight and it loosened with an inaudible sigh
and when it loosened up my mind loosened up right along with it
Winter pinches and squeezes a body more so after fifty, squeezes the mind and the mood and the spirit into drafty little corners of darkness
I’ve felt claustrophobic this year and it feels like a too-small overcoat that chafes my skin
There’s a curious freedom in dreams
curious and crucial
it makes for exciting scenarios, heroic actions, perfect endings with perfect partners
perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect body
And just for that while, that vivid, fantastic dream period, the smile in the mirror contains all the wisdom that unlocks every mystery, answers every question that my fevered mind shouts into the void: Two nights in a row,
My lost love reappeared to let me know that all those feelings never left completely
that what we’ve built separately could have never been accomplished together, because
Together, we were complete. Together, we reached the pinnacle.
There would have been no need to strive for more, to engage every ounce of energy in creating a place of serenity, for we were already serene together
And for a few minutes, I embrace the wisdom of dreams, the divine message of meaning and hope
that I cannot fathom when I am awake
And it feels quiet and good and perfect for a few minutes.
A therapist once told me that I thrive on becoming rather than being. He was
right, but I didn’t understand at the time it is a double edged sword
The excitement of becoming is a drug that can chase one into madly searching for somewhere to land
Being. Ah, being. Just being. It sounds like stasis. Boring, Stuck.
At this age, I realize that stasis is equilibrium and that is a very good thing. Balance.
Not a teetering on the edge kind of balance, but a discrete place of action and calm.
Pity this wisdom comes so late in life, but the richness of nuance and meaning adds immeasurably to each precious day on this side of the dirt.
Experiences become a symphony of light and serenity
of satisfaction and grace notes of grief and booms of being one in this place
while memories race to claim a seat in reality, they add color and depth
to what is already at hand
I want to taste and feel and understand and stay still in the moment
It is a good thing, a very good thing, to be here.
Irascible writers are blown by the
winds to their place, screaming or quiet
In life, as in marriage or writing or working or drinking or making love or sweating out a hangover
This morning, I arrived at the intersection of mortality and denial. The past, present, and future sat at a cafe table, sipped lattes, and watched as my steps became hesitant.
The past delicately placed a five on the table. “My money’s on knowledge. She’s seen this one before and chose–well, if not wisely, then correctly.”
Present added a fiver. “I don’t know. Lately, she’s been just waiting and not doing. I’m going with what I see now.”
Future smirked and placed a ten under the cold candle. “You all know I have to cover both positions.”
I looked both ways and sighed. There must be a third choice I cannot yet see. Frost may have gotten it wrong. I took out my notebook and started writing down the possibilities.
Wings sprouted from my shoulders and lifted me up, over the intersection, over the obstacles, away from the cafe. From above, I could see both roads. I clutched my notebook to my chest and smiled. So, the writer’s way, then.
A passing waiter collected the money off the table and smiled at the trio staring openmouthed as I disappeared.
“It’s a push. Better luck next time.”
He tucked a cigarette behind his ear and stared at the blinding sand and the sad, blinding, dead-end strip of sand stared back
It knew it would win in the end
I watched his boot trace a silly amoeba, then dot a couple of eyes with the toe
and the sand stared back
There’s a silence in the country that pierces deep and dark and fills unsuspecting hearts with historical grief from hundreds of years of spilled blood and screams and ripped out hope
‘Stay here and suffer’ the silence begged. ‘Let it eat you alive, this soul stabbing pain’
He let the old rage come in and fill his body with pulsing red He felt a high pitch of keening sorrow as it pushed aside the rage
it stabbed his lungs
He fell to the sand, the eternal sand
the wondrous grounding of soul came to quiet
He dipped a finger into the sand and tasted grit tasted salt tasted what was
what is what will be
the beating of his heart remains connected to the sand
He felt dizzy and heard a drumbeat of the elders passing him a mantle
in the passing of a low rider
I dragged these boots through the mud for months
Through the beating sun
Through biting flies
Through circles of swamp and lonely cold beans in the can
Through dusty nameless plains of cactus and snakes
I fell to my knees
I stared at cool stars until the fever broke and rest came
I am, I go on, I am empty, I go crazy and try to touch the sky
I chew on solitude
It tastes like old leather
And aches of a sky so blue it snatches my breath away
Pluff mud poetry 
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