Four Poems

NOW

what is dead between us is staying dead
I see your picture with Ted / feel your passion
my sister is gone without going anywhere
I loved the girls at Ginsy’s & didn’t fuck up
I stayed true well almost neighbors share

I am guilty of everything using a spatula
World War One spawns DADA
...........Vietnam War draft rounds up all of us
poems are the air we breathe half century back
I went through every part of you to find you

a score of years were interleaving joys with each
another score not so good we don’t stop changing
mezzo mezzo is the fulcrum of our struggle
foundations will not hold spinning out of control
all is thrown-up on a paper plate -- Chance

Rumors

I ease into my meditations of death
even though each year gets it closer
I don’t seriously consider its consequence
soft blue grey and white clouds billow east
even the day after a thermonuclear blast
clouds slowly sail sea breezes of worship aloft
maybe I shouldn’t personalize my signatures
I am worth more in heaven without intimacy
every night is spent in earth’s shadow
all my dreams fold into a warm wrap
listing to one side I must hike out the other
a true course is neither straight nor queer
by living the long way round I greet myself
just starting out without a fearful step

Living Woods

Damaged scalded grossly interrupted
grasses survive by telling stories
watch stars move standing still
put pintos on the stove no tomatoes growing
emerald humming birds chase one another
stop breeze suck Bee Baum red cups’ sap

Soon after Allen died, Peter Hale, Bill Morgan and I
drove to East Hill early April to spend time with Allen
he was proud of his Shenandoah Stove which I lit
it always smoked some but I don’t recall it did then
Allen hated the slop sink, nonetheless Shelley and I
brought up kids -- fun night-walks under a full moon

Bears bobcats turkeys hawks buzzards grouse
we are never lonely for people lest they walk in
Allen is the soul of the new house; he would love it:
solar power, foamed in walls, Jottel Stove, walkout basement
nicest: the screened-in front porch Summer evenings
what I mostly pray for is local peace in what we build

My thoughts lie in ashes their truths are smoke
high beauty admits no further accomplishments
birds have thought about it and come back to sing
not like the morn they sang me out of bed five AM
peepers rattle-on jays robins red-wing murky crow
standing on the wet grass in my briefs lost on earth

It is a reset broken pallet, “It is quiet here!”
he yells, he is also gone, coyote howl down valley

Primavera

sitting among the old men
each singular at his own table
separated by empty chairs
unwrapping Burger King Whoppers
my Burger is Impossible
the lettuce and tomato and onion
seem fresher without meat
I think these are single farmers
..........near me
....................quietly chewing the soft food
I am not a farmer
but I realize suddenly
I am an old man
wrinkled skin wraps the back of my hand
grey beard and mustache
hair unkempt sticking out under my cap
single strands grow on my outer ear
unsteady on my feet
eating less than I used to
driving slower sleeping more
very hard to open little supermarket bags
I must lick my fingers
sitting in the brisk morning
sun on my back brings a warmth
I no longer have
the aching bones in my shoulders relax
now I see eternity closer
...........we near fifty years of marriage
...........love is lacking worry
...........our finish draws close
...........but like the fire
...........in our little stove
...........that burns hotter when tamped down
...........life itself is burning through the clouds
...........nothing warm nor cold
...........neither light nor dark
...........a patch of blue leads our path
...........although polluted and prone to intemperance
...........sunlight still brings energy to us
...........we find the miracle needed to breathe