2/10/11

No poems should be read today,

For you no longer hear them sung.

Let artful noise be put away,

And cleverness held on our tongues.

Let speeches cease, leave verse unheard,

Let lyrics languish to their end.

What use are strings of pretty words,

If I can’t speak with you again?

2/9/11

Stop the ticking pendulum,

And hold it from its mighty sweep.

Let this day be never done,

Command this time to hold and keep.

Moments, neither wax nor wane.

The clock’s cold march must acquiesce.

Everything must stay the same,

I have not strength for what comes next.

2/8/11

Like embers in a fireplace grown cold,

A line of blue horizon through the storm,

Like prophecy of better times foretold,

Or word of rumor passed to those forlorn,

All shadow stems from brightness at its source,

Although, at times, this light remains unseen.

Hope roots in soils of sadness and remorse,

Is it not in the darkness that we dream?

2/7/11

Dear, (your-name-here), now you shall always be,

Etched in eternal stone, immortalized,

Remembered here and throughout history.

As these words live, your name shall never die.

An icon, fixed within this written verse,

The soul of (your-name-here) shall be retained,

A constant in the changing universe.

Perhaps, with luck, you’ll even garner fame,

As (your-name-here) inspires and beguiles,

And tantalizes with it’s mystery.

Your name become a subtle halfway smile,

Forever questioned by humanity.

Else, keep you title for yourself alone,

And be not called by those you’ve never known.

2/6/11

I haven’t got a thing to say,
No words of any interest,
No observations of the day,
No passions that I may profess.
I wish not to philosophize,
The muse returns a cold rebuff.
Today, I lived. Today, I died.
Is that not poetry enough?

2/5/11

A simple, single, sheet of paper, creased widthwise in half,

With no intrinsic value.  No one’s famous autograph.

No winning contest numbers, nor a secret ballot vote.

Not minted into currency, or stocks or banking notes.

No permit, ticket, license, or identifying proof.

No oracle’s prophetic wisdom, scribbled down forsooth.

Like thousands I have thrown away, this page unbound and plain,

Yet, priceless now, it’s surface inked forever with your name.

2/4/11

Fair moments in our photographs,
Quick clippings cut from history.
A sand plucked from the hourglass,
But, what of moments in between.

The blur of time, freeze-framed, defines,
The carousel menagerie.
Our keepsakes shine, yet leave us blind,
To all the moments in between.

These images oft don’t convey,
Life’s steadfast hope and daily strife.
We see short bursts of joy and play,
But none of toil and sacrifice.

So, in these snaps of happiness,
And pleasant memories we glean,
We must look past this pictured bliss,
And see the moments in between.

2/3/11

An empty wall stands in my home, its surface clean and bare.

Of rooms and halls, this spot alone, shows nothing meant to share.

Each other place holds bric-a-brac, upon which I reflect,

A painting or a photograph, all dear to me, and yet,

As I install these painted scenes, these treasures, toys, and posts,

An empty wall on which to dream, remains what I love most.

2/2/11

Today, I happened to receive somebody else’s mail,

And for a moment, self-deceived, I spun a wild tale,

In which I was another man whose lifetime was repressed,

Peculiar aims, career, and plans. Another home address.

Strange friends and odd acquaintances, apart from all I knew,

Fresh memories, experience, bizarre beliefs and views.

My soul began to drift away, yet then my heart recalled,

The joy and love which fills my days, this man knew not at all.

And so I tossed it in the pail, this other life I missed.

My doppelganger lost his mail, why should this man get his?

2/1/11

To hear you changed the world might make you laugh,

You’d wave your hand and scoff dismissively.

But all the things you did on our behalf,

Have truly changed the course of history.

The love you freely gave in life has grown,

Between your loved ones and your closest friends.

Your children’s children pass it to their own,

And it continues onward without end.

Your spirit and your humor live in those,

Who knew you in their hearts and keep you still.

All faith and strength we find within us shows,

The life which you inspire and always will.

How many words of wisdom, kind and just?

How many acts of goodness have transpired?

How much has fate been changed by each of us,

In emulation of one so admired?

You changed the world, so simply- yet divine.

I know this to be true, for you changed mine.

1/31/11

Some people think the cars we may obtain,

Define our value and our dignity,

A sense of status, I once deemed insane.

