What Will Never Be

What might I be doing today if I’d stopped,
just once, all those years ago
to glance back at my burning city?
Where would I have been yesterday?
Where would I be tomorrow?
Whose story would I be writing now?
Whose life might I be living?
Would I still be living at all?
I’m powerless to stop these questions
from sparking up and burning
through my mind,
even though I know they are each
as inconsequential as floating flakes of ash
or fine grains of salt
scattered on the wind.

Stained Glass

Where as once a child
now sits the old man, lifting his head
from a Sunday morning doze,
heavy-lidded eyes cracking open
to a kaleidoscope of bleeding colors
slowly swimming into focus.

Now as then, the old familiar longing
to launch himself up and out of his seat
to join the rising dust moats
as they sail high above the choir
into the streaming sunburst,
spiraling toward the rafters,
endlessly spinning in that spectral light,
never to return to earth.

Where Loneliness Gathers

I’ll bet there’s a little karaoke bar
on a remote corner
of some godforsaken one stop light town
that looks a lot like the edge of the world,
and that there are desperate people gathered there,
some at this very moment, sitting alone,
quietly sipping their foamy beers,
contemplating why they are there.
Perhaps it’s because they are tired of feeling so tired,
tired of feeling so feckless, or so old,
or that the silence at home
this time was a bit too much to bear,
or was it just the shimmering lights
of a night outside
that was still so very young?

Bullets For Breakfast

Bullets are flying. Again.
Early and everywhere.
Bullets in your ear at seven a.m.
as you turn on the television.
Bullets on the screen
while you make your coffee.
Bullets in the news.
Bullets in your social media feed.
Bullets in America.
Bullets in Darfur.
Bullets in Kyiv.
More than enough bullets
produced in a single year to kill us all.
Bullets in every city
and small town across the world,
stocked, loaded, cocked, and ready
to be fired! Fired!! Fired!!!
All before the toast and coffee
have gone cold.

Subzero

There’s an old red bicycle
frozen in the snow
in front of a little clapboard bungalow
at the far end of my street.
There’s a thick wool cap
on this silly ass head,
thermal socks, and heavy boots
on these crunching feet.
Why, oh why in hell, I ask,
did I venture out here on a morning
when I could’ve just stayed asleep?

Midnight Ramble

It begins in cold darkness
and the thick solitude of a quiet car
splashing through the empty streets
of town. Flashing traffic lights,
Christmas lights, porch lights
left to burn, water streaked vestiges
of a brighter world I missed while asleep.
This is the time for me. It’s all so clear,
a silent symphony of subtle revelations
otherwise muted by the daylight clamor
of horns, sirens, and screeching wheels.
But even now, there is little time to savor.
Work begins in just two minutes.
A few more gulps of hot coffee
to burn the lingering fog away.
There are deserts to cross
and mountains to climb
before the light of day.

Last Standing

High, sprawling, and audacious in the sun,
older than the country it stands in,
bare boned against the November cold
wind whipped, stripped
of its summer clothes,
the tree reaches the attention
of every eye that passes,
commands respect by way of fact
that it still stands,
resolute as a statue,
welcoming the open sky,
the rain, the snow, the wind
for yet another try
at tearing its broad grip
from the hardening earth
branch by brittle branch,
root by sinuous root.
It seems to be saying,
come now, take your best shot,
I’m still here where the others are not.

Wind

The wind is a feral animal tonight,
moaning, circling, lashing out –
random acts of violence in our midst.

The little lights on the front porch
rock about maniacally,
glittering against the glass,
a ghostly mirror ball inviting us to dance
to the wind chimes chilling melody.

The dog barks incessantly,
issuing stern warnings
to the invisible intruder.
Perhaps she is telling it
what we are all thinking.
Leave us.
Leave us in peace.
Leave us now!
Just please,
don’t leave us
in the dark.

Your Former Self Calling

Empty out the past.
Hold fast to tangible things.

Give up the ghosts
that haunt these silent rooms.

Give up your reasons
for not turning back

toward that distant land
of high hopes and deserted dreams.

Easy to say, it’s true,
never so easy to do,

and this is why I’m calling you.
“Wake up, wake up! Begin again.”

We Push It Down

We push it down
to drown the sound
of that seductive
(if not slightly unhinged)
inner voice, inviting us to jump the rails
into a deliciously wild country.
Yes, we push it, push it, pack it down,
this is how we move around
the world in a straight line,
gain respect, become
upstanding citizens,
obedient animals in the field,
when sometimes all we really want
is to drop to our knees,
drown in our memories,
or take a quick dive
just one more time
into a massive pile
of freshly raked October leaves.

When We Were Young

We weathered every storm
never stopping to consider how or why,
took what we were given
and knew not to ask for more,
did what we were told,
(sometimes grudgingly)
swallowed each and every lie,
couldn’t wait to be free.

Then one day we became our parents.
One day we became the lie,
repeating over and over
old programmed routines,
never trusting we could fly,
never imagining the day to come
when the only thing we’d wish for
was a time machine.