Wine and Conversation

Lime, is this enough wine?

my gears are turning

The morning is calm, the wind late for work, the leaves of my many trees hanging, smooth and still as a painting. Even those damn pine trees, arms loaded with homemade grenades, are holding their fire, a temporary truce, I suspect. But under these blue skies, my steed beckons, the open rivers of the road glimmering, as sand before the ocean, as a boy about to ride his bike.

landscaping

Been doing some landscaping in the backyard. Not finished, evident the two bags of mulch resting peacefully by the wooden fence and in the far corner a solitary bag of decorative rocks, still as heavy in my mind as they were to my back. We are making progress, the thought itching like some ancient ethic unscratched, as I survey the rake and the hoe, leaning against the garage door as if on break; and I wonder what they are whispering as I sit in my robe, coffee in hand, thinking how lonely, even churchyard cold this yard is going to seem when the mulch is gone and the rocks laid to peace and the rake and hoe move on to other jobs. And I wonder too, why I love the youth of a project and fear the sententious song of completion, why I love the messiness of construction yet dread the stillness, the museum like deadness, of a goal reached.

swords and shields

The clash of swords

on wooden shields

make two noises

the noise of life

still living

and

the noise of life

still fighting

Pensée: a poem by Billy Collins

"Pensée"

All of Paris must have been away on holiday
when Pascal said that men are not happy
because they are incapable of staying in their rooms.

It is the kind of thought that belongs in a room,
sealed off from the vanities of the world,
polished roadsters, breasts, hunting lodges,
all letdowns in the end.

But imagine Columbus examining the wallpaper,
Magellan straightening up the dresser,
Lindbergh rearranging some magazines on a table.

Not to mention the need for everday explorations,
the wandering we do, randomly as ants,
when we rove through woods without direction
or allow the diagram of a foreign city to lead us
through long afternoons of unpronounceable streets.

Then we are like children in playgrounds
who are discovering the art of running in circles
as if they were scribbling on the earth with their bodies.

We die only when we run out of footprints.
Then the biographers move in to retrace our paths,
enclosing them in tall mazes of lumber
to make our lives seem more complex, more arduous,
to make our leaving the room seem heroic.

of whispering dandelions

I heard them scream
mothers all
that much I knew

screams silent
to most
but I heard them

my lord
the shrieking
the wailing

whores
they were
I swore

a careful lie
a kiss
goodbye

before my blade
of children
sent

sent into
the wind
thousands

upon thousands
the battle
lost

on this day
the war
won

on the
eternal love
of whispering dandelions

The Best 15 minutes I've spent in some time

before the dance of fire

When the darkness came

and our guests left

you cleaned the dishes

brought me a glass of wine

and held my hand

but what I appreciate the most

is you said not a word

kissing my forehead

nestling my torso

one leg over the other

my chest your pillow

before the dance of fire

riding the same rails

I've developed a cough

not a sick cough

but the clearing throat cough

Reminds me of my father

the cough

and that scares the hell

out of me

as if we are riding

the same rails

which I know we are

but I just don't want

to admit

to admit where those

rails end

and the life

the life not lived

as he lived not

the years

he had

blood walkiing

You know you can stay I said
I know he said back
As long as you want, whenever you want
I know. Can I plug my iPod in?
Yeah.

We drove north without another word
He in his world
Me in mine
The console, a canyon
so it seemed
so it might as well been

You sound pitiful she said
Yeah.
I love you.
I know.
I'm here.
I know. What I don't know,
is why