But now, I’m less inclined to disagree.

A man rode by today and changed my mind,

On viewing a display of his effects.

Such vehicles in his procession line!

Each one commanding reverence and respect.

They all paraded by, so I could see,

The number which this fellow had amassed.

His friends all driving in their finery.

His greatest wealth assembled when he passed.

Indeed, in death, the worth of who we are,

Is counted in the number of our cars.

1/30/11

Outside the fitting room of some department store,
Beneath florescent skies, I bide my time and sit,
With listless eyes, I stretch my legs and pace the floor,
And pray inside you'll find the rare, elusive, fit.

Although it tries my patience as I'm waiting here,
The moment that you re-emerge  and smile is worth, 
Far more than every occupation I hold dear,
And any time I have to spend upon this earth.

1/29/11

Drinking in a Brooklyn bar with friends,
Revisiting today and days long gone
A pleasantry indulged in, now and then,
A quiet sidestep from life's bustling throng.

An eye inside the daily, raging, storm,
To which we all contribute in our way,
A chance to slip away and thwart the norm,
And gift ourselves a misspent chance at play.

Historians will not recall this day,
Upon this time, no weight will be bestowed,
No one will quote a word that we might say,
And what transpires, none shall wish to know,

But, as we live, sparse moments such as these.
Define our most persistent memories.

1/28/11

Flurries, flakes, precipitation,

Slush and sleet, crystallization,

Dustings, blankets, knee-deep ice-drifts,

Blizzard, hale, and white-out tempest,

Angry man with shovel, digging.

Frigid, arctic, frozen, cold drafts,

Untrustworthy weather forecasts,

Whipping, gripping, chills that blow,

Snow, and snow, and snow, and snow.

1/27/11

For several years, it rode upon my wrist,

As I would journey on and make my way,

It kept the seconds, not a moment missed,

Persistently, pronouncing times of day,

It kept close measure with each rising breath,

Through great elation and dark brooding moods,

It’s mechanisms met my pulse, and yet,

A mishap saw it’s watchfulness removed.

But as it’s checking stopped- my life advanced,

Despite it’s loss, my tempo still persists,

Although it’s memory fades and life supplants,

In times of fancy, I imagine this:

In some reality split off by chance,

A man who seeks the time still checks his wrist.

1/26/11

While getting dressed this early winter’s ‘morn,

And searching through my closet’s deep recess,

I found a heavy jacket, rarely worn,

All but erased from daily consciousness.

And donning this while I pursued my chores,

Hands sheltered, in it’s pockets, from the snow,

I unearthed artifacts, absently stored,

When last I wore this garment, years ago.

A cocktail napkin scribbled with designs,

A lady’s lipstick held and kept by chance,

Old ticket-stubs, brochures, and scraps I find,

Recall the day’s fond joys and ambiance.

Who was this man who left these clues behind,

In vanished years of changing circumstance?

1/25/11

Great Peter the Adventurer,

Set off upon your path today,

Perhaps you’ll play at knighthood, Sir,

In search of dragons you might slay.

An astronaut on Planet X,

Or else, a captain on high seas,

A scientist, an athlete-  Yes,

I’m sure you will excel at these!

And as you age, if you should face,

Some dragons which are fiercer still,

As you once played, stand unafraid,

With valiant strength and iron will.

But, if the dragon wins sometimes,

And you should doubt what’s right and true,

Let these short lines serve to remind,

How much we all believe in you.

Tonight, sleep tight in mother’s arms.

Tomorrow, you’ve got work to do!

1/24/11

A winter fire in the dark,

Emerging from a fledgling spark,

The shadows parted by it’s glow,

As grappling tendrils gently grow,

And so emerge as brilliant blooms,

Which blossom on all they consume,

And feed with childlike, frenzied glee,

Releasing heat and energy.

Before it’s brilliance, stagnant drafts,

Retreat and scurry off like rats,

As from it’s core, a maelstrom storms,

Which flies, and terrifies, and warms.

And in it’s hiss and crackle sings,

The start and ending of all things,

It’s raging blaze so radiant,

Immortal, yet impermanent.

So now, in this chill, empty, room,

So dim and cold, I pray that soon,

A winter fire will ignite,

To burn, and urge my hand to write

1/23/11

Chipping the paint off an old window pane,

One might hear, as expected, a scraping refrain.

