The Fishing Huts
we cannot close their mouths
or silence their terrible
syllable of unforgiveness
the souls have flown from their bodies
leaving eyes black
mouths agape
the howling wind
has gathered their souls
like dust of snow against
a western wall of night
and together they are fading
in a flurry of madness from us
so that through the barren landscape
it is all we can do to stay awake
trekking across the expanse of the lake
with buckets of ice for their bodies
frozen in the fishing huts
Thistle
she was born to twist
a crown of thorns
to cut bending heads
to expose herself
like liberty standing
above a windy harbor
in open verdigris
a tall fibrous stalk
of hard-wired celery
full of nasty pricks
un-phased by the
arching blackberry canes
the perennials circling the slope
around the old pond floating
with water lilies and geese
she spreads
her roots both
wide and deep
choosing arbitrarily
her spot on which
to drink the rain
your wife
would have her gone
but she won’t leave
or be dug out without
a pernicious fight
wares to wares
in june she starts
the whole affair
by filling the air
with the power
of her bouquet
of pink flowers
naturally inviting you
from a distance
to take a chance
and come in
to breathe
a closer look
her heaven for bees
her blessing for butterflies
her prayer for all that’s wild
her teasing preludes
to seeds that lift and float
eventually settling down
for another year
despite all you hack
with your machete or
anything else you've tucked
within your pack
you're fucked and
she's as certain
as the sun
to perk you up
each time you come back
branching as
she's inclined to do
into a kind
of toxic femininity
a spikey bush
of untouchable desire
few can resist
making you abandon
in summer’s heat
your remarkable vision
for the garden
and say why not
to a plant that like
a certain kind of love
is so painfully ancient
so inconveniently exceptional
Autumn Movement
a flippant leaf
of autumn
slips beneath
the lying surface
of a shivering pond
its image suspends there
(geese fly
the pale sky
rolls a cold gray
if there is a single will
or omniscient thought
once meant to govern creation
it is no longer of this world)
for a moment
as to inquire who
who is here to view
and then before
the solid rule
of winter’s solitude
departs by angle
and dimension
beyond the ken
on the quest eternal
to another universe
and is gone
Celebrating Holy Week at the Ranch
jesus the posted
private property
no hunting no
fishing no
trespassing signs
are nailed
right into
the trunks
of the
young trees
Hermit Crabs
it is not surprising
with the seemingly endless catastrophe
of hollow half-broken shells littering the shore
that nature
animated by the spirit
of natural selection
would spit out
a creature who prefers to rent
rather than own
big claw small claw
dots for eyes
sideways gait
all this yes
but not renters really
nor a mogul like you
scooping up the condemned properties
of detroit and baltimore and las vegas
for gain
more like squatters
taking for their own
what others have built
and then abandoned
with only a claim
if not of right
of cold necessity
the ocean churns
and polishes the worthless stones
visible at the ebb
for a moment
glistening and then gone
as far as your eye can see
the wind and the waves
shape the water’s edge
into a mirror
of imperfection
the barnacled pools
fill and drain with the tide
and in the story
you tell
later over drinks
only the shells are left
deeded to the sand
like shattered monuments
to the snails who made them
not gravestones
to the soft crabs
who
for a moment
or two
found
them
home
Hymnal
great is the gift to all
now you’ve stopped praying
in the square houses built by men
ceased measuring your feminine reach in men-sticks
ended thinking in the aphorisms of your father
and the fantastical fathers before him
your victory here is our victory here
though we may yet refuse to accept it
ancient is the wisdom
dancing in the forest
now that you’ve refused to sing
the hymns from our books
with the words you speak
and those you will not utter
about what to skirt
deep is the healing
now that you've abandoned the old instructions
for ripping up and standing down
halted the futile efforts at deciphering
the unintelligible carvings
on the doors of failing churches
where your sisters were told to hide
traded the raw pain
of the carpenter’s tools
that bled your hand
for the sudden prick from thorns
of the wild blue-flowering bush
that you understand
sacred is the blessing to the earth
now that you no longer deny
the desire to be your own
to set about without conviction
over these threats and objections
on the winding task
of deciding for yourself
what is worth achieving
now and forever
