I am holey,
not holy.
At best an imperfect vessel
bearing light and darkness
sometimes winning
but real good at sinning.

I wonder whether
the best I can do
is hope for a rendezvous
to touch and suffer together
in a place we linger where
we breathe common air
fresh and vital and bracing.
Maybe I’ll always be racing
from the desert
into your arms
to exchange our passion
to abide,
me all holey
and you a mountain stream
flowing with melted snow,
me trying to capture
some of that clear water
that will leak slow
back into the flow.
But there we will be
us in good and bad weather
but in love and together.

Yesterday on an otherwise blue-sky day
a massive bank of cumulus clouds
spanned the southern horizon
great puffs of cotton piling up, surging, rising higher and higher
their moist life irrepressibly breeding before us
they were the most beautiful thing I saw that day
except the brown eyes of my lover
who gently held my right hand
on our trek into the country.

When she went to sleep
she prayed that a calming peace
would enter her body,
a body bloated with the potency
in her first pregnancy.
The Holy Ghost that she prayed for
swirled in her dreams
like a wispy cloud, golden tendrils
enveloping her with energy and imagination.

Finally she got to sleep
only to be awakened after midnight
by me delivering to her the pain of labor
she shouted to her honey beside her
startling him awake and out of bed
to get her up and grab the suitcase.

Darkness enveloped her
and fear, foreboding and near panic.
By three a.m. she was in Our Lady of the Lake delivery room
and I was on my way out of her
to greet what would be a clear cool morning
for July in southern Louisiana.

Little did she know what she would endure
from this screaming squirming little boy…

still habitually in motion
eight decades later.

Born seemingly pathetic
the boy grew up learning patience
with seemingly pathetic creatures
learning to see the divine in all
and in this vision invited them
and empowered himself
to rise
to be who they really are
rather than what they seem.

I woke up this morning
feeling gratitude
even in the warning
my legs gave in my first steps,
gratitude for one more day
for one more hour or minute
on Earth now in my brief stay
on this tortured beautiful planet.

The first soft gray light of day
creeps in from the east
not even a glow
just barely enough
to see the clouds stretching over me
but I know a love
that is the dawn in my darkness.

Silence silence nothing
at this moment of now
this nothing is not nothing,
but a delicate challenge
to a mind used to saturation in noise
goals busyness
purpose.

What do I fear here in this now
what phantom do I imagine
lurking in the darkness
basking in this brightness?

I embrace you in all your goodness.
I embrace your spirit, the breath of freshness.
I embrace you the creative force in the universe and in me.
I embrace you in all your humanity that I love,
in my humanity I love.
I am waking up to you in my day dreams
where figments of you
sneak into my psyche.
If I but take a moment to laze, to relax
and give the slightest effort
to place myself in your presence
you creep up into me
and even in a shallow breath you enliven my lungs.
You are here in the slow cool breath of winter,
hardly seen in the young tallow trees
whose hearts are just barely moved
but even in what cannot be called a flutter
they shrug the change of the seasons
as if to say to you:
we are here, ready to be transformed.

even a moment of it
fills the dry corners of the soul
with light, peace
and gentleness

Why do I trip and fall into shame so easily?
I wonder if there is something in me that says:
“Feel ashamed and you will be better.”
But focusing on my limitations and failures
shouldn’t be such a regular habit.
They say that there’s two kinds of shame:
healthy and toxic.
But both of them feel sucky.
It’s healthy to realize I’m not God
and to accept my limitations
Toxic is staying stuck
in that hopelessly defective thought.
This stuckness has a thick cloud of darkness
surrounding it – gripping me.
I guess what people call faith is knowing
there’s always light outside and inside me
if I but look for it
believe in it.

The fierce knot within
is a ball of black strands
with tentacles
reaching out in every direction
threatening.
I know I need to face this cowardly menace
or it will keep growing
into a yawning void.
I hear Lucifer knocking at my door
his insistent thumping says he’s annoyed
because he knows
I am buoyed
I am ****** away from the black hole
into this bright river’s flow.

I am here away in the dark.
Outside the winter trees
sway their million two hundred twenty five
artistic fingers
against the twilight sky
beckoning me to leave these shadows
and just for a moment
feel the black life coursing slowly
through their bodies.

They dance so quietly
no one but I
notices their intricate
artistry waving goodbye
to the daylight where throngs
of my species  made their
tiny marks upon the history
of humankind
in these northern environs
lost in the minutia
of us who scarcely
notice the human tragedy
of a suffering Gaza.

