call me a red-tailed hawk
call me a red all over worm
in a hawk’s beak

call me a white miracle
call me a white nobody
groveling on paler clay

or call me black feather
and call me colorless remainder
of what came once and not again

there is a rough brown tree somewhere
that feels like mine
feels like a refuge

a brown cross beamed tree
a grey storm bent tree
hollow but firm to wind tree

call me from my tree
to my place in a folksong world
let me perch above

for I am not that firm
I cannot stand alone
until I lean upon you

until I lean upon you
like a tree
like a hawk stopping to rest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward
T

“Angel of mercy and light,” says
the song, and the world smiles.
(The Christian world does anyway.)

Meanwhile in Lebanon they differ
and explosions cover the countryside,
slaughter the children, their parents,

grandparents. “Silent night,
holy night,” the smiling United State
sings and with wet eyes beams and fawns.

Angel, silent. Holy, mercy. Light
in the night. Flames from bombs,
candles. Don’t you love this?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

To have a moment
of peace from this —
a second even of not
hesitating between
the act and the instant
rethinking of the act —
to just naturally flow
between them, indeed
to have to not think before
the next act; for instance
to not worry about each
punctuation mark, to not stop
in mid-step to think about
where I’m going this time
and then changing direction
or not changing it; this
is a toxic walk with a poison
cup waiting to be sipped
at the end or even halfway;
who am I now ten months’
into this life of having to remember
how quiet and routine it used to be
to get up out of bed, walk
to the bathroom, walk out
without saying, “next, the pantry,
next, the coffee, next, the cat…” as if
there was no need for an order
that just came to me without thought,
without writing it down, without
screaming or weeping or just sighing
once in a while, wondering how long
this will go on and on…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Packing my bags to get out of town,
says the song on the radio. Me? I’m staying
very put. Very much
committed to staying here in place
until perhaps tomorrow.

Too much desperation keeps me here, or is it
a love of momentary stability? Not sure.

All I know is what my heart tells me to do
and it says, stay put for now. Pack your bags
just in case, if you want; pretend you care
about the world outside; just don’t you dare
leave. It’s cold out there, after all.

You don’t have enough
to put in a bag anyway, let alone
more than one. All you’ve got
is a bag of nothing, pared down
from too much.

But pretty soon I’ll have
too much again, Then the message
will come to pare down before
going…where?

At last I feel relief. I’m ending up
a rich, rich man. Packing my bags
to get out of town; it changes the song
to a poem about taking nothing
for the journey now, and the sky
shines and shines — diamonds,
I guess; diamonds in a dirty glass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Morning comes;
an indigo body,
a crimson message,
then it fades
to ordinary shades.

I wish I could see myself
in those shades all the time;
not be human, not be too
ordinary. Ordinary
means the dream is ended

and I want
to continue all day until
I turn improbable colors.
It would mean so much
to everyone who saw me

to know that I faded
as they had. To fade
as we all do past the point
of caring; to fade to a drab garden
and wash out to washed out colors.

But I did adore the crimson
and I did adore most of all the indigo
that rendered me damn near invisible
to those not willing to see past the bulk
of my shade. To peer into me

and see, really see
the center weight and heft I carried.
I did not know it until it was gone
and I was left strapped to a memory,
struggling to break free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

In a prosperous moment
between us
I slip a twenty into
your pocket

I feign ignorance
as to its origin
when I am asked
from where it came

and really I don’t know
It comes from a mint
It comes from my pocket
It comes from a complex

and is supported by one as well
I don’t know if it has value
It did this morning when I picked it
off the counter where it appeared

but now who knows
what vagaries of population
and control have a hand in it
and how soon it will disappear

how soon will it be replaced
or will its value vanish
until it becomes a bit of lining
stuffing in a loose threaded pocket

The money rolls in and also out
There is never enough to be selected
for meaning and God-hood and in the taverns of hell it will mean nothing

Less than nothing in fact
I slip it into your pocket
Cackling a bit in awareness
that in the long run we will die and

it will mean nothing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

onward,
T

Listening…
the second floor has
a departure. A car
comes to life and leaves.
I look out the side window;
it’s the far car, the Mazda.
The little Honda remains.

Listening…
small cars and SUVs
go up and down the road
at irregular intervals.
My own driveway stays quiet.
No one comes to visit me
and I’m so happy with that.