laughing at the punch line
of god’s eternal joke
who cares what comes
new is the beginning
now that you believe again
in the green mettle of nettles
the cool comfort of moss
the meddlesome cough
of your uncomfortable truth
for you are
the knot never undone
nourished by the sound
and silence of the one voice
that is your voice
what matters
what we think will fill you up
when you no longer cede
us power to judge
when that for which
we would indict you
is nothing but
what we have become
your victory here is our victory here
though in doubt and confusion
we may yet not live to see it
there is no lost needle
no haystack no imperative
to count grains of sand
washed clean by waves
no reason to tally
green leaves
tough grass
where a dress
stained at
the hem
once swept
the lawn
at the bottom
is the hope of all
who came before
that you might
just might
give name
to the lie
in all our telling
Even in Death the Male Ego Can Grate the Soul of a Woman
feisty and fresh
tattooed and meshed
in the flesh
and the mysteries
of her body
after a short illness
she went out in
a ceremonial fire
no eulogy
her ashes
as she planned
wafted from
death’s pyre
all yellow flames
orange sparks
gray smoke through
forever forests falling
on rivers meandering
through valleys
out to sea
her spirit
her soul
her ghost
or whatever
the freethinkers of
our age now call it
appeared
then alone
in death
but immensely
awake
at the gates
of some
vast place
and the new
mansplaining god
of that great space
spoke to her thus
in a decidedly
condescending tone
you may enter here
only when you
have gathered
together again
all your ashes
all the ashes
now scattered
and she
distraught
by this eternal madness
without hesitation
shot back
but you know
damn well
i no longer
have arms
with which to gather
nor legs
on which to walk
nor eyes
from which to see
the winds
blew asunder
my ashes
my dying embers
drifted on the waters
those who
remember me
are the ones
who lit the fires
and the dust of all
that remains of me
is spread now
to the world’s
far distant corners
and god
laughed
at her reply
as if it was
no matter
then winds
must be your hands
and waves
must carry you forth
and you must
call to those who
remember you
to undertake
the chore
of collecting all
you were
bring your
grains and specks
to a final
incarnation
by holy water
at my designated
time and shore
and after
a pause
but before
she had a chance
to utter
god in an
afterthought
muttered
or you might
do nothing
wait for the law
of repetition to roll
allow vastness to align in
some distant tomorrow
for it is
written
by me
that whatever
is once configured
must be permitted
to reconfigure
for without
this rule
infinity
is nothing
in my view
and all hopes
are mere illusions
then god ended
with his mocking
admonition
but bring something
to sustain yourself
in that long bending limbo
if you can afford it
for if you refuse
to do as i say
and gather
what is past
tedious worries
about space and time
a battle between
the will you thought
and the fates you fought
will yield for you
one hell of an incubation
we know from the dead
who whisper always
to the living
that even in death’s hold
in the glare of
god’s penetrating gaze
hate is enough
to break the spell
cast upon those
never predisposed
to do only
as they’re told
to arouse a woman
bent on more
than just survival
and so she turned
from god’s
unshaven face
to images appearing
upon ripples
rolling through the void
ripples not unlike the folds
of an unfurling canvas
images of her
hiking boots her
running shoes her
crisp gray blazer
thimbles and needles
with which she stitched
utensils and pots
with which she cooked
hoes and shovels with which
she turned and tilled
and beyond
the implements
of a life
most recently
remembered
images of
the deep beauty
propping love
and piercing sorrow
from each world
she had imagined
dams and bridges built
ceilings shattered
the boundless vistas from
the narrow crests
of forbidden peaks
those flannel pajamas
the straps and pleats
of ancient dresses
dangerous spun
from black silk
trimmed and hemmed
with delicate threads and laces
soaking up the rain
upon wild grasses
faces of these children
and their children
sisters who stood
stride for stride
beside her laughing
worn carvings
on the wooden handle
of the blade with
which she slayed
each scaled dragon
silence settled
about the gates
closed now
in the curving
shape
of a knowing
smile
the gate key back
in her pocket
fed up
at being
out of step
with heaven’s virtues
bored with solving
some god’s problems
she drifted
breathed
ever closer
to the moon
blooming blood red
and full
at the
reappearing
horizon
picked up
where she
left off
and was
once more
on her way
The Gentleman Pulls a Weed from the Lady’s Garden
