Walking away

The quest now is to walk away 

from fear and from the fear of fear, 

walk off into the woods and cool humidity, 

walk close to the edge of the river's rush and roar 

where the trees stop, where the borders of 

branches disappear and you hear them--

a conspiracy of ravens screeching 

but see just a flash of one black wing.

Keep in that direction, 

follow that primeval shriek 

and by the river stop, 

remove your shoes,

stand barefoot in cool water, 

your jeans damp with spray, feel now

too at ease to fear

all that's hell or even heaven.

Savagely I now recall

My girls swing for hours, moving, 

moving heads up, feet up, 

moving heads up, 

feet up.

Sometimes they want me 

to push them, they want 

to move faster, faster 

but I refuse, my body worn 

from life.

I do not see the clock's hands 

buffer round and round 

past our crowning 

moments.

I do not see the clock's hands 

creep below the ground to

loosen one by one 

all the bolts that hold us 

there.

Mindless, I decline to push them. 

Mindless, I read the book 

I could be reading now instead

of then.

I will follow you there....

I will follow you there where the waves break, 

where the birds play with you, there

where the wild wind scatters you 

in the scrolling surf,

on my knees, sinking into sand 

swallowed inch by inch by 

these excited waves, so excessive 

their excitement that I fear

I might join you right then and there

the way they heave and pull on me, 

blowing and towing. 

But life is so beguiling I hold on, 

dear one, I hold on 

to my own self 

and turn my back on those swells,

on you.

Forgive me, my love; I will hand over

to death only one precious hour 

at a time.

.  

How is it we are strangers?

First you crawl to me 

then your first steps 

circle my legs 

and boom! 

you are taller than me 

and you run for the plane

and vanish from 

some windy platform 

as if swooped up 

by a hawk. 

How is it that you and I are strangers 

when yesterday we lived in this world 

laced like a vine on a trellis? 

Here in this same town, same house

making the same bean and cheese burrito? 

The shrink's diagnosis: manhood.  

He says you will cross many rivers 

many times, many bridges on your journey. 

He says that's life: one day manhood 

seems so far ahead and boom! 

one day a man stands before you.

Sobered, I walk the trail home 

and meet a sweet horse that gallops 

along the gate, he eager 

to keep pace and I think 

of my boy. 

Each night comes a dream of you 

on your bike, 

you racing beside me,

the joy on your face. 

My joy. 

I guess you call it a butterfly

You watch your boy fuse with a PC, 

the boy you've picked flowers with, 

the boy who now mocks you

the one you think can't be him,

the boy you sat in trees with.

And you are right, it is not him,

this boy a humbug or whatever 

you call a critter that's stopped eating, 

that hangs upside down from a twig, 

that mutates with no aspect of 

a former incarnation.

So you repel the urge to place your hand 

on his shoulder, buck the wish to kiss

his cheek just one more time for

old time's sake, bury your need

to pull him back into the world 

you once were bound in.

You accept that world now lives 

only in your mind.

Sure, he recalls some things-- 

the pictures you show him serve

as proof, like the rings of a tree, 

when once you lifted this boy 

from his crib 

and your lives felt opulent 

and the boy looked so beautiful in blue. 

Get me out of here

The homebody bird waffles

about flying. 

His head snaps right then left, up 

then down.  Undecided. 

No breeze to help extract -

himself from shore, littered 

with taco chips.  

A few flutters of feather sends

him back onto the land. 

I enjoy his feeble indecision and 

keep him in this state by

tossing more chips. 

He seems content chowing. 

Not having to hunt then mince

bugs down his tube. 

He swallows till stuffed then

sits and stares with me 

into the air, together we

stare at this life. 

The seabird 

could do the same

but ignores the chips. 

A driven creature, ready for takeoff 

as if his tail had been scorched 

by the sun.

He must fly to live. 

He wants to work, to feel

his feathers in full sail

straining 

against wind, eyes angled 

at the sea.

I want to be like him, not me,  

always looking down, 

content with easy morsels 

tossed my way.  

I want to be a seagoing bird--

Close one eye, 

raise wide and high

my wings and hit the wind. 

 

Talking to myself

 

The setting sun’s golden shapes 

dart about the tiny fiefdom

of a parking lot

where I am talking 

to myself again when 

I should be listening 

to the blades that squeeze 

up through the cracks.

They may have 

important things 

to tell that I should know

like how to stake 

a claim to life 

in this forsaken world.

And though the night and I

just shrugged them off, 

look now how 

I remember them.