Listen:
my heart’s full of blood and stars.
If I turn everything off you could hear
the pulse, forward and pushy but subtle
as if a wind had gone susurrant in my chest
and stirred outward once in a while.
It makes me want to die soon
and see where it goes. If it goes,
if it comes with me to the next place.

Listening…
meanwhile, the light grows outside
as it comes toward another inexorable day.
No more cars, no more thumping
in my chest. I’m alone again
with the radio and my crushing thoughts
and the hope for some return of the living:

the chatter of my chest, my heart
asking for more, my head filled with sand
as numerous as stars wish they could be.
Nothing more. I close my ruined eyes
on this splendid wreck of a world.
The Mazda is gone.
I wish I had gone with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Singing the blues
the folksinger allows a break
in the line to emphasize
its meaning for the listener.

Listening to the blues
the star singer recalls
her first time — all of them
from sex to music to knowing God.

Hearing the blues
the listener dawdles until
the song is done and decides
to leave it on just one more time.

Being blues
the music settles
into a groove, a notch,
finds something ancient within.

One more song
comes on and the blues
does not fail to envelope you.
You turn it off, close your eyes.

You would pray
for the blues
to come again
if you knew how.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

First light. What
frequency is it, what waveform
is it; none of us here know.

It is a mystery, a puzzlement.
It leaves us breathless and wondering
and occasionally afraid. Then
we shrug it off and go back to
where we were moments
before first light.

Glorious moments — the darkness
infecting all with comfort before
the plunge into daylight.

A car comes by
and stabs us awake with headlights
and old guitars and drums, a piercing voice.
At first light it’s not enough to comfort us.

First light, not enough yet to calm us down.
Will now our bodies down, down; make now
a pallet on your floor for us. Make us
instruments of peace, peace in a time before
war begins.

We don’t know where that voice comes from.
Maybe it’s just dread pleading
for a tranquil moment.

All I know is that I need to get inside
where it’s temporarily warm; to sit down
and close my eyes and pretend I’ve seen nothing
again. Yet. Still. Pretend it’s nothing.
It was nothing before I went outside at first light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

A book of another’s poems
closed before me on the desktop.
Folk singers live on the radio, testing
three songs about love, dreams, and Alaska.
I am dressed for the day; got a lone
task to do later on; other than that
it yawns before me like a mouth,
and it’s not even six AM. This is life
now — a boring, thrilling sameness
to it all, and I am alone facing it. Partner,
sister, mother, friends — gone to their
own exercises. It is me and the cat
who doesn’t really care that much about me
as long as the food holds out.

Back now to the poems full of non sequiturs
that still somehow make some rational sense. The folk singers
did not say a word I could understand. The cat
gets disgusted again and goes out of the room
to lick herself and sleep. Or perhaps she is content
and this is how she shows it? I only know
I’m tired already and afraid of the day springing some surprise.
Maybe there will be a snake the size of Alaska.
Maybe my death will come quietly and I won’t notice.
Maybe the marvelous will come and startle me back to health.
This is my life, after all. I don’t have the first clue
about where it’s going. I just know it goes,
chugging along on a track I recognize now and then
and I am hoping for either a grand reveal
or a nearly silent moment where I say, “oh. Oh.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

My upstairs neighbor
turns on the car for six
in the morning. I’ve been up
for two hours so far. She’s
going to work, and I’m going
to sit still, very still.

My retirement came early
thanks to this illness. She goes
to work just as I would have gone
to work without the sickness.
I sit very still, so still;
I am wondering if I will rise again.

New England, southern New England,
is waiting for its first snowfall. I’m waiting
for the snow, the rain; been up for two hours
so far, sitting quite still. The neighbor
goes to work with her exhaust billowing
behind her. I’m not remotely OK.

I’m not even remotely OK, not
extremely all right. The day is still
the night until the sunrise. It’s coming.
Of course. Meanwhile I wil sit very,
very still, and pray the neighbor does well
at her job as I will be here. Not OK.

Wait for sunrise to come. I wait.
I can only sit and wait for it to crack
the sky, the light of the ground,
this shell I am growing around myself.
What the neighbor sees I can only guess.
I’m sitting very still. It’s what fright looks like.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Lilt — the melody
of a sweet song — now,
the violin comes in
to make it melancholy.
A woman’s voice joins
in harmony. Song
ends suspended, yet
perfected:

the opposite of my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T