always the small
unintended gestures
ripple up
to misalign
a favorable
constellation
they met
for the first time
at a local nursery
buying plants
she had been
planting shaping
cultivating
her gardens alone
and unattended
for decades
on ancestral acres
on this day
wheeling pots
of geraniums
in a palette of blues
back to her truck
he had recently moved
back from another country
its lingering accent
still rolling about his tongue
carrying a flat of lemon thyme
to his car parked
randomly next to hers
as she loaded the open bed
they talked plants
in the small lot
for more than an hour
testing each other’s fitness
as gardeners plumbing
each other’s understanding
of roots and stems and leaves
measuring the depth of
their tender love
for what grows underneath
uttering syllables of the language
mastered from their private
conversations with trees
both radiating a vision carried
in their separate hearts
that flowed enthusiastically
to the tips of their fingers
to the fire in their eyes
satisfied she smiled
inviting him
her gaze unyielding
to come back
for an afternoon walk
through her gardens
if he had the time
delighted to accept
for now he knew
he had nothing
that mattered
left to do
they exchanged names
then he followed her
along the old farm road
curving steadily toward her home
awed by all he saw
the words came easily
as they walked
the conversation
of two gardeners
practiced and rehearsed
in the soothing comfort
of all the many seasons
from the toil
of amending soil
marveling
and laughing at
textures and
transitions
curves and contours
complementary colors
narrow lawns
blooming trees overarching
winding paths
noting specimens unknown
to most and varieties of ancient plants
with uncommon names
not easily found in the trade
they turned
as she imagined
they always would
at the top of the hill
to the vista below
where a pond in the distance
sparkled with
the late afternoon sun
their hands lightly touched
he startled reflexively
bent to his right
pulled a weed lost
among a row of staggered roses
paused not knowing what to do
with what he’d pulled
held it wilting
in his hand
as they walked
slowly toward
the water
a certain intimacy gone
a certain awkwardness
taking its place
unaware until
then of the car keys
wedged in his pocket
bulging against the fabric
of his trousers
scraping against his leg
as they often did
when he knew
it was almost
time to go
Fables
A collection of short poems about us.
THE PENCILS OF ELOWEN
elowen with her twin boys
and older son nate
and younger son daniel
has so much to tend to
so much to untangle
it’s no wonder she forgets
all she wants to create
the red box holding yellow pencils
in two neat rows
flat on each end
at the back of
her desk drawer
late in summer
with the daily mustering
and bellowing of the wind
beechnuts fall from husks
through triangular windows
onto the ground in numbers beyond count
cascading from the silhouette of the tree
whose branches are within reach
massive in the open meadow
as the day’s last sunlight
fades into its smooth gray bark
alone for an anxious moment
between exhausted moments
she reminds herself
they’re all nuts
what’s the point
of raking them up
she repeats it again
what she’s known all along
it keeps happening before
most of the seeds
rot in the earth
a few don’t
some of the pencils
get sharpened
most won’t
EMILE
soon no one
will be left to
remember chief
petty officer emile once
a dental assistant
in the navy
on the u s s wasp
in the 40s in the war
launching planes
cleaning teeth
everyone hoping to live
some destined to die
on the sea with
shiny whites
their cavities filled
rumor is he was
reprimanded in
port for playing too
much chess on board
with the captain
no one else could even
come close to winning
against the old man
but with a world war
going on and a ship
to command and his access
above station
he was ordered to stop
after the victory
after the dalliance
with the fiery redhead
in havana his
sisters whispering
about it forever
in his steady way
just wanting
time and again
to be a short riff
to someone like jazz
not famous like sinatra
or ellington or dean
just a bit apart
dead smart
landing a job
as a teller
in a bank
learning bridge
cultivating chess
marrying
but no children
before DINKs
was a thing finding
satisfaction in his
consistent loyalty
to good friends
not suffering
fools or
detractors
at all
steady
in his fond
suggestions
and curmudgeonly
but consistent emotions
for his small circle
of relations
who in the end
did not know
exactly how
to mark his stone
or from their
separate places
with passing years
and life's
daily commotions
to love him back
JOSEPHINE
you can’t
believe in god
when your husband