But, when listening close, you’ll attend verbose ghosts,

Which it’s dense layered lead, oil, and latex contains.

You may hear tender whispers and passionate vows,

Precious, desperate, vespers and blasphemous rows,

Great laughter and rapture, dread hopeless disaster,

And volatile secrets which mean nothing now.

The first loves and lost loves and loves found again,

Dividing debates fought between lifelong friends,

Some screaming, some sighing, a small infant crying,

A comforting rite with a breath at the end.

And among all these flecks, you may even detect,

Your own words that were heard by the walls now and then.

1/22/11

A gentleman procured a vintage wine,

Of finest flavor and variety,

He sought to let it mingle over time,

And hoarded it away covetously.

He withstood all temptation through the years,

Past celebrations and deep tragedies,

Past rites of passage and commencement cheers,

And rash, nocturnal, joviality.

He kept it from his courtships and his wife.

Through pleas of friends and family he endured.

He long outlived them all, and all his life,

His prize, sequestered, spirits had matured.

‘Till finally, all alone, he sought his bliss,

And found his cherished fortune flavorless.

1/21/11

There are fish in a bowl, but they know not their role,

As they flitter about in their single-celled shoal.

They sustain occupation in feeding and flight,

Marked by vague punctuation of darkness and light.

They have very few questions, crave little affection,

Their quandaries involve but to swim which direction.

And though their small minds know no better or worse,

They are largely confined from the whole universe.

1/20/11

Late one night as I was treading, on a path with no sure heading,

Down a dark and stagnant street beneath a curtain-veil of gloom,

Suddenly, emerged a mansion, long forgotten and abandoned.

Dark and empty, but for one lit window in the tower room.

Strange, I thought, that I might spy, in such an odd locale, a light,

With all the house unlit it seemed unfit to find one room possessed.

Then upon the moaning wind, I thought I heard a rising din,

A clamoring of angry voices, filling me with deep unrest.

At this time, you must believe, I had the strongest urge to leave,

"'Tis none of my concern" I thought- yet curiosity prevailed,

Suddenly, I heard a crashing. Fragile, glass-like sounds of smashing,

And above it all, there came a terrifying, mournful wail.

Fixed upon the window sash, I craned my neck and tried to catch,

A glimpse of shadow through the blinds that might connect with what I'd heard,

All for nought, my sight caught nothing, but my ears could hear a thumping,

Or was it the sound of gunshot as I backed away unnerved?

Though unraveled, pale and shaking, still I watched. Was there mistaking,

This for some small celebration? Revelers, rejoicing high?

Came a voice as if responding, all my hopefulness absconding,

From the window, crying out one chilling, desperate, query: "why?!"

How should I hope to address, this strange perceived call of distress?

Should I retreat or should I meet my fate and bravely charge inside?

But my panicked indecision, seemed to be met with derision-

Sharp and mocking laughter as the window blinds began to rise.

There from where I stood, I peered, and saw each detail, crystal clear,

Then turned, and walked back home, and went to bed, and there I slept till noon.

Unless you imagine that I saw the death of some stray cat,

Forever you shall wonder hence, what happened in the tower room

1/19/11

A small crack in the asphalt, calmly coaxed,

By simple, cyclic, stresses which divide.

Through gentle pressures, frost and thaw revoke,

Industrial endeavors of mankind.

We stare upon our crumbling works with rage,

Rebuild and reinforce them with repair.

Alas, aloof, unblinking, scourge of age,

Your arsenal, eternal, seems unfair!

We cry injustice thus, with vengeful thirst,

The elements are sworn as enemy.

Yet, our ambitious digging drew blood first,

The earth strives, but to heal it's injury.

When fissures of our flesh reform and fade,

Does nature's hand not win our highest praise?

1/18/11

Passwords keep my home computer safe from stranger's eyes.

Automatic text encryption thwarts those who might pry.
Shopping-website log-in passwords shelter and protect.

Several more ensure my network modem can connect.

When I enter my I.D., my home alarm gets set.

One more phrase recovers all the passwords I forget.

Random keys shield my utilities and all accounts.

Do my days exist with more protection than without?

Should my life be so reliant on mistrust and doubt?

