Mother's Bed

I once caught a glimpse

Of gossamer thread

Lilting, floating overhead

Gently flowing, soft as clouds

This silky, macramé, web-like shroud

I watched it move about with ease

Through budding limbs

Of waking trees

Around these tombs and massive vaults

My dancer, danced

Its airy waltz, adrift

Upon a gentle breeze

Amongst the stony eulogies

And as I gazed upon its flight

Seeming free from all its plight

The weight of my visit seemed

To lessen as my sorrow’s

Torment turned effervescent

And soon my heart was near as light

As my lithesome, shining gossamer kite

And as its dance drew near its end

My soulful mercy

Did descend

That of all the noble shrines

And hallowed lots

It was here, upon this

Humble plot

That my faithful confrere chose instead

To light upon my mother’s bed

JOY

Empty

A man with nothing to clench

Sadness

Something tightened with a wrench

Doubt

A ship I built myself

Fear

A beast that feeds upon itself

Anger

With winds that tear an open sail

Bitterness

Something that taints the fairy tale

Lust

What makes little heads think giant thoughts

Hope

Something that turns weaker links into astronauts

Faith

What I needed when I did not believe in you

Courage

The strength to stand naked in front of you

Happiness

Something that lingers long ever after

Promise

The only thing meant for forever

Tenderness

Something that puts me to bed

Comfort

A warm chest to lay my head

Love

So famous it needs no introductions

And last but not least

Joy

With no further interruptions

The Thought Of It

It beats the alternative

They say, I say,

Getting older

First crawling, then running

Sunning then blocking

Days of, “What did

I come in here for?” and

Mornings of “Ow! What the hell was that?”

The thoughts of “it”

Buzzing in my head

Like a fly caught between sills

Will tomorrow be “it”?

Next year?

When will “it” be “it”?

Hopefully amid my day-chasing

I will remind myself

There is still a “right now”

That is, if I remember where I put it

My body is falling

I watch it dropping every day

The lines on my face grow deep and longer,

Up the block and around the corner

The gray, appearing like snow,

And my hair will soon become a blizzard

The Thought of It

First appeared in the

Collection The Fruit of Falling Down

Xlibris, 2003

Mary Upon Morning

The morning sun, suddenly wincing through

The enormous mood of clouds hung days
Before the hill where so many waited, wailed,
For any sign at all that their recent
Born faith was not conceived in vain

The large cutout in the air where
The cross once impaled the sky
Will never fill in, leaving in its place
A transitive scent to any nose
That would later come to its senses

She inhaled what had been done to

Her and to that which came from her
And knew the bitter taste of sacrifice; a
Perfect pearl of pain that would linger
Upon the tongue of the rest of her days

Just moments before her sufferance returned

From its journey around her heart and
The discovery of the stone tossed like
A pebble upon the lake of salvation,
The blinding light of promise

And its ripple effect that will long outlive any of them

How Thee Tree

Thy grand and effusive tree

Your whisper does rustle high out of reach

Rolling from your thousand green tongues

Carried upon any number of breeze.

Oh wooden lash upon the cheek of this hill

Tell me what happened yesterday when

I was not standing where I stand now.

What came upon you with the brilliance of noon or

Nuzzled you in the shadow of a shepherd’s moon?

What brought you to this place?

And I am referring to this precise place?

Majestic tower of hope, soothsayer of the glen

Bestow your knowledge held high in those knitted bows

And reveal the catalogue of ringed memories

Collecting in your belly of trust.

Acquaint me of why you forever wave

Toward the pink slit of morning

And hold resilient among the torrent of

Heaven’s weep?  Who do you wait for?

Who is worth such unwavering faith?

Such fain patience, such deep rooted love?

How did you know that this was the very spot?

Who taught you to dig in your heal and lean into tomorrow?

Sacred Heart

It was the tiniest of holy places

A congregation of simple beads
Strung together by the rural thread
Of local farm faith

A tapestry of visions and ideas

That reveled in backyard boundaries
And ancestral certainties
Handed down through generations

The catechisms and cakes sales

The sermon’s command on when to
Stand and sit or stand and kneel;
Books held open like birds in hands

As a nine year old, I often ran to the pastures

Pretending not to hear the calling
When time to load into the Valiant
On those fastidious Sunday mornings

Sometimes they would catch me

At the bottom of the stairs which
Would mean more time confessing
The mundane troubles of obscurity

On Christmas Eve we stayed up late

Attending midnight mass where
All of the glittering blues and reds and golden halos
Compressed into this tiny church like miracles

A time filled with clean reflection

A time filled with clear sacrifice
And perhaps, the only time
I ever saw my father cry.

Long After Retirement

For Red Perkins

I will tell all of the ladies that you were meditating not sleeping

When I arrived during newspaper time while volunteer Samuel

In his muscle shirt was busy doing his vaudeville of the

Headline that read Is Today’s Internet Dating Yesterday's Town Social?

And the half-attentive audience murmured reference to their day

When girls and boys once flirted from across dance floors, fairgrounds.

Yes, that is what I will tell these fragile flowers, meditating; you will sound

So much more enlightened, even mysterious, worthy of a first dance;

Better than the truth that your cancer medication had you bobbing

Like some red beaked drinking bird during arm raises

Which lead to slumping at the activities announcement

And to near snoring among the daily news.

But you will not recall this as I have come to visit you

And you work repeatedly to remember how long it has been and I, 

still remembering a son’s love, do not have the heart

To remind you that it was you who left the conversation years ago.

For in this moment, at least one of us understands, that there is only this moment

And that all moments of before are now but shadows in a gentleman’s mist.

A meditative Casanova, the contemplative Flynn, why, you will be the talk

Among this winter hen house which, as I look around, is not far from accurate

As the y chromosomes seem to lose ground here

In these late chapters of life’s journey, when all men are reduced,

Becoming similar shapes, the same surprised eyes

The same bent expression of his-story