there was just enough
natural light
coming from the source
a peering over the horizon
tiny brilliant sliver of pie chart
to make it to the small window
and through that rectangle
to rouse me from dreams of harvest
there’s no way to know
if my eye lids fluttered upon opening
or if they snapped up and stayed fixed upon it
it stood still
presenting itself to me
motionless
almost like a nervous child
waiting for a smile
this golden maple
framed in october snow
beaming in sun
an eidolon
haunting, from these first morning moments
through the rest
of the autumn day
the last job
the last job i had,
one where i went everyday
or enough days in a row to feel
like i went everyday,
was not so bad.
the best times
were when i would wake
in the dark
walk behind the house
to the old garage.
haul my bike out
and pedal through
morning drizzle.
grey light appearing at the edges
and the puddles still catching
street lights.
i would be the first through the doors.
everything was gleaming
tipped up and put in place.
i would pull two shots
and pour the thick dark coffee
into a heavy white mug.
i would flip up the bright lights in back
and the juke box would moan to life.
if i was lucky it would be tom waits
singing to the rain
i would grab a crisp bright white apron
fold the top half down and wrap the strings
around my middle twice, tying in front.
i would turn the dials, bending down
to watch underneath the scrubbed silver slab
as the blue flame would burn to life, all down the line.
turn it to the perfect heat for hash.
i would ready the batter,
grab a fresh tray of eggs.
set up my favorite spatulas.
drink my coffee leaning on the warming grill
and wait for them to arrive,
walking out of the rain.
one where i went everyday
or enough days in a row to feel
like i went everyday,
was not so bad.
the best times
were when i would wake
in the dark
walk behind the house
to the old garage.
haul my bike out
and pedal through
morning drizzle.
grey light appearing at the edges
and the puddles still catching
street lights.
i would be the first through the doors.
everything was gleaming
tipped up and put in place.
i would pull two shots
and pour the thick dark coffee
into a heavy white mug.
i would flip up the bright lights in back
and the juke box would moan to life.
if i was lucky it would be tom waits
singing to the rain
i would grab a crisp bright white apron
fold the top half down and wrap the strings
around my middle twice, tying in front.
i would turn the dials, bending down
to watch underneath the scrubbed silver slab
as the blue flame would burn to life, all down the line.
turn it to the perfect heat for hash.
i would ready the batter,
grab a fresh tray of eggs.
set up my favorite spatulas.
drink my coffee leaning on the warming grill
and wait for them to arrive,
walking out of the rain.
summer morning prayer
today at midmorning
the two dogs barked
alerting me to the two men
striding up to knock on the front door
good morning gentlemen, i greeted them
and their serious suits
do you believe all religions grant access to heaven
they said. and one could tell where they were going
this conversation had on my doorstep
enough to be familiar
i don’t know, i answered
i don’t have a lot of answers
when it comes to faith and spirituality.
that is what i told them as they stool there
with pamphlets
they talked and i barely listened
i wish would have told them
i don’t know about all that gents
about the dying and saviors and eternities
the original sin and all that gents
about all that talk
what i know is my simple routine
of thanks and awe
noticing that this moment,
this midmorning is the most beautiful thing
and thank god for that,
right?
i wanted to tell them about my morning
i start my morning by rising
my first thought is always on the whereabouts
of my wife
is she there sleeping at my side
or has she risen, begun her day
perhaps is standing, stirring oatmeal
at the stove
and thank god for that
i may have a cup of steaming black coffee
as i step off the deck and into the garden
i notice the pepper plants
have reached out a little more
their sun salutation
the pepper now the size of a quarter
grown from the size of a dime
i see the eggplant fruit has begun
a purple so regal it should never be worn
except by this food
there is not yet ripe tomatoes on the vine
but green has changed to orange overnight
and harvest looms
the wall of sunflowers, taller, thicker
more heads crane their necks upward
it is as if all the colors of the foods and flowers
are new again
have i seen this before?
can this be life happening before my eyes?
