Twelve Years; Twenty Lines

It was twelve years yesterday

since my father passed away.

Light bulbs flicker off and on; I

can’t see him, but he’s not gone.

He loved the mysterious things

in life, the quiet and private jokes

with folks, the things we cannot see—

Twilight zone moments put that

twinkle in his eye—the unexplainable

is what made him smile.  He would

notice word-play and the deeper

humor in things, like The Far Side,

puns found here and there, or

humorous  acts of God, the

journalistic juxtaposition of

oddity with oddity, even a hint

of mystery.  He was open, and

he opened his heart to me. 

Light bulbs flicker off and on;

I cannot see him, but he is not gone.

Sweet Dreams

It is quite late;

not much to say--

no clever words

no plea, no case.

I knew you once;

still think of you--

time once was spent

more face to face.

The Troble with Reading Your Poems (with apologies to Billy Collins)

It’s not that I don’t trust you, but when I read your poems,

     I wonder if that vase of fresh cut roses you describe

could be fake – could be, that is, an imaginary vase,

     rather than one you actually see on your table.

Is there really a gardenia-scented candle burning 

in a darkening kitchen, as the sun sets over the pines outside?

Or are you sitting on the couch, curtains drawn, an old   

     lamp you have had forever burning instead?

I know that jar of jam you describe—(as you spread some

on a biscuit)— as home-made by your lover—(who tied

the lid with raffia) – might have come from a local grocery 

store, made in large vats in a factory,  sold everywhere.

You should see outside my window, Billy – the terraced

back yard – my neighbor, Nick, with his long-handled

hose is kindly watering my newly-planted hydrenga

tree, and his Black-eyed-Susans, ready to pop.

If I wrote a poem, I’d show you my soft new hammock, 

so white and inviting beneath the walnut tree, my glass-

topped umbrella table holding a tray of blackberry tea.

My favorite yellow finch would stop by in his little black vest. 

I wouldn’t make this up, Billy Collins—I wouldn’t 

even know how. I’d take a photo on my cell

phone and send it to you for proof, but

   I don’t know how to do that either. 

You will have to trust me.

Rearranging

I have wanted for ages to re-organize my books,

but how? All the poetry together first?  All the

religious and spiritual next to psychology? 

All the prize-winning novels and short story

collections?  All the hard covers, then the

paperbacks? No, look--I am arranging my

books like a timeless dinner party, like

my friend Michael who places CD’s of

mnext to other musicians he thinks

they might like to hang out with.

This way T.S. Elliot gets to meet Rumi

   at his Cocktail Party. Gabriel Garcia

Marquez and Haruki Murikami can talk

about Kafha on the Shore and Love in the

Time of Cholera. Earnest Gaines can share

A Lesson BeforeDying with William Faulkner,

As he Lays Dying. Annie Proulx can send her

Postcards to Carl Rogers Way of Being.

Ram Dass can tell Joan Didion The Year of

Magical Thinking was all Grist  for the Mill. 

Amy Tan and Anita Daimant can have an

awakening sharing One Hundred Secret

Scents inside The Red Tent.  Michael Talbot

and Barbara Kingslover can dream Animal

Dreams in The Holographic Universe. 

Oh, yes, this is the way to arrange.  Mary

Oliver and Christina Adam—would so much

appreciate and honor Red Bird, since—you

   know—Any Small Thing Can Save You—

Something as small as re-arranging ones

books and finding a brand new collection.