On the 4th of July

Stars for the States, stripes for the thirteen

White for purity and for the red and the blue

It’s Independence Day for the patriots

A day off from work

A day of sales for the conspicuous consumer

Fireworks for the little kid in all of US

A day of consumption for most of US

More of a time to forget

Rather than reflect on the true meaning of the day

From Francis Scott Key to Frederick Douglass

The meaning of the 4th of July

As numerous as the fireworks in the sky

Rejoice, Reflect, Regret, Remember

Take your pick on this national holiday

Forget, for now, the tarnished image of

The Other America

Or the proclamations of the charlatans who

Distort its meaning for political ends

Go fishing, take in a parade, drink beer

Watch a baseball game

For now… we can still bask in the ideal of America

It is a day for fun and forgiving

To float in a pool or lay in the shade

To eat burgers and dogs without guilt

In fact, it is our patriotic duty

It is the essence of our American-ness

But at some point during

This day of idealized frivolity

Make an honest assessment

Of where we stand as a nation today

Consider each star an unrealized goal

Each stripe, a wall that separates

US from true national unity

A true measure taken of how far

We have come and how far

We still have to go

Our imperfect Union is still

A work in progress

And this day above all others should

Embrace that simple reality.

The Bather

Soft touch on the steps of stone,

Feeling her way

Down to the black water brother,

Dark is the day.

Is she waiting

For someone to say

People are cruel to each other,

Live another day.

Slowly she slips from her gown,

Her hair falls away.

She steps in the black water brother,

A look of dismay.

Is she thinking

What others will say?

Tears fall from her eyes mother,

Far from the fray.

Dark water up to her chin,

Closed eyes betray.

The heart has grown numb brother,

Cold is the day.

Will she listen,

A voice starts to pray.

Is there a heaven sister?

Live another day.

Waking Up

As the last of my dreams

Fade into black,

Those movies of the mind

That take you back,

The Mourning Dove calls

in the pre dawn light.

My eyes blink open

In the cool dark night,

To the hum of the fan

So slowly turning,

Familiar thoughts in

My mind still churning,

From that previous life

In another time,

When the man I am now

Was still in his prime.

What I was then

Still a part of me somehow.

I get to choose

Which parts to avow.

And in so doing

I might yet change the past,

So that in my dreams, at least,

Only the good times will last.

What Is It (about the rain)?

What is it about the rain that makes you blue?

Is it the sound of the comfort we once knew?

I listen to the water’s steady drum beat,

Sometimes growing loud, sometimes turning soft.

A tired sadness washes over me while

The puddles form and the water trickles by.

It is dark and grey in the daylight,

Although the sky remains a shade of white.

The yellow lights are on inside the house

Where I sit warm and dry, but still I sigh,

As the water drops slide down the window pane.

I watch as the free fluid world outside,

Wild and wet with the clear rain shine,

Seems lonely in the absence of other life.

Everything slows down waiting for the sun’s

Return and the steady rain no longer falling,

To hear once again the sweet songbirds calling.

The Persistence of Memory

A face stares from beyond the years,

It was a child’s face I thought I knew.

He looked sad to me,

Locked inside with all his fears,

Beyond the space of many years,

Waiting for a friend to set him free.

In the discordant mist of my memory,

He seemed a great deal like me.

I want to tell him now,

In time, all things will be right somehow;

To share with him what I know,

How the closed doors will open as you grow.

When I reflect back on what I felt then,

With no idea as to what I could be,

I see this face, and I know it is me.

Shadow Figures

Run down through the charnel wood,

There beyond the darkened glen.

Where the crystal water once ran free,

Only strange things crawl around the bend.

Hidden deep within this hollow,

The shadow figures come and go.

To hide away vast sums of treasure,

And all the realms of knowledge known.

To plan for the day that’s coming soon,

When a dying planet breathes its last.

The reign of man will come to an end,

When the cities burn under a silent moon.

And what will be the fate of this earth,

When blue and green are no longer seen?

All that we built with our hands and minds,

Settles to dust with the passage of time.

Will the shadow figures cast a new light,

On some cold and distant brave new world?

Can we learn from the past and start again,

Or disappear along the deep shadow’s end?

Paris in the Spring

Young people in the gardens bloom,

Soaking in the fountain’s spray.

Under a cloudless blue sky we sit

Enjoying the spring’s first warm day.

