I Woke Up This Morning

I woke up this morning
with a poem in my head.
It's gone.
It has gone to you;
please send it back.
I don't remember it,
but you will, you will know it.
You will send it back.
But keep it long enough
to remember
to remember
to remember.

Teenage Angst Tonight

Tired of the constant pundit chatter,
I gave up.
I turned off the news and turned
to the classic movie channel.
Two kids in love,
two gangs at war,
three dead at the end.
"West Side Story."
Still tragic, but
better music.
Still teenage angst.

Boston

"All of the ills of mankind, all of the the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books ... have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing."
--Moliere

Dancing after disaster;
it seems counter to what must be done.
But you can pray while dancing,
you can ask your god
to accept the dance;
you can dance
for those who no longer can.
You can even stand still.
But moving, running, suddenly helping
was what the day was about.
I cannot run a marathon, but I can dance.
And this is what a man with a bomb
could not do,
lacking the skill at dancing.

I am Awake

one day
I'll be the man who sleeps
through everything.
Until then;
I am awake.

Called or uncalled

Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit.
-Erasmus

Marx or Aphrodite
Tehran or Jerusalem
Boehner or Barack 
Pyongyang or Seoul
Guns or Butter
The conflict doesn't matter;
whether asked or not,
our better self
turns on a simple gesture.
An open hand, that holds nothing.

Upon Watching A Favor'd Rock Band

(With apologies to Walt Whitman)


Bust the skins of the drum!
Bend the mike stand in two!
Burn the Stratocaster!
Remove the screws from the speakers!
Burn the speakers themselves!
And drop the mike on the stage
once there is nothing left to be said!

Nightly News

When did the news become
a puppet theatre? Long time ago,
but not many noticed
the hands behind the talking heads.
Now the puppets
are showing wear on
their paper mache',
but the hands
keep moving, moving.

I've Had Enough of This Day

I've had enough of this day.
wrap it up, send it back;
Let's see if tomorrow
brings something more interesting.

Math and Poetry

In fifth grade,
I was so perplexed by New Math
I would take a piece of chalk
and write imaginary mathematical formulas
on the playground blacktop;
large numbers that were seemingly multiplied
by other large numbers, of
reduced by long division.
Plus, minus, addition and subtraction,
I made it all up in foot-tall figures.
My peers avoided me.
My teacher called my parents.
My parents smiled at me, and
spent more time with me on my math homework.
I never really did understand New Math.
It wasn't until the next year
that i was asked to write a poem in class,
and I realized I needed more chalk.

A Quiet Saturday

Fill nine yard bags with leaves.

Get halfway through the taxes.

Run to the store.

Run back.

Make dinner.

Eat dinner.

Clean dishes.

Put dishes away.

Look out kitchen window,

from which I can see

in the late light

the crocus, burning blue

and in full display.

Quik Prep List 4 Zombie 'Pockalips

Some sorta canned food and Pop Tarts. Check
Nicotine gum. Check.
Deodorant and sunscreen. Check.
Aluminum baseball bat and hand sanitizer. Check.
Clean socks. Camera. Toilet paper. Check.
Comic books and a 12-pack of Red Bull. Check.
Best baseball hat (Tigers) and the iPad (can't leave it behind). Check.
Pick up Mom; leave her geranium plant behind. Check
Pack up the Camino and slap in the Iggy tape --
"Lust for Life" on repeat.
Keep driving.
Check.

The Writer's Bump

The scar on my upper arm? An early chapter, at least.
My gut is a reoccurring theme throughout.
Even my hairline can be worked into the story,
a progression, a personal timeline.
The way my third toe on the left foot
curves slightly to the right; 
the mole behind my right ear.
Then there's what is not visible.
The fractured rib, long heal'd;
whatever state my arteries are in.
And the callus on my right middle finger?
It is thousands of pens and pencils;
it is my vocational mark, my avocation's residue,
the title of my autobiography.

Do Not Disturb

Tired of answering my door in the run-up to the last election, I posted this sign/poem on my door. It worked, but I never got a Wobbly to knock...

The Pace of Spring

This year, Spring comes at the pace

it should around here: slow but gradually deliberate.

Not like last year, where we saw Winter

shut down completely and Spring skipped;

Summer started in March, for a month,

then went back to early Spring in April,

with frost that killed the fruit buds,

then back to Summer in May.
Climate change, we're told.

But this year, as spring comes on
as we remember, as I remember,

I wonder how many more

will come like this,

and how many more will come.

How To Approach The Page

When returning to the page after a long hiatus,
approach quietly, calmly,
hiding your pen in a pocket.
Slowly take the page and place it
on the desk. Caress it, talking softly
about its tooth and fiber, and how
the page and your pen will work very well together.
Only when the page is calm
should you reveal your pen.
While still touching the page,
begin writing--slowly at first, then
gradually increase your speed.
At some point, you will realize
that it has been the page, all along,
that has been training you,
waiting for you to return,
waiting to bring your pen back to it.