A check should come today
I'll take it to the bank
and the teller won't say a word
except for the conversation
I see
behind her eyes
in her casted eyes
I hate those words
not said
those words that come
from soft eyes
I can't even f*ing explain them
but they see the check
see where it is from
look at me
and in that look
daggers
and so it is
every week
I die a little more
but I'm used to that
been used to it for fifteen years
on those solitary journeys north
where two become one
not one as together one
but one as in one here
and one there
that is where the dying occurs
on the field of concrete
my steel stallion
in a field of blood
watching
quietly watching
my blood
walk away

not real

Been sitting in my kitchen

listening to episode

after episode

of House

Not watching

just listening

and after hours

upon hours

of listening

sometimes attentively

sometimes not

I knew

I knew the yelling

was phony

was acting

was lacking

an edge

an edge I know

from that point

the magic of

of listening to House

was gone

it seemed false

not real

as not real

as it was not

real

with a father's smile

He came down for dinner

about the only time I see him

anymore

I read him some Carver

He didn't see the point,

in Carver's poetry

I read him some Bukowski

thinking he might like that more

He didn't

So I made some brownies

a subtle lure

to drown the distance

between upstairs and down

between father and son

between 45 and 15

Sixty minutes later

I had another opportunity

one more reading

I put away Carver

and Bukowski too

and took a chance

on another poem

fresh off the page

fresh from my pen

he liked it

liked it best of all he said

bounding upstairs

I ate my brownie

alone

with a father's smile

Calvin

I remember the hardwood floors
in my grandmother's small and narrow
and often dark home.

The windows were always curtained
and the light I remember
came by way of lamps.

And I remember too, a very small hallway
with a small wooden table and
a petite wooden chair, one male
the other female, they way they fit
one into the other.

On that small table, in that dark hallway
sat a black phone, the kind you dialed
with your index finger, turning circles
delighting at the rotational heft
and the sound of mechanical friction
a hypnotizing exercise

dialing in circles
like a dance of the finger
on a party line
with those, to a small boy,
gigantic ear cups
like an army walkie-talkie.

And I remember holding that phone
alone. The house empty. My uncle
in Nam. My uncle that laughed and smiled
and wrestled with me on the hardwood floor,
locking me in his legs with his crew-cut
hair and khaki pants. That was before.

He looked like a movie star and moved with an energy
and joy for life that I never saw in my own father.
He told stories and jokes, and like a river,
was always moving, living, in love with life
in the contagious way that smiles are contagious.

I remember the energy, the smiles, paging through
his old army yearbooks, of young men in boot camp
pounding each other with these strange pillow-ended
poles, looking all the same with lithe bodies and
stylish buzzed hair.

I remember sitting in that wooden chair
in that dark hallway
holding that heavy receiver
wishing he were here
and not there
and sometimes, as young boys do,
wishing I was there
not knowing what there meant
or would mean.

Calvin returned from his first tour.
Told stories into the night on the back porch
to the men, my grandfather, father and me.
He seemed a little older. A little different.
And in days, he left again for a second tour.
Said he had to go, which I thought meant
he had no choice.

He never came back, not the uncle I knew
at least. The days of wrestling on the floor
were to remain memories and the days of joy
I remember so clearly were replaced with
days at bars and nights in jail. He still laughed,
although his laughter had an edge like a knife
that only whiskey could dull.

Some gave all in sacrifice to our freedom
to the call of country right or wrong. Calvin
did too. Not with his name in the paper, which
I think would have been easier to take.

sipping coffee

Those men have jobs he said
as he did each morning
drinking coffee without sugar
as men climbed roofs at dawn
and hammered till dusk

that they spoke not a word
of english mattered not
they had jobs
raining hammers
glimmers of lightning
in a blue sky
and getting tans too
working on a crew
where a nod and a look
told one where to stand
what to do

they had jobs he thought
the words as bricks
as bricks thrown
his world a window
one gigantic window
sipping coffee
without
sugar

pebbles in my mind (or how my morning started . . .)

I bust my ass
to buss your cheek
then I wake up
and realize
the only thing busting
is my head
and the dreams
that fade
in the harsh morning sun

moving slow
not sure if it's
the pizza I gorged
from last night
or the tequila
I raised
and lowered
like a frailing
swiss watchmaker
but I am amazed
at my endless ability
to bullshite myself

thirty minutes later

All I want is quiet;
when I ask for it
I get the silent treatment

so I drive faster
which only increases
the icy cold

silence,
which no longer seems
quite so quiet


Dropped my dogs off for grooming this late May morning. A short drive into the countryside, accompanied by the customary wails and howls of four dogs as if they were on the way to the gallows instead of to Ms Anne's, who grooms the dogs of country stars and calls all dogs "babies," a nomenclature stuck in my head because someone else in the car keeps calling them that in Anne's baby-talk diction. On the drive home I noticed the fields ablaze with green growth, just damn blooming leaves thick as my head before 7am. I'll be forty-six in a few weeks and I ask myself,

are my fields spring
or autumn?

thirty minutes later . . .

