winter's choice

for all the times
you have wandered
into a place so lonely
you have wondered
how many have wandered in here
in search of a drink
like you have

this is the place though
in that hard to find part
of downtown
where you wind up
to have the last beer of the night

this is the place where
if you listen
to what is going on around
you might hear the stories
of a guitar player
singing like it's just another tuesday night
you might hear him call up another friend
to play the guitar

the words and songs are enough
to make you stop the ticking for a moment
think about all the people up in their beds
hearing the solitary scraping of snow plows
in the empty streets
when winter makes it's choice

can the cold and snow account for the half-empty room
for those missing the dedication it takes
to play the guitar
work the tendons in one's hands
till they flutter like a bird
appearing like a nest you never noticed

winter is the last song
blowing it's long last breath
and walking off the stage before it's finished

make shift

of all the things that have passed
since the last poem
it might be best
to start with the mention
of the house falling in on itself
or something like that.
there are cracks where the front porch attaches
and the room where i sit
has a floor which bowls

the floor tips me back in my chair
to look up past the screen
the painting on the wall
of the boat sailing away
riding the waves
sailing into the distance

i picture those i might wave to
from the deck
there are others sailing
on their own boats
waving back
some are calm
some let the wind whip them up
in danger of capsize
some bailing water
i still wave
my life raft may not be transferable

the house is not some severe symbol
it just shows it's age
it is not much different from the others here
in this neighborhood
nothing is perfect

bedside

not sure
if it will ever be
completely normal
to stand at the foot of the bed
or next to the head
with it's 30 degrees
looking to the people who look up
sometimes in so much pain
or confusion
whatever they are going through
in the hospital
looking to the people who walk in
and out
who approach the bed
like its an island
hovering like quiet helicopters
ready to drop a rope
is there anything else i can do?
and turn and walk out
rubbing my hand together

the early garden

it starts with little rows of green
tiny stems pushing up
through dark earth
if you look away for awhile
and back they seem to have grown

from this much will come

in the mornings
i like to kneel down
notice the changes
see the shapes of the leaves
some like feathers or spades

these little plants are standing
out there in storms
lit up by lightning
and stomped by fat rain drops

they reach out on sunny days
race the sprouting weeds
which i pluck with thumb and forefinger

this little garden is our production
our plot
lining up the seeds and letting them grow

draft1: winter nights

last night i stood in the dark
two thin blades my foundation
i stood on water in solid form
white. black. silver. clear as glass.

balance takes time
as i move carefully
a tiny line is left behind
this is my path on ice

i can look down and watch these feet
they take turns
cutting into and sliding over all the imperfections
the frozen pond jagged, hard and smooth

skating at night with city lights above me
again i wonder if i am free
here i am because i have these
capacity. ability. opportunity. time.

what is this to me
i love it because from the ice
my feet carve out speed and push me on
i am afraid to fall
i am like a child
each circle i turn i learn from
each stuttering bruising tumble

this is my winter flying
my feet have cold sharp wings
i do not run from things
i turn circles cerebrally
the only cage i've felt
is the one i carry with me
i run my fingers along it's bones

my cage houses things which i keep
doubts and fears i don't understand
perhaps never will

i know this
on winter nights
i can kick, right and left
i can glide
i know i can fly however awkwardly
i can fly

winter bird

as i sit
i hear a winter bird
and wish
i did not first take it
as the mechanical squeak
of something broken
rather as a living noise
as singing to start the day