Robert Frost was dead the day I was born
and most of the days since, before that
he was old. In the folds and creases
of my mind, I see him glaring
into the cold January sun, his hair
white and wisping – a calamity of poetry
and one last winter.

I watched him step away to tea
with important people that knew how
to rule – he took no care
except walk gingerly – then off
into the shadow of an office
I hear he leaned against a resolute desk
shared a thought, or two, on humanity
then disappeared back to New Hampshire.

These are not choises, they are happenstance.
I am disappointed to have missed the path
he walked.

imagine how the wind would blow
if there were no wind at all
only words like this and that and those
still thoughts we jotted down
from a strangers list of nots

i tell you, fiction, fact and fantasy
there is no wind or at all, there is only
poetry and prose
the still thoughts we did not jot down
of strangers tied in knots

imagine me in nothing – being nothing –
naked as a newborn mouse
only flesh like this and that and woes
sweated thoughts sketched
and sketchy strangers begging what?

i tell you, fantasy, fact and fiction
i am the mouse that is all, there is only
tales and verse
the sweated thoughts sketched
and we two sketchy fictionauts

a) Love is the simplest thing in the universe.
b) Love is the most complicated thing in the universe.
c) Love is fleeting.
d) Love is eternal.
e) There are dozens of words in the english language that describe some form of love. (which is fortunate for poets since it really helps with the rhyming and meter options)

Three shasta daisies
slip the chains of earth
to reach for God
with prayers of infinite beauty

Their shadows call them
back to Earth
the angels sing to them
of Alleluia and the warmth of souls

Each stem becomes a tower
too strong to fail

Their golden eyes see
heaven in the blue sky

Words become them
for an instant.

I refuse the tears
because they are not mine to cry

I reject the sunlight
for it is not my heart that needs this warmth

I let go of hope
because now is the time for things that are real

I deny my dreams
because now must be good enough

It was a Tuesday,
when I heard the man say
time does not exist
and though there are infinite still frames
we only ever live in one.

Only silence
a face frozen in agony
under a blue sky

I watched life
and wondered, is it true?

The heron on my roof seemed preoccupied
with the quick shimmy of squirrels up to the roof
to tan and discuss new age philosophies in all their nakedness

The heron casts a little squint, possibly it was sympathetic,
maybe he wanted to pull up a chair and tell the squirrels
about his time in Baton Rouge. “I’m as American as the next heron,” he’d say, “but that doesn’t mean I have to agree
with every stupid thing we do.”

He squints again as he starts to show off
the frames of his great uncle Merv, his Grand-Pepe
and the overly Catholic display of his great great grandmother Anna Banana Von Blue.

Then he’d slip on his snakeskin moccasins, jump
to the middle of the room, and bounce around as he told
the story of the first time one his kin encountered a bulldozer
in the pre-purple loose strife swamps.

In 20 years, you will remember
the blue sky
and the bear-shape of the one cloud
the smell of asphalt, the pain of landing
and the color of the blood on your knees

In 30 years, you will remember
the feeling of a bone against the ground
the taste of grass
the sense of falling, the pain of landing
and the color of dirt in your wounds

in 40 years, you won’t remember anything
except the feeling of the wind
through your hair
the beat of your heart against the inside of your ribs
and the sound of moving
humming through your ears
as your mother yelled after you

God, you’ll miss your mother
her voice
and her touch
as she cleans the wounds
after you fall again.

Back when i was a noun
I verbed all over the place
I became a pro noun

as i tried to do too much add verb here
add jective there, and next thing
you know, I am being trailed
by extraneous exclamation points
and everything’s gone to hell.

now, i’m just a tawdry preposition
with conjunctivitis
but that’s how it goes
when you’ve got a life sentence

At first, I think this is my kind of joint.
Then as I walk in, “Ouch!”
“Dude, watch out for the bar,” the bartender says.

I climb up the stool,
wiggle my tail into the seat and try
to figure out what will take the sharp off my worst points.

“Bartender, that’s my bowl,”
I glare at him venomously
as he serves some anyone in skinny jeans a scorpion bowl
and a plate of something munchy.

“Screw this place,” I say
and I walk out into the pouring rain.

A frog is swimming around in the torrents
where the road should be.

“Hey buddy,” I yell at her,
“I need to get across.”

She rolls her eyes at me, “I’ve known creepers like you,
I’m not going to give you the chance
to hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her,
“I just need…. a way out.”

She looks into my eyes, she softens,
“Ok, hop on my back,
I’ll carry you.”

Halfway across I start to ravage her.

“Why would you do that, now we’re both going down,” she says.

“I can’t help it,” I tell her,
“It’s my nature.”