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Sunday, November 11, 2012


It is o-dark-thirty and I am flying,
death surely on its way,
how quickly nothing else matters.
It‘s 0230, and I’ve been blown up,
thinking, this is what it is to die,
that’s all that’s left to matter.
There’s no fear, only sadness,
but not even one thought for me,
just for the tears of the ones who matter.
I meet my mother,
dead for nine-plus years,
and I am no longer matter.
She says, go back, you can not stay,
there’s still work for you,
you must attend to matters.
It’s easy now, to understand,
the work is peace, the goal is peace,
that’s all that really matters.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Gone Too Soon

Just to the left of love and longing,
that’s where you’ll find
the path to the rainbow bridge,
and, if you cross over,
cast an oblique glance to your right,
you might catch a glimpse of
kitty heaven.
I’ve been given that direction
in a dream,
perhaps better than any map,
though I have yet to spy our Roxie,
who left us all too soon.
I plan to keep looking,
accepting sadness for little while,
holding fast to hope.

Monday, November 5, 2012

A Texting Poem


Hearing from you,
no matter the item,
way better for me
than LQTM.
Whatever your thoughts,
share them with me,
in person, by text,
Can’t say it in person,
I beg you, be mine,
too hard to say it
out loud, but 459.
We’ll share our plans,
see what we’ll see,
maybe some fun,
perhaps BTD.
I’m signing off now,
lest I get sappy,
but keep it in mind,

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Just Beneath

Just Beneath Our Busy Lives

wondrous things await,
lesser ones as well,
visible to the open eye, the willing heart,
not hiding at all, if we choose.
Just beneath that stop for groceries,
a chance to make someone’s day,
to thank that clerk, mention their name,
grateful for their work, letting them know.
Just beneath that amber light,
a chance to slow, to pause,
making it a smile moment,
letting go the held breath, the tension,
every moment a choice.
Just beneath that daily chore,
a chance to notice large small things,
that shining plate, sparkling floor,
the dust-free shelf, your happy child.
Just beneath that illness,
a chance to heal, to rest,
to think about what’s coming,
in this life and the next,
a chance to choose to be here now,
present moment, wonderful moment.

Friday, November 2, 2012


There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore,
but so many grew
to the sky’s lower shelf
when I was a boy, yet new,
in awe of everything.
The lake was a wonder,
a playground without toys,
and, oh, the hours we spent,
and, oh, the heartfelt joys.
The farms were near,
their barns inviting,
the smells as intoxicating
as moonshine.
The woods called out,
come roam and hide,
treasures to be found,
meandering trails to follow,
no clue to the other side.
The sky was like a book,
its pictures ever-changing,
and we, the authors, the ones
whose visions made the tales,
endings ever rearranging.
The nights were filled with sounds,
owls and crickets and kids,
the elm tree canopy along our road
a full moon peeking through,
but mostly we were hid,
free to be, free to be.
What’s it like now, I wonder,
for the children in that home
my family built along the shore?
There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore.

Thursday, November 1, 2012


Gathered together,
like our family at Thanksgiving,
recalling memories, telling stories,
each a moment in our shared lives.
There must be more than a thousand,
too many really to count,
pretending to be snowflakes,
every one distinct from the other.
The shiny ones call for attention,
their embossed lettering leaping out,
not dimming the significance of
their plainer cousins, but screaming
mightily for attention.
The calmer models,
with no special filigree,
just the facts, ma’am,
of no less significance to us.
We kept them for a reason,
some times simply for an address,
a telephone number,
a note written on the inside cover,
almost never for their created purpose,
seldom to provide fire.
We’ll keep them for awhile,
even play with them, spread on
the dining room table,
remembering the times, the places,
a bit wistful, a little laughter, feeling older.
Eventually, probably when we move,
we’ll toss them, not without an argument,
but a box of matchbooks
just makes no sense in
a moving van, moving on.