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Poems Spring 2023

How things remind

Just when I let my guard down.

Just when the joy of sharing seemed within sight.

Just when I thought I exhaled.

Just when I tried to get everything right.

Just when I gave a musical stranger a handout.

Just when I felt life was aligned.

Just when I thought I knew.

Just when all that I had planned I finished.

Just when I got punched in the gut.

Reminders come up hard and fast like the

car not seen on the freeway that comes

up out of nowhere to spin you around

and the seconds as you spin at sixty miles

per hour bringing up the nickelodeon images

of people you love and you realize that

Just when you think you can rest you cannot.

Nothing else

When in the mornings bathed in fog

we hear the horn blow, dream distant

horizon begging us to adventure:

come and go.

Ishmael, oh Ishmael, the sea waves

gently brush along the barnacled masts

buried in the harbor keeping

ships safe at bay.

“Nothing else is holding us here,” she

said. And right she is. Who now

needs us as they had before?

No one I can now recall.

Ishmael, oh Ishmael, why did we wait

long to hear the siren of your call?

Yet, we tarry no more. Bags ready.

A farewell song plays on.

Iberian coasts, Don Quixote dusty

plains, cathedrals, and mosques,

colors of all kinds, greet our

fog-lifted eyes this morn.

Ishmael, oh Ishmael, the seas have

parted. Who we were is now a

small part of who we are. Taking

to sea: new soul, new heart.

Just Love

An elongated, broad, and wide bridge of fluttering thoughts

mashed together, with fork tine marks, childlike in their

playful crisscross.

I saw the spectrum of green-yellow-blue that is the mindful

street sign that always welcomes me into my favorite dreams

and then ochre (deep

and earthy) sets a ground swell of emanating ancestral

figures who listen and ask just to see like Lincoln

in the Bardo. They simply

want to remember a taste of the being that used

to be and the whale sounds start to bellow out of

my expanding chest

and I breathe deep and hollow like a breath oar

that is stroking through the respiratory sea that

keeps me alive and

I slumber, yawn, and cry because it is too beautiful

and questions are tossed aside as the ancestors

counsel, “They don’t matter.”

The waves of cold wash around me. I see the large

bouncing balloons shaped like people I’ve known

who have floated away

light and no longer grounded by the weight of their

lives and they take with them their worries and scatter

them across the darken

night star-populated sky. This worry went to Venus.

This worry went to Mars. This worry will find a large space

on Jupiter. And the ancestors

hum in a chorus “So little matters.” And then they chant

Just love. Just love. Just Love. Just Love. Just Love. Just love.

Just Love. Just Love. Just Love.

When the road gets weary

When the road gets weary, my friend

Stop and fill the cistern again.

Fill it with the fuel of the future or

The remains of the past.

Weary is a load laden with things

We wished for and thought we

Deserved when in fact we lost

Sight of what is worth.

A road on which you stumble,

Almost tumble is begging for

A pack to be unloaded and

Navigation redreamed.

Weary is a temporary state

For most, but for some it is

An existential graveyard and

For those we pray.

You, my friend, have only

Fallen weary and are lost with

Out a song for a short while

And now must change.

For a weary soul is not a

Way to be alive. For a weary

Mind is never kind and works

To drive you mad.

Weary though you be, fight on.

Weary though you be, move on.

Weary though you be, live on.

Be weary no more.

You can hear my words but only

Your eyes can lead you away from

Your sad state. See what you

Have not seen before.

Who was it in rhythm and dance

Said if a man cannot dance do not

Give him a sword? A weary man

Needs a sword for sure.

You must battle demons of your

Own design and since you birthed

Them only you can see to their

Rightful demise.

Demons are needed to create

Fright and pain, but when prayers

Are answered then they must be

Made to move on.

The twinkle in your eye tells me

That you can see. Grab it! Savor

It! The memory of it there! Ah,

Happy or content may you be!

Opening Day

The sun is out. Not a threat of

a rain-out in sight. You were

worried yesterday ‘cause the

clouds could not stop crying,

crying all day long like even

they missed the sun.

Today, it looks like what

Opening Day is supposed to

look. Blue sky up until the

white vapor starts. And a jet

is leaving its trailing white

plume tagging to its tail

as it sails along.

The itch is crawling up to

to your mitt hand and you

squeeze the glove that’s

been with you since you

were young and believed

you could be an all-star

but you were just all

right. That’s all.

Your pals will be there and

the lights will be on and a

guy they say is the best

ever will be on the mound

better than a young Babe

Ruth, they say. But he is

Japanese. Well, well.

It’s Opening Day! Politics

be damned! A kid again

without a worry. And not

caring who wins or loses.

You will be where you belong.

Can’t wait to hear the call:

Time to Play Ball!

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