The moon

How big the big moon tonight;

how it stirs this heart 

with its perfect swollen shape, 

with its dazzling light--a great celebrity 

in that world of night. 

Forget its cold truth: waterless, airless;

not a better world--it would kill me given a chance. 

Still I never tire of the view. 

Every full moon, half, any phase

feels new and gay and wonderful. 

My astronaut eyes fixed on earth, 

brocaded blue, unguarded in the path of sunbeams. 

The shock of that empty awesome 

surrounding black would change me. 

Even decades later 

while brushing my teeth, the image assails me--

our patterned earth circling in the ink of infinite deep. 

The mystery of it. 

The total mystery of it.

And no one to turn to. 

How I'm feeling

Don't ask me how i'm feeling. 

Please      just      don't ask. 

Because   I      am     reeling. 

No no no      ask me.

DO ask.

Because I’ll tell you 

even if you don't inquire, 

even though I'm drained 

of all routine desire. 

I want to tell you. I really do. 

I   do   not  want     to  be alone 

emoting blue. 

I need to report it. 

Or should I say, deport it. 

But the right word for 

this anguish, what is it?

What explains my hot weeping? 

These pounding moods 

that hound me like a shadow

that follows me around?

That when I see a bridge 

I want to jump!

Is the word....the diagnosis.....

Donald Trump?

A beautiful lie

There is a barrier between us 

and the dead; 

not even physics can explain 

where they move 

but they do move 

through a light source 

of their own. 

You can see them now and then 

but only from the corners 

of your eyes before they vanish

in a sudden flash 

like when a light bulb fails.

It can make your heart thrash. 

They are good listeners. 

That's all they do 

because the next world 

can't get through a barrier 

not even physics can explain 

and atheists disdain 

and the faithful sustain. 

A soul steps from worn out armor 

into the immaterial home 

and no one alive can be that happy. 

There is a barrier between us 

but they want for nothing. 

They wait for their own happiness 

to grow. 

And they will greet us, their dearly beloveds. 

There is a barrier between us 

but they do not forget us. 

Eternal without amnesia.  

Old death and young life entwined 

at once. 

Every moment a first moment. 

The best. It's yet to come. 

Believe it. 

Whispers

All that I feel is faint 

and bare, 

all that I say 

is barely and only briefly 

there. 

all whom I love,

all that I know 

whisks on wind,

all that I hear drifts 

from that seer.

What a sibilant din

in my ear.

bruits all that 

sound I can hear.

all that I know, drifters and

shifters

blowing swifter,

blowing silent 

like snowing,  

drifting, shifting then

going.

Whispers

All that I feel is faint 

and bare, 

all that I say 

is barely and only briefly 

there. 

all whom I love,

all that I know 

whisks on wind,

all that I hear drifts 

from that seer.

What a sibilant din

in my ear.

bruits all that 

sound I can hear.

all that I know, drifters and

shifters

blowing swifter,

blowing silent 

like snowing,  

drifting, shifting then

going.

When I wake this morning

I am sorry I did not fall to the floor, 

did not sob, 

did not even 

flinch 

when I saw you flattened 

on that long table 

under the white flash bulb 

of morning. 

I am sorry you did not look human. 

You seemed a form shaped in wax. 

A sculpt without ribcage. 

I am sorry I gave you a quick 

once over and sat down, 

my hands not knowing where to pose, 

my eyes riveted by you, by knowing

you will not wake up,

would not open. 

I am sorry I did not know 

what you were thinking 

those last months, 

even those last years,

perhaps ever. 

I should have asked 

more questions. 

When I wake this morning, 

questions drift from my dream, 

golden autumn leaves, 

fabulating, metastasizing,

piling up just before

they vanish.

There is a time

There is a time in our marriage 

when the days move between us 

so sweetly, with such peace, they leave 

no footprint. 

They have the faint feel of dreams. 

They seem like mere glimpses into dreams. 

Mornings of cheese omelettes.

Afternoon strolls by the truth filled lake.

Microwaved leftovers for dinner 

in our laps by the TV.

He is the sauce 

and I the pasta. 

He is the Clint Eastwood movie 

and I am the popcorn. 

Now he is the water 

and I am the eyes.