White Forest

(2/1/2015)

snow in the garden
the kitchen
window steams.

in my daydream
I'm
beside you.

my left arm
slides
around your waist

while my right hand
fingers the handle
of the coffee mug.

the entire white forest
breathes before us.

No More Prayer

in your dark 

room

you reject 

my offering

of prayer

shun it

completely 

& out of hand

as if you were afraid

that after 

all these years

God might

just bend an ear

toward the 

trembling light

of our

miniscule

petition.

The Communication Blues

I'm looking for the new message.
I want words to mean more
than they do in my illegible scrawl.
I want to meditate
until I am One with The Universe
and Englightenment is
second nature.

I want The Cubs to win The Series.
I want The President to fix The Problem.

I want the sunset to burn its gold
into silk that clothes me
at the end of the coldest day, when communication
is over and words mean nothing.

Poem That Starts with a Dylan Lyric

for dt

No, I do not feel

that good when

i see the heartaches

you embrace

the pain that doesn't sting

until moments after

the cut and then lingers

like a memory 

until you teeter on

the sad edge of consciousness

No, I don't not feel that good

when I think of

all of the calendar days

you've checked off

since you've started

suffering, the seemingly

endless lack of closure

--one way or another--

this sick limbo

that has you questioning

the purpose and justification

of life

over your sourdough toast

and coffee 

during a summer morning

when you look out through the 

kitchen window blinds

and see the beauty of the 

roses and how, when

it comes right down to it,

their pretty little red

and yellow and orange heads

are just moments 

from the gardener's blade,

though it doesn't escape

you that, in the end,

that pruning makes them stronger.

And while your life has

many gifts, I still do not

feel that good

when I think of the hearteaches

you embrace

and so 

If i could give you

one thing

i think

it would be an escape, a solution,

a final answer that, 

in its way, was 

a way out, and at its essence,

was a definite kind of healing.

Reflection on My Mother's News

The first spot on the lung

just stays there

like a comma 

in a ransom note

that threatens.

And on the second lung

some others grow, though

we're not sure why.

my mother's health can't take

a surgery or biopsy

so there's no science

to learn from, 

no other beds to garden.

the only recourse

i suppose

is for her to take her life

and enjoy the moments

she has left

and eat and drink

and laugh and cry

and touch those that mean

something to her 

on the shoulder or arm

maybe kiss a cheek

here or there, steal an embrace

at the last second

when it's least expected

and just be present

in the moment

until the sun

goes down that

one last time

and the breath refuses

to come.  Not bad

advice for all of us

at any time, I suppose,

but even truer now.

For her.

Inspiration (Each New Breath)

It's almost 

as if each 

consecutive breath

has given me 

a brand new life. 

so what's that? 

sixty or seventy

new lives a minute?  

a thousand or so a day?

Certainly enough 

to find a hobby, 

maybe look at 

the silver stars 

one last time,

or discover

 the secret

definition of 

suffering and,

if you're lucky,

the chance to take

a closing breath

before offering

a final, futile

suggestion.