makes that little
and drinks that much
and fucks you into litters
but you tried
after baby four
they drove you to
the nuthouse nuts
bleeding in and
bleeding out
beyond repair
except you
were too poor and had
no choice but
to recover
woke up on
the morning after
your husband’s dead
still half alive
in the small
apartment
under the eaves
of the third
tenement floor
kids gone
migrated to the
other side of town
you pass time with
the other canuck
ladies sewing brightly
colored stoles
and chasubles
for the catholic priests
and the matching
gowns for the
porcelain statue of
the baby jesus
right up front
at the church of
the sacred heart
a pale christ
oddly doll-like
with his hand raised
as if to voice an objection
at a kindergarten debate
a little bit
of a jesus
wearing the stiff
gown you stitched
and watching through
his bright blue eyes
the parishioners
just below the lectern
where the priest
who’s decked
out dapper
in your coordinating
liturgical vestments
his cincture knotted
round his middle
unpacks his sermon
about what happens
before birth
after life
THE MEMORIES OF FLORENCE
florence
the realist painter
in frayed denim
with her floppy hat
with too many cats
with fading tattoos
has lost her way
in the gloaming
to keep out
the sadness
of the world
to close her door
to the sorrow
the iron hinges
have snapped
from rust
from use
from the openings
the closings
she cannot forget
she mutes the colors
on the brushes
touching her canvas
carelessly smudges
the charcoal studies
of the overhanging trees
alone
most nights
she listens
to the creaking
of the nemorous dark
watches without regret
what never should have begun
become
ALPHONSE II
oh if only
twa was still flying
what journeys
we might travel
through the
accumulated clouds
together on its
silver wings
so woke
so wiser
alphonse was
already quite dead
like the hughes’ airline
a bankruptus americanus
when the bud light
boycott blossomed
like the flowers of
humulus lupulus
sprouting from
the vigorous vines
of white grievance
a controversy
about a transgender
influencer promoting
lightness when
everyone knows
only female hops
make beer
alphonse
was named after
his pop and always
was second but
would have been first
in his hatred for
the “t” in trans world
would have given
up with gusto
his beer to embrace
the controversy
wheels up
no landing thus
we can say
all this
with fear
but without
equivocation
because dead
white men
never shut up
whiskey pints killed
alphonse the first
and the second
was done in
in large part
by a full-throated
daily imbibing
of the insipid lager
of a pale sister brand
promoted with
big horses
ANDREA
the night of
the lunar
new year
and nothing
changes
for andrea
at the
anchor
desk
but her point
in the cycle
of chaos
the breaking
cable news
that binds us
is another
slaughter
of folks
who gathered
together
quietly
inside
a church
to pray
far away
from the horror
she fills
the numbing gaps
between the
names and faces
of the dead
by reporting
in her
broadcast
statistics
that compare
the alleged
perpetrator’s age
to the median age
of mass shooters
THE LAWYER'S WIFE
it was god’s original sin
not hers
the gift of self-deception
to these men without
the basic know-how
to let her in
her drive
from there to here
with no warning signs
for the rough terrain
the curves the bends
the rapidity with which
the road descends
only man-made maps
to chart her destination
google’s synthesized voice
reciting disbelief and grief
as her faithless companion
her music plays
in an endless loop
to what’s left of hope
she yells
at the illuminated dash
just look at me
look what i did
look what i do
after she triple-taps
the credit card
to pump the gas
when her tank
is almost empty
alone in the myth
of the deserted
convenience station
where nothing
is supposed to stare back
the sudden gasp
along the way
caught for a moment
in the headlights
of a swerving bus
full of sleeping children
sometimes she knows
it’s all too bright
she pleads with
night’s lonely ride
when bats and owls cut
the starless sky
when deer and skunks
cross the center line
to be seen by anyone
for who she is
steadfast
reliable
behind the steering wheel
of the crossover
her wingless aching
shoulder blades
she prays
to be remembered
as summer falls
for parking the family car
with ne'er a scratch
in the narrow garage
when the journey home is over
Grateful
as you cut a new garden bed
at a corner of the fence
where roses ramble and climb
give thanks for the grass you spade
now destined root and blade
for the compost heap
for clay yielding its firmness
to leaf mold and mulch
for all that holds the water
and the slow decay
near the bottom of life
for the worms
the ants the grubs
the hidden roots and stones
