A Poem Of The Night

a poem
is a thought
of flowers
near frost,
dangling stiff
bitten by
the vampire of
late fall,
hanging desolate
near dusk
from a pot
on a patio porch-
with a yellow bulb
light beaming
conspicuously outward
over chilled
yellow green
glazed grass.
While my cat Nikki
hunches over a coffee,
table, toasty & warm,
nose pressed
super glue
to the window
on guard for
passing birds,
cars-
utility vans
with large bubble eyes.

Neck Traction

Hanging from a rope
cradled in a cloth basket
harness,
I feel like a western
horse rustler,
getting last rites,
while being forced
to stare into my
mirror hanging
from my door as punishment;
just before they kick the door open
& smack the horse on the behind.

My chin is shoved into my cranium.
My eyes are wrinkled up & nearly sealed
like a raisin closing shop in the sun.

A punishment fit for the decrepit,
elderly, lamenting, crippled,-
vertebras with out cushion,
bone spurs pinching nerves for fun.

Punishment for past activities, sins
& lies to the scared one?

I'm trying to read collected poems
by Stanley Kunitz; hold "The
Purpose Driven Life" up high enough
to see my own self esteem.

Squinting between the lines I
sort the pluses of Christianity,
damn the curses of Islam.

30 minutes of torture,
sweat drawn in by a 90 degree room-
savior & redeemer, the electrical fan.
Traction is tearing the chin
out of my TMJ.

Illinois Trains

Trains, love them, hate them
the way they play sound; songs they sing.
Transformers switch, vibrate the power
into poetry, shake notes out of the sky.
Short stretch, street to street, long stretches,
Chicago, Elgin, Rockford, though prairie towns of Illinois-
running the same rails over, attached to many places.
Shrill sound of horns dig deep in bowel of urban earth
like backhoes; developers changing passing landscapes
with faint, greed filled faces.
As the trains pass to history, train sounds
fall silent, a minor key.

Rainbow in April

April again,
the wind
falls in love with itself
skipping across asphalt
and concrete bare
with the breaking weather.
A rainbow
Is half arched,
broken off deep
into the aorta
of the sky.
It hangs
from elastic
rubber bands
of mixed colors
tipped in God's
inkwell,
airbrushed
by the fingertips

From Toronto To Ottawa

She comes,
and she goes,
unnoticed.
She walks,
and she talks,
to no one.
Her night is
the long city street
sheltered & protected my neon.
She amuses
& she entertains,
swaying her slender body,
…but no one offers,
& she shouts out
for no reward.

If You Find No Poem

If you find
no poem on
your doorstep
in the morning,
no paper, no knock on your door,
& your life is poorly edited
but no broken dashes
or injured meter
& you don't wear white
dresses late in life
embroidered with violet
flowers on the collar;
nor do you have
burials daily
across main street,
& no one whispers
in your ear, Emily Dickinson-
you feel alone-
but not reclusive-
the sand lady
still sleeping in your eyes-
wiping your tears away-
if you find
no poem on
your doorstep-
you know your not
from New England.

She

Somewhere

she has lost
her shadow.

and now

she stands
still

with nowhere
to go.

Debbie Knows The Wind

The wind comes from opposite poles,
travels slowly, lost, & often collides.

The south warm wind doesn't always
touch face with the north wind cold.

Debbie turns inward the deep air of despair.
Dan walks inside a cloud of his own hardly noticing her.

She readies herself for him, shakes out
her hair, waits for the phone to ring.

She makes up her eyes to charm him;
she smiles nonstop when Dan is near.

The sun warms her teeth when she is smiling
walking in the cold-it's still winter.
Inside her heart are gold filled teeth
the tip of her tongue drags across her vision-
moistens the shine, deepens the color,
the tint intention.

Dan brushes the dust from his suit
& straightens his tie.

He smokes African reefer with his vacations
& his fears & vision suffer.

Dan is on his way to see Debbie,
& they're already calling each other sweetheart
but the wind is strong, & currents
could carry them in different directions.

And the north wind is strong.,
& the south wind is everything.

Boat In A Pond

Boat in a pond
abandoned
without oars
tied to a steel post
floats on top
of an artist palette
rocks sideways with
wind,
edges slightly
west
the sun sets.
Picture on the wall.

Speaking Of Death

Speaking of death-
mother, Edith, at 98
in a nursing home
blinded with
macular degeneration,
crippled in pain,
drowning in pills,
I come to you,
blurred eyes, crystal mind,
countenance of grace,
as yesterday's winds
I have consumed you
& taken you away.
Death hides, but doesn't divide.
"Where did God disappear to"-
she murmured
over & over again
like running water
or low voices
in prayer:
"Oh, there He is.
Angel of the coming."
Death hides, but doesn't divide.

Dad Died

At the bottom
of the spiral
staircase
there is a letter.

My dad died.

He never wrote letters
on time anyway.

My step-mother
had to write this one
for him.

DARLENE

Friendship is continuous-,
it evolves & it revolves
around the sight of each other
the feelings of one another,
the small kisses in the doorway.
Friendship is a love circle.
it trips around & rotates around tough
angles when the one mate
feels the other is in trouble-
often i feel like touching you intimately-
exchanging my kitty, Nikki,
for you warm breast, thighs, and the touch of your behind...
or just hours of endless talk and child babble,
but tonight i am heavy wondering beneath
your shallow words-are you alright?
Has the day/the night been good to you?
Friendship is continuous-,
it evolves & it revolves
around the sight of each other
the feelings of one another,
the small kisses in the doorway.
friendship is a love circle.