Sixty Nanoseconds

My ego boosts trucks,

Likes sirens, lights. Everything 





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My desire.

This fantasy.

The thoughts of sooner and later,

of first times and last times,

and every day in between.

The flag of Pollyanna.



My gratitude.

This warming joy.

The reach of that piece of paper,

its printed promises

and myriad whispered ones.

The dance of Mata Hari.


My regrets.

This hope.

The work mounting up; its clarion call.

The procrastination,

borne of fear, its sick echoes.

The “Who do you think you are?”



This memory.

The swell of dementia’s advance.

A seeming refusal

to turn the boat around.

The flow of the river.


Our illness.

This chance for health.

The missing who walk beside us.

The stars that blaze above.

These cosmic universes.

Their invitation to play.


The Manifesto.

This writing of it

on the sleeve of a heart of an

unlikely worm, inching.

None of us knows what it says.

The aroma of java.


My belief in

this surety:

Our meeting face-to-face, skin-to

-skin, when I said too much,

when I didn’t say enough.

And your: “It wasn’t me.”





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If I could not hold you

If I could not hold you,

I would hold the memory of then, those moments when the thought – the very thot – of not holding you was unthinkable, the not holding not even a thot

Hold the memory of when I did hold you, and the forever of your embrace.


If I could not lay with you, knowing the fit of you as you spooned me into that sweet afterward sleep, I would weave a coverlet from these tangled skeins of silk tracings and imagine us there anyway, under it together, beneath that brilliant, fierce, midnight sky of man-eating stars.


If I could not hear your voice, could no longer learn your music, I would ride this emptiness until I could call it forth, your harmony, your song, fold and carry it in my breast pocket I’d embroidered with that meadow lark for just this purpose.


And if I could not write to you the love poems of Rumi, or Hafiz, the graffiti and scribblings of mine you once loved, I would draw you a picture instead, I would maybe call it Girl with A Cello, or even Flight, and know that you’d know that in the quietest moments every fiber and point of my being knew you, loved you, will always.


I see you in the colour and the call of the cardinal and the jay

My wish, still, for your every joy and happiness carries on that quickening breast of the summer~winter song of the chickadee.

You, still, for me, and always, fly like that unfettered falcon of the fields




“Girl with A Cello”

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Dear Doctor Wu

Did she know when she carried you,

was she like Mary

knowing one day you’d be

King of the World,

already signed, sealed and delivered

from the beginning

from the very beginning – impatient to arrive,

to wear your Fez,

be that Holy Man

to every woman you’d ever meet.

Steely, beautiful mother, yours.





Posted in I dreamt I was a Contemporary Poet, runawaykeyboard, Thought-Traffic | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

I wish

of all I wish,

I wish for that Bodhi Tree

the soft grasses roundabout

the sky lit up with the fragrance

of the peace that excels all thought.


I imagine the grandchildren, there after the lovemaking,

your hand still in mine, too.


I would tell you the secret I just learned

whisper it softly.

“I see you. Hello, dear one. I see you.”


I don’t need to look.

I can feel your smile.

You’ve known it all along.






I wish I were under the Bodhi Tree

I wish I were under the Bodhi Tree

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This Life

is Ad Hominem
Everywhere. All the time. We
need a #brute button.

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Me and Mon Santo

Down a rabbit hole that isn’t.
Down a gopher hole, but only one leg.
I am like some crazy, late cornstalk,
too tough, too hidden for the harvest.
I wave about.
I’m stuck, I murmur.
“There’s no one here but us,” a voice drawls.

#singalong #notstrollingdowntheavenue #notlonelyorblue

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