when i water these plants
i think about the water’s origin
and the traveling it has done
to fall here and bring the smell
of rich soil to my nose
the scent of the zucchini with the tomatoes and basil
this is my summer morning prayer
of sorts
to stand back and take the world in
and thank god for that
i politely declined the pamphlets today
but perhaps one day i will prepare a little poem
with some of my great questions
more of my own little prayers
put it in my own little pamphlet
and trade it with the gentlemen who knock on my door
ask about my faith about all this
the two dogs barked
alerting me to the two men
striding up to knock on the front door
good morning gentlemen, i greeted them
and their serious suits
do you believe all religions grant access to heaven
they said. and one could tell where they were going
this conversation had on my doorstep
enough to be familiar
i don’t know, i answered
i don’t have a lot of answers
when it comes to faith and spirituality.
that is what i told them as they stool there
with pamphlets
they talked and i barely listened
i wish would have told them
i don’t know about all that gents
about the dying and saviors and eternities
the original sin and all that gents
about all that talk
what i know is my simple routine
of thanks and awe
noticing that this moment,
this midmorning is the most beautiful thing
and thank god for that,
right?
i wanted to tell them about my morning
i start my morning by rising
my first thought is always on the whereabouts
of my wife
is she there sleeping at my side
or has she risen, begun her day
perhaps is standing, stirring oatmeal
at the stove
and thank god for that
i may have a cup of steaming black coffee
as i step off the deck and into the garden
i notice the pepper plants
have reached out a little more
their sun salutation
the pepper now the size of a quarter
grown from the size of a dime
i see the eggplant fruit has begun
a purple so regal it should never be worn
except by this food
there is not yet ripe tomatoes on the vine
but green has changed to orange overnight
and harvest looms
the wall of sunflowers, taller, thicker
more heads crane their necks upward
it is as if all the colors of the foods and flowers
are new again
have i seen this before?
can this be life happening before my eyes?
when i water these plants
i think about the water’s origin
and the traveling it has done
to fall here and bring the smell
of rich soil to my nose
the scent of the zucchini with the tomatoes and basil
this is my summer morning prayer
of sorts
to stand back and take the world in
and thank god for that
i politely declined the pamphlets today
but perhaps one day i will prepare a little poem
with some of my great questions
more of my own little prayers
put it in my own little pamphlet
and trade it with the gentlemen who knock on my door
ask about my faith about all this
the approach of notice
there is some kind of content
that comes from a morning
spent sitting on a deck with the dog
laying at one’s feet
tongue lolling as we overlook
the quickly growing plants
supervising the sunshine
we have noted the cardinal pair
as they land in the lilac
it’s sprinkled with an arc
spraying from the rhythmic contraption
at the end of the hose
they puff up their red feathers
rub through the dripping leaves
i hope they don’t mind my staring
my deck companion and i
have taken the approach of notice
and i think of the excitement
of my young nephew when he stops what he is doing
to listen, to hear
and then he shouts, noise!
i look to the neighbor’s roof and pigeons
and think, coo!
to the little sparrows making small depressions
in the early summer dust
and think, tweet!
i hear the city children playing from down the alley
and think, joy!
my companion’s patience outlasts my own
i am enticed by the approach of do
our footsteps echo on the planks
as we step back into the house
that comes from a morning
spent sitting on a deck with the dog
laying at one’s feet
tongue lolling as we overlook
the quickly growing plants
supervising the sunshine
we have noted the cardinal pair
as they land in the lilac
it’s sprinkled with an arc
spraying from the rhythmic contraption
at the end of the hose
they puff up their red feathers
rub through the dripping leaves
i hope they don’t mind my staring
my deck companion and i
have taken the approach of notice
and i think of the excitement
of my young nephew when he stops what he is doing
to listen, to hear
and then he shouts, noise!
i look to the neighbor’s roof and pigeons
and think, coo!
to the little sparrows making small depressions
in the early summer dust
and think, tweet!
i hear the city children playing from down the alley
and think, joy!
