Last night
was a powerful dream.

Got up and out of bed ordinarily enough.
Got to shower and shave and then I just sat
till breakfast, after which I sat some more.

Did not read; I can’t. Did not play guitar;
I can’t, not to my liking. I sat like a
television guru, waiting for it to come
to me, and it didn’t.

Nothing came to me.
The dream was that nothing came to me
and I wanted it to
but some force,
some divine force or wind
or other kamikaze memory
kept it from me
and I woke up stifling
under the bedclothes
longing for anything at all to come by,
shaking like a poplar leaf
or quaking like a bog;
anything in motion would be enough.

Motion excites me, riles me up.
I am awake enough
to go into motion —
tai chi would be ecstasy,
even breathing at all under tension
would be good;

anything except this stasis,
this indecision
that pins me to the hollow in my bed
and keeps me there alone

until I fling back the covers
and let something, anything come to me,
so that I may stop the holy breath
of just living and rest easy in the stillness
of being complete
as in a dream,
a powerful dream.

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

Wake up most days
and add a poem to the list
in hopes of stirring
something…

Wake up most days
and add a poem to the stock
in hopes of simmering
something…

Wake up most days
and add a poem to the life
in hopes of stopping
something…

Maybe one day
I’ll know what needs stopping.
Maybe some day
it will just stop…

and I will say,
finished. There, I’m
done with
all that…

Somewhere there will be
one poem left unfinished and they
will claim: his fault, entirely.
Everyone will blame me…

but friend, it won’t be my choice
to leave it unsung. It will sit there
like a bird on my fading face,
staring at the next person up,

waiting to sing…waiting
for you to sing. Waiting
for anyone to say a word
of it to anyone…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Up at the top of the hill,
at the top of Ledyard Street
where a few big houses are,
they are saying their prayers.

Up on the hill,
lower down but still up there,
at the crossing of Ledyard and Lesser
where rundown gentility is obvious,
they are wringing their hands.

At the lower shelf of the hill,
where Leper Road merges with
what came above them, with what streets
led them to here — Ledyard, Lesser,
all the rest — they are done
with their praying,
finished with their wringing.

On Main Street now where
the Salvadoran restaurant ekes out
a living, where the bakeries
close early and the tired workers
hurry home, where you are now —

on the main street where
nothing haunts the brains of
the unhoused like memories
of the times they had on
Ledyard, Lesser, and Leper;
insistence on failed nights
of pledged commitment
and a whispered promise
to do better next visit
comes empty from your lips.

You know, right now,
that you will not come back.

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

Gray day outside, cars starting up
and receding as they leave you
alone. You wave at them from
behind the shades and fool yourself
into thinking it matters, though you know
it does not.

Alone; none of the furniture
matters, none of the floors matter,
none of anything at all matters
one bit. You could sit here
for hours and no one would know;
no one would have even a reason
to care.

Turn the lights off and do not
show yourself to the people.
They won’t trouble themselves
with knowing. They won’t even
trouble themselves with not knowing
you are drowning in their oblivion.

Something was left out,
was allegedly inevitable,
was supposed to happen.

Outside it’s getting
inexorably brighter.

It must mean something.

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

One small victory —
did not spill tea sitting down —
one win starts the day.
It is solid, hard.
Another will come

without a warning
or a sign — comfort ignored
except now, perhaps.
Now is perfect; sip
a little tea. Rest.

Upon rising, sun.
Upon sleeping, you learn the moon
keeps watch as a sun
but weaker, cooler.
Close your eyes and rest.

So much to learn, still.
So abundant, that learning,
should you follow close.
Here is learning too,
in this cup of tea. Rest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

A day like flat ginger ale
and it tastes the same: no spark,
no bubbles, barely a ghost
of its past.

I am like that, too. Today
I am a ghost of my past.
My hands don’t feel well,
my feet feel poorly,
they are just a smidgen
of ill health compared to
my memory and emotion,
of which the less said —
don’t recall the rest of the words
in that song, like all the others
running through my limp head
all the time.

A river ran through my hometown
growing up, brown foam gathered
in the corners of the banks, the water
smelled crusty and metallic. I hear
it’s better than it used to be. I hear
they have prettied up the banks. I hear
many things, many and varied things
I hear and see; I am going home soon

to see how the river has changed, to see
if it bubbles, is it flat, and what does
my memory do if it’s gone — if it has become
a ghost of itself, repeating small words
in fading light?

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

The sun is angry this morning.
No — the sun smiles down at me today. No —
the sun is doing what the sun does, impartial
to my needs, or anyone else’s needs
or desires. Irrelevant to desires
or needs entirely, in fact.

The sun
does what it does, and the earth
quakes or is benevolent or doesn’t care, and oceans
rise and fall and do not care, regardless
of how I see them or don’t see them
from here.

From here I could close my eyes,
block my ears and nose, give up my senses
and think dark and lovely thoughts
and postulate a different world of clouds and seas
and above all the raging, indifferent sun,
and none of them would care.

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

It’s a warm day for January
and after I do my morning chores
I sit and do little for an hour or two
until I get up and do a little more.

Meanwhile the inherent spark
of memory and loss of same
continues to haunt me until
I get up and do a little more.

I could get up. I could make
breakfast. I could do all kinds
of small things, vary them between
crucial and trivial. I could always

get up and do a little more
but I have no memory to speak of
and my left hand is bad between
the wrist and the fingers. I can’t

get up and do anything, anything
at all, let alone a little more. Instead
I listen to the birds, the wind, the heat
clicking on and off and on again.

I could get up and do a little more.
In its place I will think about it and sit
still, close my ruined eyes, damning
every thing and the spirit of everything

until I fall asleep, dead to this world
and all others, thinking of a day when
I can do it all and a little more
but it is a day that will not come.

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