Poet

You throw my dice, God,
Make it seven.
Better yet, eleven!
But if I’m crapping out,
Please roll the boxcars
Big, full double six.
Two and three
Are not for me.
Amen.

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.

Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.

He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn – not enough rain, or too little light.

Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted
surprise, “It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too.
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.”

The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.

But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,

He held it mid-air without reason or plan.

It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.

“You’re welcome,” he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
a self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.

How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second
that’s mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand

About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

All are asleep when I return
But I do not feel alone.
The kitchen is a quiet welcome, chapel lit
By the glass encased memorial candle
For a grandmother I had never seen.
My father’s words her only image,
Suffered much. Always gentle.

The glass is almost empty now,
Flashing wild hunger for tallow
To neutral walls.
I sit and watch. Finally,
Resignation, a tiny flame.
The last weak flicker
Fades to a thin smoke wisp,
Curling gently
Around my finger,
As I reach for arms
That never held me.

The barrack sites
At Dachau
Are marked by smooth stones.
No sharp edges
On the smooth stones
At Dachau,
Except for
Gravel
In my heart.

The pulsating song
Of the urban prairie,
Vacant lots
With untended gardens
Of ragweed
And stunted sunflower,
Where pastel butterflies
Mate
In the noon sun
On beds of purple thistle.

Sunset stillness
Shivers
With each
Steam locomotive call.
The long scream of
Sky cloth ripped to the horizon,
Fading swiftly like
A lost kite,
Forlorn
And whispering
At the edge of a circle…

On top
Of the gas tower
A beacon twirls its
Filmy baton
Into the night.

Geometric life
Inside the pool hall.
Coned lighting
For thick white planes
Of cigarette smoke
Framing players
Surveying angles
For their next shot.
The cue ball slams
A racked triangle
And the flash opening
Of the closed fist
Drives multi-colored circles
Over green felt…

On the way home,
Rectangles of light
In apartment buildings
Marking cells of security,
Snug confinement
Underlining the thrill of movement,
The excitement of strange shadows
In dark streets
And the magic
Of squinted eyes
Turning street lights
Into pale golden cat whiskers.

Soft
Into sleep,
As the wind
Plays ancient lullabies
On poplar leaves.

He was baked by fires
Of hate and shame;
He burned through life,
Yet hated flame.

Now wrap his heart
In sheets of spray-
Let wind and drift
Have their way.

And where frozen floes
Are the only leaven,
May he rise again
In a cooler oven.

Home was a place:
The street with four trees,
All gone.

Home was a house,
A vacant lot now
Like a lost front tooth.

Home was a face, a face,
A face…

Home is a search,
The hopeless scrape of fingernails
On crusted time.

We met
Some time
Long ago.

Met
Or to meet
Never again.

Memory yet
Slipped in
Today.

Warm kiss
From petals
Of a rose.

I sat on the bench
Waiting
For the bus to arrive,
For the pain to leave.

Who expected
So many cars
So soon?

And when I die
They will lay me down
On the bed of a billion years,
And the time that comes to cover me

Will cover those who mourn for me
Will cover those who will mourn for them
Will cover the time that covers all
On the bed of a billion years.

Oh God! God! God!
How cruel the choices of
Idiot tale, sharp blur,
Or none of the above.

The pulsating song
Of the urban prairie,
Vacant lots
With untended gardens
Of ragweed
And stunted sunflower,
Where pastel butterflies
Mate
In the noon sun
On beds of purple thistle.

Sunset stillness
Shivers
With each
Steam locomotive call,
The long scream of
Sky cloth ripped to the horizon,
Fading swiftly like
A lost kite,
Forlorn
And whispering
At the edge of a circle.

On top
Of the gas tower
A beacon twirls its
Filmy baton
Into the night.

Geometric life
Inside the pool hall.
Coned lighting
For thick white planes
Of cigarette smoke
Framing players
Surveying angles
For their next shot.
The cue ball slams
A racked triangle
And the flash opening
Of the closed fist
Drives multi-colored circles
Over green felt

On the way home
Rectangles of light
In apartment buildings
Marking cells of security,
Snug confinement
Underlining the thrill of
movement,
The excitement of strange
shadows
In dark streets,
And the magic
Of squinted eyes
Turning street lights into
Pale golden cat whiskers.

Soft
Into sleep,
As the wind
Plays
Ancient lullabies
On poplar leave

He read
To live.
He wrote
To hide
Behind
“he said.”

I am he
Who hid
And read.

Words
Sometimes
Take
The place
Of living.

Sunny day
At the beach.
Cresting waves
Lungs full
Exhaling
Bands of foam
Along the shore.

Dark night
Quiet water.
And the gasp
Of a lone wave
Dying on shore.

Eyes close.
To escape
To hear
Again
The ocean breathing.