The slugger swept the bases
his swift run for home past third  
blew away the dusty traces
his teammates had stirred.

She precisely whisked flour
with oil, eggs, and spice
but played til such a late hour
she had to mix it twice.

The coach signaled a sacrifice fly
but he wanted to slam it
not a martyr kind of guy
so he hit a homer ******!

You might want to make dough
but you’d have to prove the matter
to get your fund and asset to grow
don’t forget you’re mixing a human batter.

I just had a moment
when I felt the great beyond
thanking me.
What a joy!

We take time
to read from our wisdom books.
We ask questions,
pausing to think
before we speak.
We tell stories from our journeys.
We laugh,
tears on the brink of our eyes.
We speak from the tulip bulbs
of the gratitude
about to spring from our *******.
We sigh
upon the fruit
of this interlude together.

I am on the tense edge of fatigue
its gray snare
its numb mute grip
squeeze out  
my vigor.

My tears drip down my cheek
each one a piece of me
atoms of my love
for you.

I read poems, stories, see movies
where protagonists fall in love
give themselves to their lovers
only to later be betrayed or abandoned -
a story as old as humanity.

We two lovers
entwined for five decades
still must re-new our love over and over
each still a mystery,
in a fashion a foreigner, a traveler
on the road
a road strewn with rocks
tiny pebbles that get in our shoes
irritate the soles of our feet
unsettle our souls.

And on our better days
we can laugh at our folly and flubs
and end with a knowing smile and hugs.

But still there are molecules of our being
hidden from each other and ourselves
that will betray our trust.

Our family room has a vaulted ceiling.
Facing each other in that place,
our eyes meet and in this gaze
across the room
we take flight
through hot afternoons
into cold dark nights.

What we reveal in this air
is the stuff of dreams and things
of joy, pain and sorrow washed in tears,
and when the clouds have cleared
there we are in a sacred space
in the wind and tide
where a mystic spirit
arrives and abides
for quiet moments,
and on this holy canvas we spread
the blush of eternity.

We bring memories of our dances
and missteps where we fell
into each other’s arms and laughed
at the folly of two fools
who leapt across their rifts and fears
across dry days and long years,
sank into the hearts
of each other
and flew to vaulted horizons
where together we reached
to touch the face of God.

So many great stories of people leaving home
to find a place home enough
where they could find themselves
become more,
someone extraordinary.

Most of my life has been such a quest.
Like butterflies I emerged from cocoons
after staying a while in a place to grow
into something or someone
I could live with.

I was lucky to find people along the way
strong enough to hear my voice,
people I could trust to stay when I was honest.
Those brave ones became homes for me.

This is not just an ordinary day
like yesterday or the day before
this day I’ll open a door
to a garden alive in dark clay
hummingbirds searching for paradise
in a heat wave scorching and dry
honeybees saying goodbye
mothers in a war made of sacrifice

No ordinary day this one
I’ll find a way out of sadness
through an hour of madness
out of moments undone
taking thirty minutes for my lover
where we touch our toes
take a risk to expose
mistakes we were loathe to uncover.

We will create this present day
halfway out of old into something new and bold.

The fields still shake off winter’s brown
swaths of green sprigs swirling there
draped with clouds hanging down
last night’s storms still fresh in air
hills layered in emerald trees
ah! the appearance of life delights
its pleasance felt in degrees
pealed off in moments slice by slice.

It’s just too late
foes on the verge of a trounce
fate is surely defeat.
Is there one more ounce
of hope, of effort
one more cup of fire in the whole
to eek out a victory?

It’s too late
to turn back now
you’re too far gone
your past hangs on your ankles
like rusty chains
the ruts in your road too deep
to swerve
to curve
off and out onto smooth.

Besides, you’re too old,
too set in your ways
to change now.
It’s too late baby
It’s too late.
When you were two
it happened to you
the stage was set
too bad my boy.

But I take a deep breath
look up
smile at my supposed fate
determined…
now is my moment
to step into brilliance.

You did not sing to me
in the cool of the evening
nor plant a lyric in my slumber at noon.

I did not breathe in the your joy
as I freely swung in the blue sky
peered upward in the pail of the balloon.
  
You were gone when my stomach tensed
scanning the spread sheet
my stocks trending downward.

Hammering on my patio project
sweat spilled from my brow.
You, absent from my now.

I blamed you for leaving me,
for my edgy mood and emptiness.
But it was I who slammed the door to the sweet  vapors
of your spirit as I absorbed myself
in the foggy persuasions of my evasions.