I don't ask the question
too loudly
just in case
some part of my mind
thinks I want an answer

and I suppose some part
of my monkey mind does
because when I look
as I just looked

at photos of an old friend
both old and old
and I see her husband
balding and gray

probably pushing seventy
I'm surprised by how good
he looks
and surprised

I don't think
he looks
that
old

because
damn
it's almost
noon
and
all
I
want
is
a
little
quiet

Frankie Boom Boom Pow

the mists of my mind

When I ride my bike
on familiar routes
where grade is noticed
in the burn of thigh
the gasping of lung
the pounding heart of ear

and hills are rendered
in the blurry sweat
of salt released
frailing
precious
drops
escaping
from my bowed chin

I'm not riding the road
as much
as the memory
of the road,
is riding me

if you understand this
then you know
my fear
my reluctance
to saddle up
mount my steed
and ride among the eidolons
of corners not cut
and downhill gambits lost

lost as the lycra shredded
and asphalt embedded
tattooed scars
on hips and elbows
a little less
of body
a little more
in mind
these heavy
memories
these stained
neurons
paths woven, my
knots of remembrance

of those moments
when control surrendered
and the second
from air to ground
defies proper accounting

but most of all,
perhaps the memory
most haunting,
forever the shadow
on my wheel,
of the rider
who rides now,
only in the
mists
of
my
mind

her heavenly hours

I can no more stop my darkness

than I can slip my fingers under the horizon

and prevent the sun slipping away

I envy the night her precision

her reliable, predictable timetable

but even more

I envy her stars

and the pale sojourner

that arcs her heavenly hours

affaire de coeur

My dog beside me
sleeping
and breathing hard
pulling air like rope
into her lungs
arms thrown back
eyes closed
lips parted
chest bowed
resisting
succumbing
surrendering
to the cycle
the exchange
the metamorphosis
of air
and dog
of dog
and air
an affair
of a lifetime
the liaison
of life

and

known too
by absence;
of nostrils pulling
no longer,
her final spoor
sweet in
the wetness of life
now dry
as the gentle
waves of my sighs
cover her hair
in the blanket
of sleep
as memory takes
its rightful place
in the albums
of my mind

in the sweet clouds

I am the beach
before your warm waves

my legs spread in
the wet sand

feeling your warm fingers
caress my shells

lost as you recede
a dry heat

life slipping
without your salty lips

seagulls as my witness
I gather my shells

come join me
in the sweet clouds

two bovines and a goat

I'm huddled upstairs in my study
weak, but unwilling to admit it,
which is bullshite since it's the reason
I'm upstairs in the first place

Below me, on my heat cracked driveway
sit two sun-faded cars and one
dusty red lawnmower
like two indifferent bovines
and one ornery goat,
surveying my balding yard;

and my balding yard,
burned by autumn leaves not raked,
damning me its leprosy
stares back with eyes of rogue
dandelions,
fornicating
with the wind,
like I didn't know

I want no more to slay
what little grass remains
than what little grass remains
wants of me
nor do I want
another dust bowl
to piss my neighbors off
who just washed their new
sparkling metallic blue ride
that sits due west
before a taunting carpet of
green tight lush manicured grass

that I'm two days into a hangover
doesn't help matters

post script:

getting a new roof today
watching old shingles
drop like bombs on my weeds
as hired hammers pound the roof like hail
a sound soothing as desert rain

left and right

When one has nothing left to do
what does one do?

perhaps the wrong question

When one has a life to give,
what does one give?

this question tolls
relentlessly
in the bell of my head
banging left
then right
left and right
left, right
and I feel as a child
before the hammer of God