my companion’s patience outlasts my own
i am enticed by the approach of do
our footsteps echo on the planks
as we step back into the house
last days of nursing school
we have spent many hours
sitting together quietly
facing the same direction
we will go our separate ways
go on to other things
perhaps go on to face
groups like ours, sitting quietly
facing the same direction
finishing the last days of nursing school
for a moment
i will remember the fragments
that make up the little skips and hops
down our path
tracing like the electrical activity of an ecg
crossing the baseline, notched, tall and peaked
inverted
there were the early days
arriving in the dark
the hospital looming down
the workers pouring in
we, with our papers, our namebadge
newly scrubbed
our stethoscope and apprehension
there were exams
some performed like on a stage
clipboard held and marked by our audience
we imagined life in our dummy patients
real blood in the fake arms, fake veins
being watched as we watched the drips falling
in the little chamber
most exams written out
answer marked with dark silver circles
a pattern of full moons
scenarios and situations
the vitals
and the best reply was never the best reply
the a, b, c, d, and sometimes e
discernment on the acronyms
i might not feel the same sentimentality
but we will go on
to clean up body fluids of all types
of those to weak to it for themselves
we will go on
to hold the hands of the dying
we will be there for trauma, delirium, delusion, detox
we will try solve disparities
to teach what to eat and how to feed
we will know pain, its scale
we will go on
to hold the tiniest babies and boost giant men
marvel at resilience and document joy
we will care for people
these are the last days of nursing school
an end that brings career, license, profession
and i think i’m ready
there were the days
when there were those moments
of clarity
and knowing, this is it
the right resistance felt
the signs of infiltration
of recognizing comfort brought by the right words
riding the wave instead of being crushed as it breaks
we will go on
after these last days
to find work, find our way wherever
so, thanks for the hand along the way
with setting up my sterile field
for inspiration
to finish
bass
the other evening
we had one of those quiet husband-and-wife scenes
the two of us sitting up in bed
with our backs against the wall
at the end of a long day
we might have been talking about our mothers
or if we could take that next vacation
the window was between us
at the head of the bed
and abruptly the sash started to shudder
the pane within its stile
low and long, then stop and repeat
at a different pitch, one audible to the human ear
we could hear the low rumbling of bass
this was the sound of music or something of that ilk
coming from an unseen car or truck
which had turned down our street
driven along 4th avenue like a mobile earthquake
like the rumbling of a giant’s digestive track
someone had chosen, and carefully set up
this roving, rumbling distraction
someone who waited at the red light
i imagined him there in the drivers seat
and i wanted him to have in his head
the picture of us up in our bed
discussing what ever it was
i wished for him to see me casually
place a finger against the pane
to quiet the rattle and buzz
and without missing a beat, continue
yeah, a vacation would be nice
we had one of those quiet husband-and-wife scenes
the two of us sitting up in bed
with our backs against the wall
at the end of a long day
we might have been talking about our mothers
or if we could take that next vacation
the window was between us
at the head of the bed
and abruptly the sash started to shudder
the pane within its stile
low and long, then stop and repeat
at a different pitch, one audible to the human ear
we could hear the low rumbling of bass
this was the sound of music or something of that ilk
coming from an unseen car or truck
which had turned down our street
driven along 4th avenue like a mobile earthquake
like the rumbling of a giant’s digestive track
someone had chosen, and carefully set up
this roving, rumbling distraction
someone who waited at the red light
i imagined him there in the drivers seat
and i wanted him to have in his head
the picture of us up in our bed
discussing what ever it was
i wished for him to see me casually
place a finger against the pane
to quiet the rattle and buzz
and without missing a beat, continue
yeah, a vacation would be nice
as needed as sleep
her hand was on my hip
this morning
when i awoke
it was the type of morning where
neither of us had to spring up from bed
it was not yet the weather where
one hand is too hot, too sweaty to touch
her hand seemed to tell me
with a little whisper in my sleeping ear
that this is how it is to be
the two of us together
it said, i was as needed as sleep
this morning
when i awoke
it was the type of morning where
neither of us had to spring up from bed
it was not yet the weather where
one hand is too hot, too sweaty to touch
her hand seemed to tell me
with a little whisper in my sleeping ear
that this is how it is to be
the two of us together
it said, i was as needed as sleep
haha
when written
and posted somewhere
in the digital world
the alternating h and a
do nothing to convey mirth
and the joy of laughter
it is more like two rapid coughs
or the sound made
when someone unsuspecting
is struck squarely in the gut
by an errant object
air rushes up
the wind is knocked out
and posted somewhere
