In my sixth decade now, with a front row seat
to the beautiful and fearsome march of days
on their way to fewer of them

What else, other than time,
do we have so many grievances with
but are still so grateful for?

I see life’s passing markers damaging my body,
leaving consolation gifts of memories, good ones,
and lessons-learned ones where wisdom should come from

My brother told me an odd detail
about our elderly mother's passing,
as we spoke on the phone

His words washing over me like a wave,
surrounding me in emotions
I couldn’t seem to contain

Something about falling and hitting your head
on a damn toolbox left in the front room,
near where you fell and never came back

I always think of you now
when I see my red-painted toolboxes
A wrench, a worn wood-handled screwdriver
So many objects for fixing things
All of them with their very specific purpose

Something is not right with the girl reflected in the glass.
While her hair is tied up, face done and dressed with class,
the emptiness in her eyes sinks deep like a lonely crevasse.
How long has she been gone and since someone looked within?
What darkness has entered, crawled beneath her skin?
The girl who used to be there is gone but how long has it been?

being a romantic comes with resubscribed connotations.

you are naive, weak, you do not know what the world is really like.

"you'll see soon enough."

if ones calls themselves a romantic,

they have clearly never had to deal with 'true' romance.

the fact is, it's the exact opposite.

romantics are brave, heroic even.

too see that love is painful, that it tears you apart without a second glance,

that you risk never being the same after it claims you--

willing to do that makes one courageous.

She is the springtime
A garden was given her
when a rose was sought

brightly hued blossoms
chill breezes, frozen fingers
delight in her grasp

the poet sits on a dark park bench
drinking mad dog 2020 with a drunk
a crumpled penthouse invite
in his pocket
the clever ones complain
while drinking champagne
impressed with themselves for changing
poetry's worn out face:
when metaphors could be understood
they were no good
the drunk never puts another
in his place
this man of the streets got the beat
he knows all carts and cargo weigh the same
he sits with just one face his red eyes watching
those hard-yoked eyes have seen it all before

the poet sits on a dark park bench
drinking mad dog 2020 with a drunk
a crumpled penthouse invite
in his pocket
the clever ones complain
while drinking champagne
impressed with themselves for changing
poetry's worn out face:
when metaphors could be understood
they were no good
the drunk never puts another
in his place
this man of the streets got the beat
he knows all carts and cargo weigh the same
he sits with just one face his red eyes watching
those hard-yoked eyes have seen it all before

the poet sits on a dark park bench
drinking mad dog 2020 with a drunk
a crumpled penthouse invite
in his pocket
the clever ones complain
while drinking champagne
impressed with themselves for changing
poetry's worn out face:
when metaphors could be understood
they were no good
the drunk never puts another
in his place
this man of the streets got the beat
he knows all carts and cargo weigh the same
he sits with just one face his red eyes watching
those hard-yoked eyes have seen it all before

We travelled up the Northern California Coast
Raining so much the roads filled with water;
headed to Fort Ross, our November destination

You held my hand all the way

Water to the floorboards, a highway landslide,
liquid, muddy and indifferent
Nothing was said as we exhaled our alarm

I held your hand tighter