for Sharon

Joe keeps paying the pizza delivery kid
The same amount over and over,
Taking it back and counting it again,
Like numbers were swimming in a bottle.
Joe’s hands playing their own sleight-of-hand
With the bills he was shuffling.
The kid’s face was entirely bemused–
His eyes opened wide with amusement.
Len is laughing and pointing for me
To watch Joe’s strange performance.
Then our host Sharon notices,
And her beautiful laugh begins
To dissipate the swirling miasma with ease,
Even pausing Joe with its heartfelt tones.
I’m mesmerized by Joe’s slapstick stupor,
Like some Emmett Kelly bit in real life.
By this time, the delivery kid
Is getting more stoned on the loud
Confusion of intoxication in the air,
The after-funk of artists in revelry,
Coltrane adding his voice to the mix.
The dazed delivery kid’s smile lingers
When I put an end to Joe’s show,
Rescuing both from the farce,
Tipping the kid a twenty and a wink.

I flowed in the river
Went deep, thought I’d drown
But a branch caught my hand
I drifted through the unbearable purity
Of this water
I don’t know how long
The water stung my flesh
Until it washed me clean
I moved toward the bank
Where tree and leaf reflections
Shimmered on the surface
A palimpsest of light and shade
I saw souls in the shape of fish
Basking in eternity
I don’t know how
I stepped out of that water
It wasn’t my time
Still, I am the river
And I flow as I walk

for Len and Joe

This was way before computers and cell phones.
Some of you might remember.
You needed collections and anthologies of verse,
An atlas, an encyclopaedia, several dictionaries,
A Bible and The Golden Bough,
Brief Lives: A Biographical Companion to the Arts–
And, of course, a good study of poetic form and meter.
It was also nice to keep the spirit flowing
With several open bottles of wine,
And the sweet smell of Acapulco Gold
To keep the spirit whirling,
Like some ancient chant or music,
And two good friends who loved poetry.
That’s how poems were made.

I went to the other side
And saw one I loved
She lowered her head when I called
I saw my mother and father
Standing in the mist
Their faces pale and soft
Tell me it is you mother
Tell me it is you father
And amid the multitudes
I saw my brother
In all his sadness
Searching for his son
And I heard my father
Ask a question in my mind
What have you become
What have you become
And then I woke
To face what remains of me now

Now that you’ve lost everything
Are you ready
To fall back on the stars
Now that you carry the weight
Of the past
Are you ready
For the lightness of being
Now that you’ve been broken
Are you ready to be whole
Leave what you own
It belongs to the earth
You belong to what’s beyond
Are you ready
Yes I am ready

Touch the surface
Touch the light
Touch my skin
Touch my eyes
With your eyes
Touch the surface
Touch the pond
Feel the ripples
Hold the gold
Let us love
The same light together

It’s too bad Ruth closed her fruit stand.
She’d sell fresh produce from the county
On a little piece of land she owned.
Ruth had an earth grain to her skin
Like bushels of greens, baskets of pears.
She loved to smile and talk,
Her heart as pure as sunlight on soil.
She had the wisdom of nature
And grit of work to her banter.
Now, when I drive past the stand,
It just looks abandoned, like Ruth
Had wandered into the wilderness,
And the blades of a standing fan
She left behind, turn without power,
Turn with the seasons, and haven’t stopped.

These are spring clouds
Lingering behind leafless trees,
Spreading into purest blue.
Am I seeing things again,
Or is it just a case of pareidolia?
Faces bright with sunlight,
Angels in my skies,
Swans in my eyes,
Milkweed on my mind,
Apple blossoms in my rhyme,
Heaps of assurance
For fairer weather.

I remember being poor–
On the coldest nights of winter
We slept in the kitchen,
The oven on, warming the air.

We lived along the Detroit river,
Just a step away from fireworks.
We’d watch ships sail by
Or explore the train-yard,
Its tracks leading
To places that shone with gold.

We lived in a post-war bungalow,
Its gabled roof bowing to time,
A hushed skeleton of wood and nail.
The walls, cold as morning steel,
Held the quiet of working hands.

My father worked hard,
My clothes were hand-me-downs.
One brother built his own bike
From discarded scraps.

My older brother was a pin-setter
At a bowling alley nearby,
And both fought street gangs
So the streets would let them pass.

A “blind pig” bar was beside us…

And once, a violent pimp
With some of his girls, moved in–
Till the cops shut them down.

We might have been poor,
The walls were thin,
Cold slipped in like an unwanted guest,
And outside, the night was filled
With sirens, shouts, and breaking glass.

But inside– my parents were in love.
They played the glorious voices
Of tenors and sopranos,
Drowning out a prostitute’s screams,
Dragged by the hair
Or choked and slapped on the street.

When drunks stumbled
Out of the Drake Tavern
They dropped change
We’d divvy up for candy.
We didn’t have a lot
But we had each other.

It didn’t matter where we lived,
Our parents were rich in love,
Their music and laughter,
The wealth of our joy
And family was our fortune.

Carnival at dusk–
Summer slips away too fast.
I stumble off, dizzy.

Rifles behind glass—
Our hands, forbidden to touch,
Silent in their rule.

A hawk climbs the sky,
Into a cloud, snow begins–
Its wings stir the flakes.

They said he was sleeping,
But a child knows better still—
No breath from Grandpa.

A weir dressed in blooms,
Morning glories wrap the stone–
A robe of flowers.

It’s night, a plum drops–
Into the rain barrel’s quiet,
Ripples kiss the moon.

An eastern bluebird
Warbles softly by a brook.
Songs echo between.

Wind stirs pear tree petals,
They fall like snow on my skin.
Years drift with each breeze.

At the hospital,
Waiting for results,
A sick child smiles back, playful.

Unloading melons
The sun cracks in half, and we
Eat lunch from the source.

Plum tree in full bloom–
A divine girl bathed by night,
Soft leaves catch the moonlight.

White mandevilla—
A woman’s face, then gone in air,
Yellow eyes still glow.