in the digital world
the alternating h and a
do nothing to convey mirth
and the joy of laughter
it is more like two rapid coughs
or the sound made
when someone unsuspecting
is struck squarely in the gut
by an errant object
air rushes up
the wind is knocked out
springing ahead in the recession
suddenly,
winter’s slow decline
is hastened by our legislative bodies
by a collective act of pressing a few buttons
turning a dial just a hair
before bed or in the morning to catch up
the afternoon extends
shooting up like a child’s growth
after some time away
sped up like a video in fast forward
the light lingers and its presence
is offputting, leaving one with the feeling
of something forgotten
of wool being softly and slowly
pulled over eyes
all this is the here today gone tomorrow falsity
it is the ending of the story you are told that you don’t believe
it is the magic show trick revealed, the false back, the secret hinge
we are springing forward
the light is only minutes longer
we just quicken our step
change our answer when someone asks
if we have the time
it is artificiality in our march toward the joy of summer
suddenly,
the talk on the streets
the niceties between strangers
have come to include the gloom of financial markets
the dropping of numbers in indexes
our mosquito media is swarming
landing on stories, rubbing the long thin legs together
inserting their mouthpieces
finding chicken littles
creating them with headlines and on scene reporting
Another Sky Falls Today
i don’t understand
the idea of everything changing over night
i sit and watch the clouds roll over
and they move with the same grace as always
the land they move over is blown by the same wind
the temperature fluctuates with the same uncertainty
it may be the fear
the talk of the uncertain future
as if it has been anything but
there is a shaking inside when they talk
there is an irritating tendency to talk about
our return to values, a reexamination of habits, some change
that wasn’t there last night, last week
wasn’t there when banks and spirits were high
i hate being told to be scared
or the hinting and implication
that fear should be my reaction
it is a tough time to be
a tough time for spring to come
to lose an hour or an investment
winter’s slow decline
is hastened by our legislative bodies
by a collective act of pressing a few buttons
turning a dial just a hair
before bed or in the morning to catch up
the afternoon extends
shooting up like a child’s growth
after some time away
sped up like a video in fast forward
the light lingers and its presence
is offputting, leaving one with the feeling
of something forgotten
of wool being softly and slowly
pulled over eyes
all this is the here today gone tomorrow falsity
it is the ending of the story you are told that you don’t believe
it is the magic show trick revealed, the false back, the secret hinge
we are springing forward
the light is only minutes longer
we just quicken our step
change our answer when someone asks
if we have the time
it is artificiality in our march toward the joy of summer
suddenly,
the talk on the streets
the niceties between strangers
have come to include the gloom of financial markets
the dropping of numbers in indexes
our mosquito media is swarming
landing on stories, rubbing the long thin legs together
inserting their mouthpieces
finding chicken littles
creating them with headlines and on scene reporting
Another Sky Falls Today
i don’t understand
the idea of everything changing over night
i sit and watch the clouds roll over
and they move with the same grace as always
the land they move over is blown by the same wind
the temperature fluctuates with the same uncertainty
it may be the fear
the talk of the uncertain future
as if it has been anything but
there is a shaking inside when they talk
there is an irritating tendency to talk about
our return to values, a reexamination of habits, some change
that wasn’t there last night, last week
wasn’t there when banks and spirits were high
i hate being told to be scared
or the hinting and implication
that fear should be my reaction
it is a tough time to be
a tough time for spring to come
to lose an hour or an investment
you, writer
i mean no disrespect
when i say
you were wrong about the blue hydrangeas
instead, nearby, early spring light falls
in bright shapes of squares on my thick library table
there are quiet sounds surrounding me
the rainfall click of keyboard strokes
soft voices speaking somali
beeps of borrowed materials and their being checked out
this carnegie library keeps out the louder city beyond
it is a mixing in public
i found your book of poems in this small library
where i could probably count the shelves easily
i sit down and read this day
this day
where all i've done
is walk green central park with henry on leash
make a trip to drop some post
old fashioned thanks yous written out in pen
i have avoided the work that puts the finishing touches
on my nursing degree
in favor of daydreams and coffee
heating up a lunch of leftover lasagna
thoughts of riding a small motorbike
down roads following a river
to the edge of something and then turning back
to finish up sitting on the porch
dusting the leaves of houseplants
of which i am caretaking
sometime i'll get to entering the results
of the learning assesment/the knowledge deficit tool
but before, i may read another of your poems
think back to your description of the salt and pepper shakers
