Three Thousand Five Hundred and Two (2018)*

rain in darkness shifts

and shimmers

the faintest child’s voice

her final cry for help,

a mere glimmer.

(stop this we ought,

yet have not)

now dazed by days of rain

and news that shoots

and downpours

where we’ve gathered

to weep,

to rage,

to scream,

ask why again

this pain

while Congress prays, delays,

denies and blathers.

we bow our heads in shame

as we should,

blurred eyes cast where grief

under mud hides buried 

inside false beliefs of impotence

as numbly, we shiver awake

to more clearly see

in depths of darkness lives

a flame for all to warm beside.

Together we must protect,

speak out, sustain

and tend this light

so that children’s

safety becoming fact

is finally in truth

delivered.

*The approximate number of children ages 6-18 killed 
by firearms in the US in 2018

Real Faith

      is

knowing

in our deep
bones

through
   empty
       space

we are forever
 

    free-falling....

like a precious drop

of mercury

our hearts quiver

as we, no longer

hidden,

descend, bidden

and unbidden

time and again,

into darkness’

supple arms,

these rivers

of uncertainty

and this spacious

befriending moment.

            Waking

With no thought or plan, both hands surround

the nose to create a cozy tent where smells

of coffee, tendrils of chocolate and blessed

earthiness of mushroom all at once arise

as I sit draped in a blue bathrobe, warm

and relaxed on Winter’s Sunday morning.

Outside, the sky through spindly Melaleuca branches,

bright yet hazy, beckons. Suddenly, an old friend

arrives inside my reverie with little notice knocking

as he does in haste, and loudly, many times each day.

The tent in a flash is taken down as this urge

to piss steps onto center stage, the imagined

wealth of wondrous odors quickly severed,

dissolving like a doused bonfire.

I further wake to stand straight and march,

a loyal soldier with no time to waste

nor nose for dreams and contemplation,

towards the nearby bathroom door.

            Graced

A day of simple translucence.

Awake early, no memory of dreaming.

Two cups of coffee, strong, softened with cream, just right.

The melaleuca tree shimmered in sun through a transparent window.

No one called before noon. I felt such contentment.

Later, weeded the yard, thankful for fingers in dirt, blue bucket brimming with green.

Down the street kids played baseball in afternoon light. Fathers and uncles with kindness coached new skills.

Thoughts of Quincy my grandson brought big smiles. Soon I’ll travel north to visit him and his parents.

And now, up high to the left a palm tree shimmies and sings in breezes at nightfall as I wait to meet Ana, my friend.

                From Europe, With Love

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it. As close

as that pint of ice cream is right now in the freezer,

the kitchen 15 feet away. Instantly she’d felt like home.

No, her third floor walk-up apartment in a strange

yet familiar part of the planet on a chilled November day

felt like home. The small kitchen overlooking a church and field,

the warm bath after the long flight and an hour driving

to her town through drizzle past bare trees,

then trout with beetroot soup, cherry wine and

homemade chocolate cake for our first dinner, how tall

and pretty she was in person at the bleak Eastern European

airport that reminded me of a rust-belt bus station. We hugged

and I thought “I’m glad I came.” Here in Loreta’s small home,

comfort and belonging were redolent of family holidays

when dad remained calm, even friendly, unusually tender.

Weeks later, buying the card for her downtown, I felt awkward, numbly

standing in line with laughing school children buying afternoon snacks,

old women purchasing chicken and onions for supper. The long walk

over the blue bridge past the funicular and up the steep hill one last time,

placing the card on the kitchen table, then a couple of drinks our final night

while she sat across the table and watched patiently. No, more like tolerated

my wish to have a beer at a neighborhood bar I’d read about

in my ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook.

Two weeks’ later my new underwear and socks bought for the trip,

forgotten that final dark morning in a dresser drawer next to the new bed

that we never slept in, arrived in a brown envelope at my mailbox,

a small candle and note tucked within, something about keeping the light.

I dished up a big bowl of gelato, not sure I kept the candle.

If You're Quiet

Scraping cloud-cover 
from the threshold,

voyagers without maps 
dream of birch trees

and grandfathers under winter skies

whispering forgotten stories 
in a secret language. 

If you’re quiet, you can hear 
them quivering in half light 

across the lake 
at dusk. 

             November’s Longing

Across the field, a stand of birches shimmers

in rivers winnowing Autumn light. Here, rising 
like a layered ladder through icy air, hundreds 
of wooden steps and the back of a willowy woman 
receding, blonde hair loose over parka’s collar, 
unreachable and aloof as she shivers, clambering 
towards sand dune’s crest, and he follows. Then, 
Russia and the Baltic Sea far below so close—
silent, silver, ancient songs fading dreamlike 
into memory of the distant west.