"my father"

I was reading a poem

by a son

talking about his father

and he used the exact phrase:

"my father"

I smiled as he held this imaginary

conversation with "my father"

one very similar to my own

imaginary conversations

in which I am always the son

and he is always "my father'

until today, until this moment

reading this poem;

and it occurred to me

as if for the first time

and perhaps it was for the

first time

fifteen years hence

that in this narrative

of father and son

I felt crowded

almost embarrassed

claustrophobic even

and somewhat ashamed

and resentful

that a poem had to tell me

there was another son

who had a "my father"

and what I thought was mine

a unique duet

stories strung together

like the fish

we never caught

of the many games

played but

never watched

of the times I

tucked myself in

because bedtime

was not

2:30am

of what was clear

seemed not simple;

his anger, voiced

yet unknown

my pain, silent

and growing

was just my hubris

and self-centered nature

revolving

around

the ghost of a child

fifteen years a father

with a son who probably

thinks of me

as his

"my father"

Aung San Suu Kyi

If I were in peril

or prison

or the pearl of prison

a martyr to be

in a land unjust

as humidity

behind bars

dank and sweaty

that speak in the clang

of locks locking

holding innocent eyes

as the night holds

distant stars

would someone

far away

think

of me

I wonder

as I click

past the plight

of Aung San Suu Kyi

on bended knee

before the church

of my illuminated screen

I pray

there are souls

greater than mine

and I ponder

tonight

where she might be

and on what she

might say

as I type my simple words

before I slip between my warm sheets

and dream my sweet dreams

in a quiet room

made hammock peaceful

with a belly

full of food

maple bacon

I was standing in the kitchen
frying maple bacon
me and four dogs
standing in the kitchen
noses up, eyes urgent
unblinking
quiet
tails wagging
watching my every move
and as I looked at them
and they looked at me
I knew
I knew I'd better fry enough bacon
for the five of us

the oxygen of you

When you speak
the room warms,
my supple lungs expanding
with the oxygen of you

When I exhale
you inhale, slowly;
as children on a seesaw
our aged cheeks rise
with helium smiles

When you leave--
as the sun leaves the day
as leaves leave the tree
and winter calves autumn

a crisp cold arrives
cracking lips
and turning knuckles calloused
without the gloves of your
hands

as if
you took the air
as if I'm drowning
without lungs

or
perhaps
what was taken
was the oneness
of dance
of play
of love

ask any child
standing alone
before a seesaw
what one plus one
equals

I'm willing to bet
it ain't two

Saturday Mornings

Saturday morning

and the fields are alive

as flags wave

and soccer balls kicked

I miss those times

those memories

of early mornings

and marbled hair

eyes half open

and lips quiet

Our soccer days

are over

but the flags still wave

and the orgy of color

still swims

as I feel

a little older

a little sadder

that everything looks

brighter

driving east

and looking

west

the seconds of tea

Two minutes to heat water in my microwave

to brew a pint of tea for five minutes

to savor the fruit of a foreign land

and ponder those two minutes

waiting for the water to heat

watching a tiny digital clock

click away the seconds

and as I stand there

watching slippery seconds

it occurs to me

that those are

my seconds

my life

ticking

away

beyond

The wind can be endured

it won't last

The sun too

for night will take care of matters

and the same for winter

as spring smiles its welcome

but words

last, live

beyond the breeze of tongue

beyond the heat of anger

beyond the cold of indifference

water, with lemon

We were talking, over dinner

about the upcoming marriage

of our daughter

when I ordered water, with lemon

as did my wife

as did the couple in front of us

as did the couple behind us

the orders as natural

as chimes in the wind

and I wondered,

about this marriage

of lemon and water

and I wondered when this happened

because when I was growing up

you ordered water

just water

no lemon

and for the life of me

I cannot remember

when this changed

apparently not invited

to this union

and then I thought,

was this a shotgun wedding

something that happened

out of sight

Pop lemon grower

holding the shotgun

on Ma Water's daughter

because for the life of me

I swear I do not remember

but it seems

from the couple in front

and the couple behind

that

somebody

got word

probably from

those damn grapes

working

the

vine

only this

was no rumor

as I looked around

at glass after glass

and little Ms Lemon

was,

well,

made me blush

the

hussy

eyes like arms

Like a solitary flower by the sidewalk
watching a thousand feet pass by
in the busyness of plans and goals
whipping flesh and bone forward
forever forward

