This Time

This summer 

in this city

brings me back to troubled times

announced in hushed tones 

on black 

and white 

tv; it formed the soundtrack of our lives. 

This time it's so hot 

that money melts 

quicker than we can make it;

quicker than the company 

can decide 

to put enough aside

to throw our way

like the the biblical rich man

to the dogs.

This time, the violence is horrifically new

and yet, pit-of-the-stomach familiar. 

All in HD

24 hours a day

for our eternal
entertainment. 

This time, we are walled away, 

each alone in our 

climate-controlled cubicle 

complete with computer 

that goes everywhere we go

to distract us

from reality. 

It is happening again,

but this time, 

I don't see

a revolution. 

To My Mind's Ideal

I'm not in your league
of nations
my brain doesn't work that way.
It doesn't wake up
all organized
at the start of
a brand new day.
It doesn't file the spices
in neat and tidy rows
it doesn't have a to-do list
everywhere it goes.

I stumble and struggle
to function
to do what I'm meant to do--
to keep my head above water
much less to keep up with you.

I try to keep up my self image
as it climbs up and falls off the cliff.
It shuts itself down--its in free-fall
and nothing I do makes a difference.

I don't understand how my mind works
from whence its weird thoughts
come to pass
I'm just not the person
I've looked for.
I don't have that level
of class.

As the senses begin 

to thicken like an abandoned stream 

full of yesterday's sediment,

the inner eye 

is sharpened. 

The past and present 

knit together 

with acidic 

nightmarish clarity

and the full garment 

comes at last

into focus. 

Searching for Words

As the waters of the everyday
lap, and sometimes crash,
onto the shores of my life,
they erase the words
written with careful fingers
over the decades.

I gesticulate wildly
more often now,
trying to fish out the right word
or any word, really
to effectively communicate
what just might disappear
like an aging dandelion
before I can capture it.

Fallen Angel

I limp along the road
with broken wings
from years of blindly
flying into things.

My halo tarnished
and my feathers worn
I look upon the others
and I mourn

the opportunities
and concord missed
because I did not
fit onto their list

of gleaming halo,
feathers, blinding white
untouched by life
and uncorrupt' by night.

At forty-nine, I'm one again
hands clenched tightly
on my lap
pretending no one notices
I look 'round
to see
what is expected
trying
to learn
the language
trying--
guessing
at
normal
This time
only FEELING
bald

Like an awkward adolescent, 

the queen anne's lace 

grows unnaturally tall,

lean and lanky, 

in the summer heat 

and does not realize

how beautiful she really is.

From the place inside my head

I was reminded today
that we are each stuck
inside our own minds
trying desperately
to get out
and connect with other people.*
That is the POINT
of life--to get OUT of our
minds and CONNECT.

This means that we will have
our delicate toes
stepped on
by those who don't realize they are there.

Our hopes will be shattered like
delicate china cups
and the tea they contain
will spill all over
the linoleum floor.

We will cry our own tears
and laugh our own laughter
at how alike we are
and how different
from
those we love.

*Hat tip to John Green for the image.

Illusion

The undulating heat waves 

rise up from the miles of 

ever-increasing black top,
creating a wavy wall of illusion,
telling us that we are
detached from our world,
safe in our air conditioned buildings
living our virtual lives
until the heat is gone.

In the late afternoon sun
I walk across the parking lot
willing my middle aged brain
to find where I left my vehicle.

I look up to realize
I am surrounded
by cars.

They hover
like giant square bees,
their turn signals nervously blinking.
Each one is certain
that they are the
anointed successor
to my soon to be vacated parking space.

winter resurrection
a friend's face
on Google chrome

Pale and cold,

I dream of the tropics

and stare at the ceiling--

winter blood test. 

Pale and cold,
I warm my hands
on the red mug--
winter blood test.

pale and cold
dreams of tropical islands
December
blood test 

Spiritual Flu

Just when the ride becomes easy,
just when I become complacent
God has me on my mental knees
begging Jesus and the saints
for mercy and prayers.

As my world spins and twists
out of control,
I  grasp in blind panic
for something solid--
something to stop the world
from whirling
and me
from vomiting up
my center of gravity.

The joyous days

of past Novembers

ring silently

in my waiting heart

as the early chill

deepens in this

season

of early goodbyes.

the years disappear
like the leaves
on the trees
called by the bright
afternoon sun
i remember
afternoons in the park
bikes and guitars
walks and talks and time
stretched ahead of us
into the summer
of eternity

Facebook Falls Silent

Facebook falls silent when a friend is dying.

Somehow the banal updates
about the torturous nature of daily chores
seem disrespectful
when multiple communities
on 2 coasts
are in deep mourning
over a life--
so well lived--
that will end
way too soon.

We all are saying the same things
to him
and to each other.
Prayers are being said,
novenas offered.

Memories resurface;
regrets are mulled over.

Time has been cruelly compressed.

Suddenly
we see
the end
of the road.

The News

After the news
we held our loved ones long and hard
as if to make them real
and remind us we were still alive.

Transition

Curled up in a ball,
my vulnerable spine
exposed
I am
in transition.