and about how we are both known and unknown
yet here we are again, mr. billy collins, this time in my poem
you with your bowl of pears, me with a stack of homework
your name with it's double lls and mine always just l
you, salt. still walking on your sea of water
me, perhaps pepper. sneezing loudly in this quiet place
when i say
you were wrong about the blue hydrangeas
instead, nearby, early spring light falls
in bright shapes of squares on my thick library table
there are quiet sounds surrounding me
the rainfall click of keyboard strokes
soft voices speaking somali
beeps of borrowed materials and their being checked out
this carnegie library keeps out the louder city beyond
it is a mixing in public
i found your book of poems in this small library
where i could probably count the shelves easily
i sit down and read this day
this day
where all i've done
is walk green central park with henry on leash
make a trip to drop some post
old fashioned thanks yous written out in pen
i have avoided the work that puts the finishing touches
on my nursing degree
in favor of daydreams and coffee
heating up a lunch of leftover lasagna
thoughts of riding a small motorbike
down roads following a river
to the edge of something and then turning back
to finish up sitting on the porch
dusting the leaves of houseplants
of which i am caretaking
sometime i'll get to entering the results
of the learning assesment/the knowledge deficit tool
but before, i may read another of your poems
think back to your description of the salt and pepper shakers
and about how we are both known and unknown
yet here we are again, mr. billy collins, this time in my poem
you with your bowl of pears, me with a stack of homework
your name with it's double lls and mine always just l
you, salt. still walking on your sea of water
me, perhaps pepper. sneezing loudly in this quiet place
repose
this poem is just like the last one
the words that end this poem will be different
the end will be the same
i picture books on a bookshelf
with the spines facing away
from this angle the pages may be blank
i picture eyes following this line
and then stopping here
i imagine this is a good place to stop
for anyone reading this aloud
someone will choose now
to look away
some will not choose
it is a shame
it seemed were the words I had to say
as I left the room
pulling the door closed slowly
hearing the catch of the latch
i picture this moment
it will end just like the last one
i see myself in repose, dogs at my feet
in this darkened living room
the words that end this poem will be different
the end will be the same
i picture books on a bookshelf
with the spines facing away
from this angle the pages may be blank
i picture eyes following this line
and then stopping here
i imagine this is a good place to stop
for anyone reading this aloud
someone will choose now
to look away
some will not choose
it is a shame
it seemed were the words I had to say
as I left the room
pulling the door closed slowly
hearing the catch of the latch
i picture this moment
it will end just like the last one
i see myself in repose, dogs at my feet
in this darkened living room
the grand wink
it was hard to see through the snow falling
but i'm sure that i saw it as i stared hard into space
to the grey horizon, to the melt and freeze again winter
has it been following me these last few days?
when i walk the dog on sidewalks gritty with salt and sand
at the gym humping my way up invisible hills
checking the paper's new stories: jobs lost; failure; fright
it must have been there all those years ago
when the high school math teacher inspected our hands
walking down the rows of desks peering
to see there was no secret scribbling on them
before the exam was passed out; i felt cheated
maybe it was there that day just above the douglas fir
the ponderosas, the earnest conversation about commitment to team
we gave hours to digging small holes and planting small trees
i can see fields fifty-five years in the future, now forest
streams in the shade, the lies having run down them to the ocean, long ago
i sit now having carried my silver case for days
holding cross examinations, chewing my lip
i will leave it here, pick it up later if need be
doing nothing is still a choice
i look to the sky again and hold my arms out wide
wink and walk away
but i'm sure that i saw it as i stared hard into space
to the grey horizon, to the melt and freeze again winter
has it been following me these last few days?
when i walk the dog on sidewalks gritty with salt and sand
at the gym humping my way up invisible hills
checking the paper's new stories: jobs lost; failure; fright
it must have been there all those years ago
when the high school math teacher inspected our hands
walking down the rows of desks peering
to see there was no secret scribbling on them
before the exam was passed out; i felt cheated
maybe it was there that day just above the douglas fir
the ponderosas, the earnest conversation about commitment to team
we gave hours to digging small holes and planting small trees
i can see fields fifty-five years in the future, now forest
streams in the shade, the lies having run down them to the ocean, long ago
i sit now having carried my silver case for days
holding cross examinations, chewing my lip
i will leave it here, pick it up later if need be
doing nothing is still a choice
i look to the sky again and hold my arms out wide
wink and walk away
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