Entrenched

The lines are drawn
my side, your side

We walk our lines
back and forth, forth and back

A rut appears, two in fact
one on my side, one on yours

Our lines are marched
my side, your side

We never waver
never look at the other, never step out of our rut

So

Rut becomes trench
knee then thigh, waist then chest deep

We march on
we never waver, never look nor climb out

Fear of what might happen
bars us from communication

Quiet separation is safe
separation from argument is feared

We march on
trench deeper that we are tall

We march on still

Scattered (rejected four and twenty submission)

When the bond between a family
is removed by chance
and scattered to the winds
the family may come apart

Legit

To be legit
do poems always have to be deep?
Do they need to burst open
spilling metaphor
simile
or can they just be about anything
like the young doe
standing in the woods across the driveway
from my window
like a statue
silent
but for the sound of green maple leaves
being ground between her teeth
her eyes fixed
on the movement in the window
as a middle aged man
writes about poetry.

Returned

She went away my little girl
sure she was seventeen
but she'd always been around
my kid
my daughter
my friend
yes, singing

She was always responsible
smart and funny
musical and funny
emotional
kind, apathetic and funny
yes funny

Then she went away
today she returned

Different

More poised
More confident
More
Grown up
Less a teen
more an adult

Different

And yet
still
wickedly
brilliantly
funny.

For the Love of Cat

It seems that to some
that I hate a certain cat
just because I used his call
as a punctuation mark in a previous poem.

That I hate this certain cat
is not the case at all.
His meows serve as a punctuation mark in another poem
and only as that, like the shout of a man.

Not the case at all
this perceived dislike of said feline
and just like the shout of a man
his attention can be welcomed at times.

This perceived dislike of said feline
is not always a correct read of the relationship.
His attention can be welcomed at times,
late at night watching tv is one such time.

A correct read of the relationship
would be one of mutual understanding,
of a shared love late night TV
while absentmindedly scratching between a pair of furry cat ears.

Groton Awakens

The hush of the morning breeze
whispers through aged pines
The rush of tires on asphalt
As an unseen car moves an unseen driver
Closer to the start, or end I guess, of a workday

Meow

The birds begin to wake
Softly at first
Then, as more and more of them awaken
The chorus grows louder and louder
Filling the near stillness with a multitude of calls

Meow, meow

A squirrel scurries in fits and starts
Across the shingle roof outside my window
An acorn, not yet ripe falls from the oak out front
And hits the slate walk
Heard this morning where as the sound would pass unnoticed later in the day

Meow, meeeoooww, meow

Then there's the cat

Stone

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.

Afternoon Diamonds

Webbed feet grasp wet granite
And after standing taller
a series of flaps
send water,
like diamonds in the afternoon sun
from wing tips
And
bourne by Newtons theory
return to Winnipesaukee

You're Welcome

Sometimes
When I need to read a long poem
I find I don't have the patience.
So I don't.
You're welcome.

Patriotism

Patriotism is normal
alive and well
vigorous
flying high

Patriotism is voluntary
is love of
is love of country
is a love of and devotion for one's country

Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first
racism
more than flag
too often the refuge of scoundrels

Patriotism is as dogmatic as the old
a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched
conviction that this country is superior to all other countries
no excuse for stupidity

Patriotism is alive in america

Lake Drops

boat wake draws lake drops
on rounded rocks
where summers sun erases

Marty's Porch

The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.

Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from, the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street

These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy

But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.

Further Away Sacandaga

The water was further away when I was a boy
and the land it was much longer
jutting out into Sacandaga like the lone remaining tooth in the smile of an old tannery worker

Now, the tooth worn away
by years of spring waves and thick winter ice,
the land is more a nub than a point
but many things are the same

the early morning call of a bird through fog
a fish splashing through his sky to ours then returning to his
car doors and the sounds of the marina coming alive
the unsyncopated drum beat of coolers and tackle boxes being dropped into an aluminum rowboat
then strained sounds as an outboard motor pushes its load
through the water

which was further away when I was a boy

Louis Ray

Another playing with form poem. This time different types of couplets.

Louis Rey smolder bright
Your velvet smoke obscures my sight 
It's been near year for me and you

I loved you so while in my youth
But mother's gone since last we parted
From cancer, wait, here's my light

Schine on Gloversville

As a child I walked, no ran, downtown
a dollar grasped in hands that wanted to move small plastic armies
to Woolworth's for a bag of soldiers in Gloversville

Then as the places that made things left
and Main Street began to starve and it's abandoned bones bleached in the Adirondack sun
We drove to shop, like everyone else in Gloversville

Standing once proud and full of life
Then left to decay and die
The resurrection of the Schine brings light to Gloversville

In the midst of the abandoned and empty
a spark grows to a small flame
and a more vibrant life returns to Gloversville

There's no one here at the moment

This was created for an activity given in a course on poetic form from Open University.