Drinking sweet rose’ along the Seine,

Waiters in white aprons prance.

Watching as the long boats go by

While the street performers dance.

Tourists crowd the narrow streets,

Looking for tables in the sun.

To sip cappuccino in the cafes

As the skateboarders and joggers run.

Then set out upon the Tuileries,

Mona Lisa smiles from her wall.

Winged Victory and Venus de Milo

Stand proud in their stony hall.

We walk among the giant tombstones,

In the city of the famous dead,

Or lay flat upon our backs looking

Up at the long tower rusting red.

Stand inside the speeding metro,

Then touch the spirit of Notre Dame,

When history and culture combine

To create an experience so sublime…

Civilization Sings…

When you come to Paris in the Spring.

In a Sleepy Hollow

In a sleepy hollow not far from the river,

Beside the deep and narrow frozen lake.

By the cold shadows the mountains deliver,

We lie nestled in the warmth we make.

Waiting…for the ice and snow to slowly melt.

Wondering…if the grey mist will ever lift.

Hoping…for a shallow sun to warm the sky.

Anticipating…new sounds of life upon the water.

For the short winter days will soon grow mild

As the embers from the wood stove grow dark.

When green not grey, will be the color of the wild.

Then upon another spring we will soon embark.

Ecuador

There along the far western shore,

A country at the center of the world.

Green mountains peek from behind the clouds,

Roaring waterfalls thundering loud.

The central highlands form the lofty spine,

Switch-back roads with no rails to guard.

Quiet sounds of exotic birds calling,

Soft soothing rain on the flowers falling.

The old town streets flow with life at night,

People say to me, “Buenas noches, Señor!”

Thin stray dogs with heads hanging low,

In the shadow of the sleeping volcano.

A sad woman in white by the church door,

Brilliant blue butterflies dance in her hair.

Hair as black as a dark Mindo night,

She prayed for me in the warm moonlight.

But with regret to this day, I walked away,

I left her there, alone in the square,

There along the far western shore,

Beneath the cloud forest of Ecuador.

Empty Truth

Words as empty as an old well.

Politicians smile with impossible promises.

Ad-men entertain as they steal you blind.

Faith leaders prey on our deepest fears.

Lovers whisper till death do us part.

Truths as empty as my soul.

And why?

Because I let myself be fooled.

There is comfort in hearing

Only what you want to hear.

How easy to seduce!

How quickly we succumb!

There is more truth, I fear

In a single bark from a dog

Than any pronouncement of man.

Around the Bend

Somewhere around the bend

My future waits its turn.

I cast my light both far and wide

To see what I can learn.

Out there in the ether

The shadows dance on walls.

The light reveals what I conceal;

All the dark memories I recall.

Sometimes you are with me.

More often I’m alone.

The past is always present

On this journey far from home.

As I slowly make the turn

I face what I most fear;

In this moment of my weakness

I cannot shed a tear.

An Empty Head

The words were there

Then they were gone.

Dancing round the

Deep subconscious

Waiting for a

Hand to write them

Down. Perfect pearls

Of lyric verse

With a message

Clear and sublime.

Floating there in

The fluid of

My silky sleep;

Just repeating,

Half suggesting,

So compelling.

Words that no mere

Waking moment

Could produce with

Any dramatic

Effect. And thinking

These words firmly

Recorded to

Be retrieved in

A few short hours,

The images

Faded to black

As my body

Tossed and turned,

But with a sense

Of confidence

Knowing that the

Achievement of

The poet in

My splendid dreams

Was secure. And

Then I woke with

An empty head!

Snow in the Trees

Branches bend under the blanket’s weight.

The world slowly turns to black and white

With sharp contrasts outlined bold and straight.

Nature insulated in the grey daylight.

The world looks unnatural but pure and clean.

What feels dry is wet and burning bright.

The path I followed is no longer seen.

The world is strangely silent to me.

Just the hollow sound of a cool wind stream.

Small flecks of white slowly falling free.

The world grows cold in the vanishing light.

I face the solitude I came to see.

As the snow in the trees illuminates the night.

I Often Think of the Color Black

I often think of the color black,

an unnatural shade that takes me back

to those dark days before the dawn

when my soul withered beneath her scorn.

Where else in nature does it appear,

hidden deep within the heart of fear

or those dark silent moonless nights

where nothing grows in the absence of light?