1/17/11

I sit inside my home with things displayed so I can see them,

And think upon what has become my very own museum.

The artifacts that hearken back to triumph, joy, and strife,

Loose, scattered, scraps of salience 'tween milestones of life.

A grand exhibit of my most significant effects.

Yet, in this diorama, caution, likewise, must be kept.

For while this archive of my acquisitions does console,

It only mirrors what has passed, and reverently extols,

The marks that fade as those who made them cease to grant them life.

From time to time I must remind myself to go outside,

On expedition, to explore with old and newer friends,

To bring new treasures back and fill my galleries again.    

1/16/11

Why does the most affecting cruelty,

Seem to originate from innocence?

Why do the slings and deepest injuries,

Appear to have no aim or ill intent?

How can an action so innocuous,

Elicit such enduring misery?

What is the phantom hand that masters us,

And turns our tongues to harm where none was meant?

Why is so seldom there a second thought,

That cautions lips to close and wait their turn,

Before an unintended wound is wrought,

Before the tinder pile begins to burn?

Assassins show their axe before we die.

This kindness, conversation won’t abide.

1/15/11

Quick soaring jets that thread between the seas and continents,
Fast engines spinning speeding wheels across vast distances,
Great wired webs and signals sent between the earth and skies,
All engineering wonders I admired with young wide eyes.
But on this day, cease to amaze these gifts of modern times,
For each just seems another means to sorrowful goodbyes.
Each new device serves to divide and carry us apart.
Each new contrivance meant to bind us, does so from afar.
Today, you leave.  Technology brings cutting-edge regret.
My eyes once wide with wonder, now made sullen, red, and wet.

1/14/11

If hatred were the easy path,

It seems we'd choose it all the time.

We'd blindly strike in lawless wrath,

And burn all bonds which bridge mankind.

The least resistant course oft wins,

And yet, most roads lead not to hell,

And it would seem, for all our sins,

We haven't yet destroyed ourselves.

We must conclude that love is free,

And hate more taxing to commit.

If so, why do so many seem,

To work so very hard at it?

1/13/11

They gathered in the desert, shovels, maps and picks in hand,

Claiming ownership of all which lay asleep beneath the sand,

And, like drooling dogs in search of prey, their quarry was unearthed,

But, not any one among them paused to heed the mummy's curse.

The seekers toiled and labored all the night to excavate,

Delving deeply 'till they heard the pit emit a stony scrape.

As the dust withdrew, unveiled the tomb, the men cried out with mirth,

But in all their jubilation none recalled the mummy's curse.

With greedy eyes they pried the stone that sealed this ancient crypt,

By the dim torch light to guide their climb, into the dark they slipped,

Gleaming treasure then reflecting frenzied filling of each purse,

But among the coins and jewels purloined, they packed the mummy's curse.

They lived as wealthy men, but then, one stone, men cannot buy,

And their cherished treasures were interred among them when they died.

Thus in later days, marauders came and saw their fates reversed.

Time will steal all riches from us. Suffer all, the mummy's curse.

1/12/11

Mr. Cappy bought a gun,

He bought it for protection,

But there wasn't really anybody who was out to get him,

And it never made him clever,

Or any more attractive,

And it never made him more impressive, or his life protracted.

No, it didn't help to feed him,

He bought meat at the market,

And it didn't make more people need him if that was his target.

No, it didn't make him knightly,

Or strong, or fit, or taller.

He was only, very slightly, made more capable of murder.

1/11/11

Each time we come upon a date like this,

I wish I was a numerologist,

For there would surely be no mystery,

That I could not solve through arithmetic.

With arcane knowledge, I'd interpret signs,

And these predictive digits would divine,

By rituals of old, the future told,

From mathematic fact and magic trick.

And yet, the way these numeral's values twist,

So often will resemble randomness,.

Like cotton dragons fly through clouded skies,

They only seem to be, because we wish.

For on this date to which fate is ascribed,

One man wins fortune, yet another dies,

And who can say which way the numbers play,

Toward outcomes that would merit specialness.

No, I shall call the numbers as they are:

A simple trace of where we've been so far,

And hope for you, your fondest dreams come true,

On this, or any other numbered days,

And urge we guard to not exaggerate,

As we revere these fleeting times and dates,

Lest we forget the gift of every breath,

And, through our careful counting, loose our way.