I sink into this sweet moment
not of lightning and hail
but soft unveiled convection warmth
of the south
in early afternoon
of winter.
I find my center
here in time
more precious than rubies or sparkling of diamonds
what a crime
presumption
I will persist
in it
this gift
this present
time.

My erratic heart
won’t allow
a warm, steamy, delicious cup of coffee
nor a refreshing potion of gin
the sensuous dissolving of a bite of cheesecake
in my mouth seems a distant memory
all these minor losses
accrue into a long slow goodbye.

I need to plug into your symphony
listen for the strains of your heart
pull myself apart from my tense doing
slow down, dive deeper, below the surface,
then ride the ripples to the distant shore
of your gentle, loving soul.

I am broken
bent and misshapen
sad and lonely
dark side of the moon
not caught in undercurrents
but submerged in a bog
oxygen depleted.

Oh what a pitiful state
I’m embarrassed by myself
not s’pose to be like this
people need me to be upbeat and bright
not in darkness but in light
good for a laugh or a smile
wanna be with me a while
but this mournful me
like a salty dead sea
they’d rather not
I don’t blame them
I don’t even wanna be with me.

It’s dark outside
thunder storm rolling in
just perfect for my mood
I wanna thunder out loud!
Ridiculous huh?

Ha, oh what a putz!
Writing it all down like this
makes me want to laugh
at this oh so pitiful me.

I feel better already.
And here you are reading this
what a pure beautiful soul you are
obliging me by listening.

Now you can laugh!

Have a good day. 😊

Her mind seemed red as an apple
she looked at me squint-eyed
as if I were a dark ugly shade of blue
when I spoke ideas
on the other side of her veil.
I could tell the veil had divided us,
me now a continent away.
Later a sadness washed over me
thinking of her departure.

Then I thought of her kind heart.

Both of our hearts pump life
into the most distant cells,
to our ***** toes and grimy fingers
fingers we must poke into stink and rot
poked with love
beyond our comforts.

So next time we meet
I will remember her heart.

A man wants to make his mark on the world
to leave something of himself that will endure.
It is the human thing to do.

For some it is children
for some a book
a dare-devil act
or other feat
that will interrupt the routines
of a father, mother, farmer, pipefitter, or pastor
make them pause and notice
for a moment
or even learn a thing or two.

But I wonder if these small interruptions
in the lives of other mortals
are worth
the sweat, angst, hours, gut wrenching
and immense energy of a life.

The sage’s magenta petals fall in the heat of the afternoon
and no man, woman or child notices
but bees lit there and ****** a little life
from the blossoms’ hearts.

Maybe I should be content to bloom
for a few days in summer
then fall away
to the earth
the love
from whence I came.

The birds' songs are inviting me
to join them in joy
in holy union with Earth
where they make their home.
May I have such a relationship
bring such joy
to each small encounter of the day.
My desire is to be wrapped in a spirit of kindness
cloaked with love
as I step into the stream
with my fellow creatures
for I know the pain of anger
the dark valley of revenge.
Today I want a different mind
and heart.

I am present when the field beyond the windows
is still shrouded in darkness
my dream awakened me early in fear and panic
but here with candle flickering in the red glass
this tranquil space breathes into me
unties the tension.

A soft reverie has me back at the lake
casting my line out just as the sky whispers
hello to the guy full of hope for that first tug.
That rocky peninsula becomes a sacred space
as first light awakens the birds
and the air is full of mystery.

Don’t wait
til it’s too late
take time to love now
don’t put it off til somehow
or sometime I will find the time
to spend a moment with you, to speak
to listen with great attention and reflect
on what you say to find your soul and connect
with it if just for a moment a moment of eternity…

I fall into your grace, head first
my head the ship of my flaws
should be first to dive into your depths.
My thoughts I throw to you
my feelings I immerse in the peace
of your dark mystery.

May your beauty tip the scales
between action and trust,
between what I must do
and the great bolt of energy
I must receive from your cosmic love
to do it.

I know I must do my part in this great partnership
but I am smart enough to get
that my victory
hinges on your radiant compassion.

it is a cold day
the heater soaks the space
but how difficult it is
to feel the warmth without words

I stand before the narrow window
and see more clearly more deeply
in this smaller space
than my years with the picture window
and its crowd calling for attention.

The errant thread in the rug
bothered me for two days
finally I stooped and cut it
but the rug is still wholly a rug.
It is not tile or skin or milk
not cashmere or silk.
I’m glad it’s still a rug.

