For long nights
and calm, slow to form
mornings.

For fog-filled evenings
and boredom of dim, slow
to come to full light days.

For weird confusions
and slow to be confirmed
realities, slow to become concrete.

For awakening in night
with no chance of knowing time
beyond slow waiting for a chance to see.

For rising in full daylight or before
full daylight comes, slow realization
that it’s too early or too late to get up.

For thankfulness, for gratitude
after fear, after terror; for grinding up
slowly into a day like all others.

For plodding — one foot before
another — then sitting heavily down with
a cup of coffee; planning, slowly,

a hard day to come.

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

Death, mystery passage —
wondering this morning
what it’s like —
this morning when it seems close
and ordinary to consider it —
when my memory seems perfect
and ordered just so,
when I feel so sweet and
normal — no sense
of dread or impending doom;
just the cold in my hands
and a list of small chores
to be done to leave the home
in order for my love to grieve
quietly, with a sigh; death
one last trip to take, one final task
to undertake — and what will come after
still not known, a shrug
not a scream, tales of heaven
and hell dismissed, maybe
the old story of crossing a divide
in the mountains is right or perhaps
there is nothing, nothing at all;
death at last is nothing at all,
death means nothing at all
and any story of what comes after it
is too fantastic to tell.

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

I recall
her, nude,
her back toward me,
covered with symbols I would not
care to calculate my way through
until after, after;

then there
was the time she was not there
and I longed for symbols, for numbers,
anything at all; closed my eyes,
tried to remember, tried so hard
and nothing, nothing.

If only
I had a flashback engine to carry
my mind there, to the edge
of presence, to chug and huff
toward real memories and visions
or anything like them;

but now
that engine seems broken,
shattered or nonexistent — now
I am shattered myself or nonexistent.
Now is all I have. I don’t recall
the name for anything, especially her;

now seems
the eraser, the scrubber
of dreams and longing is all there is
to wrap myself inside, and I am left
bereft but somehow satisfied with that —
now I am parted from her, and so it continues —

brief pang
of longing, of mystery’s
dumb dim light on my ruined eyes;
wondering again
what name I should call her
should she improbably return.

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

In awe of the simple brutality
of aging:

not that
it’s without beauty,

or that joy is not
present, even in the moment

when you know
your true age at last

and it’s exactly right
as it is, even

as it assumes the mantle
of finality; when it settles upon you

that you are exactly
the right age, soaking

up that brief moment
becomes the work of a lifetime.

The simple brutality 
of it: the casual swift recognition

that while this may not be the end,
it surely is trending.  It surely

has a feel to it, 
and this is how it feels. 

Looking back 
at your past
and pointing 
and shouting until breath 
is punched out of you
by time
and awareness of time
as you tell everyone:

back there is the age 
when I was 
at my best, most fully me;
now that I am
no longer that
I do not know who
this older gentleman pointing
back to me must be
although he bears my name 
and my memories.
I am not myself these days.

This is what ripening 
to your peak on the tree
then falling to the ground
and left to spoil there
does to you.

Not to me.

I’m no
gentleman. I ripened
after I fell
onto this ground and
on this ground
these seeds of mine
can matter more
than I did
and because I never was
good enough to pick
when I was on that tree,
I am perfect now. 

Fearing that my edge will fail
when I most need it to stay
sharp and ready

is to imagine myself
dropped upon rock,
dulled so profoundly

I would be tossed aside
for some newer blade,
left behind like my memory

of singing through air 
long ago, opening a clearing
in which to build.  

Was I ever that, though —
that honed, that useful?
I look back and see nothing

like a clearing there —
just metal discarded, glinting 
like lost potential.

Ride through
time of day, not
a stop and see time.

That bar looks
as old-man bar
as any I have seen.

Maybe once
a biker place. Never
have seen one there.

As curious as I am
I will never go in.
It’s on my way home

but too far from home
for a quick stop. If I stopped I know
I would stay long enough to die

driving back on Route 190,
Route 2, Route 290, heading home —
I would one day not get there.

Whoever this is now 
in here is not that old man
just when I fit the part at last.

I could nurse whiskies 
a whole late afternoon 
and evening in there.

I would be unmemorable
but later someone watching
the local news would ask the bartender,

“wasn’t that the guy?”
and the bartender would say,
“Yeah, maybe. Never saw him

before a week or two ago. Pity —
seemed ok. Just quiet.  Didn’t say
much. Seemed to have

stuff on his mind.”
I would have had stuff
on my mind. I always

have stuff on my mind
which is why I don’t stop
at the Paddock Lounge

on my way home.
I make it my faith
to stay away. It’s always

ride through time, never
stop in for a quick one time. 
I used to be that guy. Even

if I still am I don’t want him
out in public. I know him,
I know what would happen. 

What did the iris learn
as its bloom browned
and became thin as paper
before falling? 

The iris is not dead.
The swordplay of the leaves
goes on. If anything
they’ve grown longer.

Almost summer now
and no shade
other than green
in the border of the yard

where the irises grow.
Nothing other than green
to draw in the casual eye.
One might say

the irises have become background. 
From the annual brief riot of purple 
they learned to thrive, to be here
no matter who sees them,

to trust in a future
where they will bloom again
even after their superficial charms
have failed to endure.