I hold a poem in my eye, sitting quietly,
content as the flower to sit and be
among all the comings and goings
among all the feet moving with purpose
to masters that whisper should and would

and I wonder if the flower wants to scream
its lush scent, to toss its hues as a child
might toss a can of paint, to dance in the wind
as line laundry before an ocean breeze
or a pauper with a bell

until among the herding of shoes
a couple little feet take the path
of prayer soughing through the grass
and notice the momentary gift
of soil, sun and rain

and I wonder if in that moment
there is not a sigh
if in that moment
there is not a mutual recognition
of life twirling life

in the wonder of discovery
in the wonder of smiles
in the wonder of eyes
that hug
like arms

Grandma

Around five o'clock I heard the sound of steel on wood, of my grandmother carefully chopping onion and celery and perhaps bell pepper too on a wooden cutting board several times older than myself. The sound meant dinner not out of a box, but dinner made by hand from recipes earned in the daily labor of kitchen kept clean, measured not by spoon or cup, but by eye and tongue, more accurate instruments I came to learn. She stood next to the sink, wearing a small apron over a mid-calf length dress, the de-facto uniform that changed only color and pattern from day to day. Like rain on the roof, the steady chop chop chop of wrinkled hands was as close to the sound of love as I knew as a child. I miss that sound as much as I miss the woman. She is all but gone, as gone as the traditions of home cooked meals, prepared as masterpieces without a gallery, tribute paid in empty plates and scrambles for seconds, if seconds were to be had. Those pages of my memory have yellowed in the decades, but the sound of steady chopping, of metal on wood wielded by hands that love, has remained as clear to me as the rain that came this morning.

sketches: two poems

Each morning I pour a cup of coffee
and escort my robe to the small table
that overlooks my Japanese magnolia
a treehouse for my birds

Each morning I am greeted
by mr and mrs salt and pepper shaker
ever faithful, never late
always the same smile

always ready to serve

and it occurs to me
I spend more time with these
two servants than I do with
my own son

I would explain to them
the tear that runs down
my cheek
if I thought

they'd understand

But each morning
I hold my tongue
and sip my coffee
and wonder where

I went wrong

__________


If all I bring is my smile
will that be enough

I need to know
where you stand

The conductor of time
is asking

Stop or Go

so I ask
do you need more?

should I
stay or go

been riding
a long time

I'm hungry
and tired

is this my port
are those arms

for me
if all I bring is my smile

will that be enough
I need to know

The conductor of time
is asking

Vermont Memories

I once sold books in Vermont, the green hills

as (beautiful) entrancing as a fairy tale.

I would rise at 6:00am, take a cold shower

and be on my way to breakfast

a short drive of twenty minutes

up, over and around the verdant hills.

On the morning I am remembering

and have remembered all my life

I woke to gunsmoke overcast skies

and I thought of the long day ahead

going door-to-door in the in the cold light

and light rain of a dreary day.

Out the door by 6:30

listening to Frankie Goes to Hollywood

and smiling at or perhaps with

On the Way to San Jose

I felt the familiar pop of ears

from this flatlander

as I was called with a wry smile

on more than one occasion

rising through the old man mist

about three quarters up a hill

I emerged into daylight as if on wings

and as far as I could see

were eddies of green tops

like candy drops

sitting on a blanket of white

like candy drops in a box

full of cotton.

And above those green candy top

hills, sitting on their fluffy billow

was nothing but glorious blue sky

and a reigning sun

beaming golden life.

Within minutes

I was heading back down

into the murky soup of shades

but the image, the metaphor

perhaps the lesson

has always remained

although I think I've forgotten

where I left those notes.

LSU