Flopped in the house on the floor alone
Sullen and saddened wondering
Are the missing near or far away from home

Nails scratch circles into the hardwood floor
Wondering whether the missing will ever return
Then in an instant, a car door, and the realization that the missing no longer are.

Cooking Pontiac

Working on car engines and in fish cases
has enabled me to cook
for often
when the process of cooking is a balance between hands and heat

my old fingers
battered and beat up as they've been by the heat of a Pontiac V8 manifold
or five hundred pounds of shaved ice every day for seven years with no gloves

shrug and shake it off
as an old cowboy shakes the dust from his chaps
after being thrown to the dirt by a horse who doesn't realize
how many times the cowboy has been in the dirt before
and gotten up

Texts

written words speak across ages
but over time
like a long game of telephone
the message is blurred
shaped by the retelling
to suit the needs of those
who pass it on

Minuteman

Standing in the dewy grass
I hope and pray that they will pass
But they may not
but come to stay

I know not
If I die this day

The Redcoats come a thousand strong
their battle line is wide and long
What's ordained
I can not say

I know not
If I die this day

We stand apart but look across
to the other line and toss
a look of nervousness
then pray

I know not
If I die this day

Commanders yell, Commanders bark
their orders all along the park
but then a shot rings out and in
the confusion, it begins

The Promise of a Baby Girl

I don't know what the day was like
But I want to believe that it was glorious
Cold
Clear
With the sting of February on the face of a doctor
A father to be
Hurrying his wife
Probably in labor
Down the steps to the car
For the trip to the hospital
Actually the sanitarium in Clifton Springs

Then, after awhile in the waiting room
The news
And the promise of a baby girl
His first child
The first of five

The child who won't die at the hands of a drunk driver
The only one who won't be a doctor
Who will marry
Have three children of her own
Loose a husband
Gain daughters and a son in law
Grandchildren
And who
Sometime later
After the roar of a hurricane passes
Will pass herself
Hiding the pain that ravages her small body
And tells her that she's still alive

But for now
In the sanitarium
In Clifton Springs
Only the promise
Of a baby girl
In the arms of a new mom
His wife

The First Enchilada

The first enchilada was created in the summer of 1968
In a small house Near Seal Beach
In Southern California.

The house was owned by a friend of my dad's
Or my mom's
And we had gone over for dinner

I was eight

I would like to say that it was a cool beach pad
With wood paneling, all the rage back then
And an Eames recliner in the corner of the living room

I only remember the paneling
but since I am writing this
The Eames piece stays

We had gone for dinner
And the owner of the house had made enchiladas
Beef ones as I recall with sauce from a series of Old El Paso cans

I can still smell and taste them
They were the first world food I had ever had
Besides canned Chinese food from the supermarket which doesn't count

And because I loved them with their ground beef and sauce
Their hot oil softened corn tortillas, sour cream, cheese and green onion
And little tiny bits of black olive

They became the prison guards
Throwing open the gates of my suburban Connecticut upbringing
Letting me leave the confines and walk freely in the sunshine for the first time

They were followed by many other firsts
Sushi, Crepes, haggis,  tiki masala and sea urchin to name a few
All of which owe their very existence in my life

To that first enchilada.

A Summer Afternoon

Often I wonder about just what it is that I am doing
with what I say
with what I write
with my family and work and health
with everything I do

I don't wonder about the all at once
but in the quiet on a summer afternoon
my wife still at work
my daughter off at camp
I wonder

It is not the wonder of how
of fireworks
of Starry Night
of a successful Aioli
of an airplane heavier than I can lift gliding silently overhead through cloudless blue

It is the wonder that bares the burden of wrong
of blindness towards others
of their fears and needs and beliefs
of reaction without thought
of articulation for it's own sake

And in the quiet
on a summer afternoon
I am
saddened
and truly sorry
for the blindness

Truth

Truth
The non surgical
treatment
to rumor

Rage

Rage
is back
is all the rage
is the talk of the town

Rage
is a bully
is everywhere
is roaring down main street

Rage
is the wrong way
is a beast that kills the spirit
is never free

Pill Bug

pill bug
no insect

small crustacean spends entire life
on land

pregnant
carry young in a pouch in her belly

rolling herself into a ball for protection
from the likes of a harvestman

In the Name of The Father

I will love everyone
Who is just like me
In the name of The Father

I will be tolerant of others
As long as they believe what I do
In the name of The Father

I will not be bigotted towards others
As long as they follow the same lifestyle and make the same choices as I do
In the name of The Father

I will not kill or harm others
Unless they behave in ways contrary to my beliefs
In the name of The Father

I will be open of mind
Unless that causes me to question my beliefs
In the name of The Father

I will fight ignorance
Unless that ignorance serves my purpose and advances my beliefs
In the name of The Father

But
I am a father
I can not believe that any father
Would accept ignorance, bigotry, intolerance, violence and hate
As apt tribute for the life of his loving, tolerant and caring son

So then, in the name of whose father?