Is it even a color at all,

to show autumn’s dance every Fall

or catch the spark in a child’s eye

or the shades of blue in the morning sky?

I think not, in the end,

to think of black as colors blend.

It only exists with our passive consent

to color the world with my discontent.

Light in the Trees

We stand firm against the sun

Leaving our muted dust behind.

A smile for all eternity,

The bedrock lover’s rhyme.

And all there is in life to do,

We search among the shadows fall.

Living not for our dying day

But breathe instead the lighted way.

The Fine Art of Weeding

Down on bended knee,

the evidence of sad neglect

lies before me.

Tufts of green clumps sprout

among the rocks.

Paper, cloth and memories

piled high or boxed away

in dark closets

and the dark recesses of my mind.

Resigned to the task at last,

I begin the work of peeling away

the vast clutter of my life:

All the unread books,

All the unrealized dreams,

All the too tight jeans,

All the sad regrets,

All the friends who

are friends no more,

And the damn weeds!

With a subtle twist of the wrist

and a sharp yank at the roots

(remember to get the roots or

the weeds will return

in numbers larger than before)

…the battle begins.

Once lifted from the soil,

I lay the casualties aside,

turning a blind eye to

what I have done.

I feel both liberated and sad,

but somehow more in control of

my newly fashioned life.

A cleansing of the soul

can only begin with

A cleansing of your space,

inside and out.

Down by the River

Down by the river the boats quickly flee

The old man by the tree is staring at me

Self conscious eyes burn into mine

Two distant souls in need of a sign

To the panorama of the river I turn

As the wind whistles its lamenting concern

Faint music from across the river drifts by

The pulsing sun is warm in the sky

People fishing by the dock talking loud

My thoughts lost in some ephemeral cloud

A young mother sits on a bench in the shade

The currents of my sad regret soon fade

Down by the river in this small river town

The old man by the tree, I realize is me!

Through the Open Window

Through the open window

and down the spotlight path,

far beyond the darkened tower

and the shrouded sentry’s wrath.

I float above the humming wires

to the copse of trees beyond,

where the air is damp and fresh

with my soul I will abscond.

For so long I’ve contemplated

this final moment of release,

to taste the dew of freedom

from the horrors that never cease.

To rejoin the living world

and leave all fear behind,

with the promise of tomorrow

we will repair our lives in time.

So come at last sweet sanctuary

I reach out and touch your face,

just as the iron doors clang

and they rip me from your grace.

Jesus on the Bridge

In the far away places of my memory

we saw misty mountains from the ridge.

The cathedral looms above the square

like Jesus on the Bridge.

Dark stone towers mark the crossing

as we work our way through the crowds.

The faceless vendors hype their wares

in the shadows of the clouds.

The homeless man kneels before me

outstretched arms extended wide.

With palms turned up in supplication

a sleeping dog by his side.

A few coins for absolution

and we hurry along our way,

to the next tour attraction

fighting back feelings of dismay.

All this splendor amidst the poor,

the palace shines upon the ridge.

As we look down upon the lost

like Jesus on the Bridge.

Late Summer by the River

Late summer by the river,

I watch the shadows fall.

The kids have left the nest!

Wondering,

Where will they turn up next?

Alone or together,

We are heading for the Fall.

Dispersed,

The seeds to the wind,

The birds in the air,

Continents away but

We are still here.

Where will life take them?

Can the journey be safe?

We are born to fly and born to die,

Forever contemplating why.

We just do and rarely see.

Let the sun rise over the trees

As the clouds drift on by.

Sitting alone in this chair

My hand moves across the page,

Liberating my thoughts from

The haze of a silent dream.

Empty nest, so they say,

Is the start of a brand new day.

The dog and me and Mary too!

Together we will watch the shadows fall

And the breeze ripple across the water.

As the squirrels gather their nuts

And the brown leaves slowly curl,

As the nights grow softly cool,

The endless summer comes to an end.

The birds have flown,

The flowers wilted,

The fruit is ripe on the vine.

Sad to know

They were all once mine!

As my summer comes to a close,

I think of summers gone by.

Summer is for kids

Who are kids no more.

Autumn is for us.

The twilight of the year.

The days grow short

As the years disappear.

But the young birds return

For many summers to come,

And see new flowers grow,

And know where they are from.