Closer To Blue

Closer to blue today than when we walked in the city.
Together, alone, drenched in light and the gaze of strangers.

I'm closer to blue than I was yesterday, in the park.
The silent cat-tail stalks, like fingers accusing heaven.

When you faded to blue, all the things I love did too.
I am drenched in silence, lost in the world, way closer to blue.

Ralph Murre and me trading stanzas

I was tempted to play my flute today
until I heard the wind through
the broad wings of a Red Tail hawk


I tried whistling
blues in the Laundromat
but ran out of quarters
& lost the dryer's rhythm


I heard that stones
were rocks when they were young.
Guess it takes time to
bring out our inner stone-ness.


well-rounded the stone
at work in a foundation wall
after carrying glaciers


The only gift we can offer the dead
is to remember them.
Mortar them into our foundations
and they will hold us up.


There were hold-up men
down at the bank today --
the president, v.p., & branch manager,
robbing patrons.

Who said our leaders are lousy?
We have the best that money can buy.
And when our icons have fallen,
we raise such a hue and cry.

We'd like to string 'em up right now, see?
We'd like to hang 'em out to dry,
but underneath the tailored suits
they look a lot like you and I.


A bottle of wine,
a book of poems and
the moon shining through the door.
So much time I have wasted.


wine for the tongue,
poems for the ear,
moonlight for the eye,
and all for the spirit.
For what is the clock?

LIBERATION

Ladies, ladies,
line up neatly.

Goddess, whore,
mother, friend,

I see you now
for the woman you are.

I’m sorry I was
typically male in these things.

If I knew you were
as human as me,

hurt as me, sad as me,
as hopeful as me,

back then as I know now,
I wouldn’t a had to write

this fucking poem.

Weather

You come toward me like summer thunder,
flashing that smile, rolling them hips,
I stand like I’m terrified,
like I just put myself in the path
of a locomotive cold front,
But I’m not afraid,
and wouldn’t move if I could.
To your storm,
I am a rock,
and you do not chip at me
with earthquakes, meteors, or lava
but with rain, soft and cool,
having it's way with me.

Christian?

AN OPEN LETTER TO
THE MINISTER AND CONGREGATION
OF THE WESTBORO CHURCH

I think that GOD has turned his face from you.
You are like children who want notice at any cost.
What you say is not Christian,
or God-like, or even human.
I am afraid you are lost, bound for bitterness and hurt.
You have forgotten God. You have forgotten the face of your Father.
You have forgotten your brother and sister.
(Your mother doesn't even like you.)
Where in the Holy Book does it say to despise the warriors?
Where in the Good Book does it say God embraces the death of anything?
Read to me where God says it's ok to hate.
You are warping your soul, giving Christians a bad name.

Should poetry mean?

I guess a poem is supposed to mean something, be true.
You need to put stuff in it, memories or flowers or parents.
It should resonate like a whack to the funny bone.
What happens when the poems won't be written down.
You stare at pictures of your mother, remember the smell
of your Grandfather just in from the barn.
The little arrow blinks at you, like an engine at idle,
the screen blank and white,
and you wonder where your gift left for,
and will it be back,
will it still speak to you.
Sometimes a poem doesn't need
to matter to anyone to mean something.

When things move beyond us

There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
Let us on that day be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.