the hard work uncovers
for tools and
the idea of tools
ancient in their design
for lifting and raking
for digging and tilling
for plants
by color and name
that survived
plastic pots
in the hot lots
of the garden center
for rough hands
strong legs
a beating heart
lungs that breathe
the sour and dusty air
for those who showed the way
and those who didn’t
though neither knew
where the path would go
nor how the garden might grow
for mistakes that sort
the random and the sublime
and hard choices
that cut to the present
for yourself
dirty and marvelous
for being this in love
with the earth
The Carol of the Bells
is there such a thing any more
as a beautiful winter morning
slanting light over quiet hills
glistening ice on steps
white frost on lawns
reflecting dawn
the ring of sleigh bells
decorating an opening door
dogs bounding over frozen earth
for no purpose but the freedom of it
a slow walk along paths
in sleeping gardens
with no hope or agenda
but to breathe
the cold clean air
*
was there ever
the iron bells
in the red brick tower
of saint patrick’s
and the mechanical bells
in the belfry
of the shuttered church
of the sacred heart
in the crumbling industrial city
along the merrimack
did not often ring
with good news
and when they clamored
the clang of the clapper
against the iron from saint pat’s
the rhythm of the mechanized notes
beating from the sacred heart
seldom seemed to say
-throw cares away
*
when i was
a child
in that city
i found refuge
at night
in the same recurring dream
from which i would awake
in the gray smoke
of my stale room
and for a moment lie
motionless listening
as though i was safe
though i was not safe
always in the dream
the same halting journey
through the abandoned house
how many stories up i could not tell
at first wandering
into the paneled living room
of the dilapidated main floor
past the ornate furniture
the musty carpets
no one there
but always the sense
of someone watching
small before the giant fireplace
cold and strewn with charred
and blackened wood
slipping quietly
through the hidden door
behind a movable pilaster
into the narrow corridor
between plastered walls
dangerous but not frightening
forgotten objects of all sorts on the floor
(as if others had been there before)
nail points dried beams splintered studs
at each corner and half-barred way
cobwebs dirt dusty slants of light
each night the same journey
in the same dream
ascending inevitably
the wobbly stairs to the attic
the countless steps and landings
turning and climbing unevenly
until i at last arrived
at the tiny cramped and angled room
at the top of the dark
nothing above it
but the crest of the roof
and the endless expanse of night sky
a single window
frosty and cold to the touch
in a small dormered wall
a window barely large enough to kneel before
from which to peer out and down
at the sleepy tenement houses
and empty streets of lawrence
as the snow
begins to fall
*
years later
in a strange twist of grief
writing my uncle's eulogy
failing to hold back tears
i connected the small room
in the dream
to the tiny third-floor apartment
of the old man i loved
who when others couldn't
had loved me back
that night there again
for the last time
in a deeper sleep
staring out at the decaying city
from that closeted space
a winter wind buffeting the house
the old dormer window
shuddering with the wind
a small tin bell hanging on a nail
tinkling with each cold draft
whistling through the lath
*
we arrive for the party
as the snow gales and twists and drifts
harangues the rejoicing world
with a challenge seemingly thrown
by a deranged god bent
on testing the mettle of mirth
by obliterating the ground with white
our scarves and gloves crust
with the tossed and twirling ice
as we hurry up the driveway
with our wine and gifts
pass the colored lights to ring
the doorbell of our host
our laughter spills into the air
with the expectations for our visit
you clomp your feet
and brush the snow
and look back from the landing
of the porch and joke
that the farthest footsteps
of our coming have almost gone
bells peal somewhere in the distance
from a hidden church
that we both silently imagine in the cold
is soft with candlelight and warm
you laugh again and say
the ringing of the distant bells
on this god forsaken night
sounds like the clang of silver coins
thrown from some great height
by angels hell-bent for heaven
to escape the storm
Formulas for Liberty
they melt like
ice architecture in spring
recede as the end of an ice age
trickle drip away seep
through convoluted earth
hide in underground streams
flow into hidden rivers
roar through great storms
on wild dark seas
they rise
in a fog
when footsteps
echo down
damp
midnight
streets