Finally I can lay on my left side
that fractured rib healing
fell down walking  on the grass
uneven grass but I rejoice
in its grassness.

I’m a walking human mess
still a sinner after all these years
praying, reading the good book,
going to church, hugging
all my fellow sinners.
Elated that still
they are wholly human.

I pretended seventy plus years
I was somehow special
picked to do great things.
But here I am still fractured
but getting better and better
progress my favorite word.

Just to be here now
nowhere else but here
is a feat for me
in my erratic mind
but now it’s just you and nobody else
no beauty queen
with voluptuous ******* and sparkling eyes
just you in your magnificence
I melt away my I-ness
and fall into your love alone.

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

He swooped down landed atop the jutting eave
surveyed our yard for mice and other prey
and I prayed he wouldn’t leave.
He did not fly away
but up to the elm
keenly searching his realm.

His magnificence took my breath
I a privileged audience
no less than watching Macbeth
or listening to Ravel.

His breast a mottled gray and white
vigilant eyes and lethal raptor beak
his wings perfectly formed for agile flight.

I wondered if our species was perfectly made
and if so for what kind of flying:
gliding into an emerald glade
or lying there to get lost in cloudy skies
or like the hawk look and leap and rise?

I have a friend who lives alone
and practices
with daily determination
the ritual of making her bed.
When I visit I make a point of walking to her bedroom
for a viewing of her work of art.

I’ve often thought:
if I practice this practice
it might give me some semblance
of order in a globe wracked with crisis.

But my mussed and unmade bed
is a marque or warning
don’t expect the normal, aligned,
or well-wrapped story
in this house.

Here in the high weeds of violins and flutes
is where I find you
when I pause
and breathe
and listen.

In the marshes
where plant life
saves coastal cities
we who think we are stuck
with nowhere to go
should take root in these shallow waters
of the great ocean.
It is there where
we live most of our lives after all.

In these first days of fall
the trees prepare for their journey into winter
summer’s green
yellowing.

Honey bees buzz the sage
enter its majestic green body
through the sweet portal
of its magenta blossoms
for one last deep drink
of nectar.

My winter approaches
may I imitate my brother bees
maximize what sweetness
there is in my small world
and pollenize
where I can.

Things seem to be falling apart.
Our uncle dying from throat cancer
an old friend going home after a month in the hospital
no more touching or hugging
covering most of our faces in conversation.

All of this darkness
forces change upon me.
I have to work harder at getting you
I have to see you in your eyes
find you in your words and their meaning
since I can’t see your smile or frown.

But I always got just parts of you anyway
you poets in a few words on the page
you friends and kin in your stories.

So now I have to mine you
from smaller bits
see your smile in your eyes
really listen for the pearls in your words.

All of this doesn’t FEEL like a sacred moment
but it is.

I hope, after this painful letting go,
a new me is spit up on the shore
like Jonah after his bout with darkness
in the belly of the whale.

The music of the day
plays silently in my psyche
and without realizing it -
on my better days I bring it alive -
a bright piccolo of a smile or kindness.
On my shadow days
it is the bass fiddle in a minor key
begun from depths of pride
played in the lower register,
the bow slowly sliding hubris
across the thick strings.

My expectations
are chains
pressing down
hovering wings
keeping me from the sparkle
in you

My mind is plowed with deep furrows
a thousand canals
through which hapless fantasy
rushes with such ease.
But on occasion
when I least expect it
the realms rain upon that soil
sprout seedlings
that glisten and giggle
turn this way and that
wild and tender
and full of life.

If you have something to live for
the transition between this life and the next
(if there is a next)
will be painted in hues of joy.

Rumi urged jumping into the boiling sea of passion
and grief would run from you.
I have been in that sea.
Swimming in those waters
caught up in the currents
keeping my head above water
there was no time for grief.

Now, still, there is passion
but more like a vat of rich soup
about to boil.

The tentacles of loss
reach out to wrap themselves
about my wrists and ankles.
Age, a slow moving barge,
moves up on me
but my arms and legs splash,
and determined,
I inhale a rich tide of inspiration
from courageous friends.
I breathe love
in poems, whispers and music
and battle the sinking.

You are an ocean of love
I float and drift on your surface
but under your sparkling skin
teems an ineffable life
another world mostly unseen,
selfless, unsung, and undeserved.

But here I am not even skin deep.
Am I afraid
of drowning in your depth
of being overwhelmed
in my modest capacities?

Oh my love
even if I see only what you reveal
to the sighted
I saturate myself in your splendid shallows
and await those precious interludes
of your deeper touch.