Appropriate for nothing
is what they say about
these facts:

marvelous birds
can chirp or sing or make
noise of any sort in time
with music played below them;
frogs climb trees and play games
within them, games like
poker and hopscotch; leaves
themselves can speak languages
unknown to humans, to any animal
really;

they sniff at all of this
and turn back to books
on business writing, accounting,
and scientific health care
while around them this world
whispers and serenely ignores them
as being superfluous, extra,
and not worth their time.

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

I am sorry
I have been a miss
for you. I’m so
sorry.

I turn
and begin to turn
again and again. I’m
sorry, more sorry

than I have ever been.
The trees are bare, all
the flowers are gone too;
I’m so sorry for that.

The lawn that never existed
outside of our vision,
the river we can’t see from here —
ah, I’m so sorry for them

and the lack of attention
I’ve paid them. Same with
the birds, the wind, the rain
and the sun. I am sorry

there’s no recourse for them,
no penance I can do, no penalty
I could serve. I am sorry
for all of that —

forever and a day, forever
until the wounds come forth
on my skin, until the scars
begin to form and leave me

trapped within them, like
a cage. I apologize
formally now and at once
more intensely

than I have ever said a thing
before now — may the wind
take me, may the rain soak me
if I fail at this. Apologies

all around for this;
I am one with the rain
and sun on this — part of
the weather; part of fading away.

It is what it is, it is
ashes and dust
and broken blooms.
I am sorry and I go now

as do the rain, the snow,
the lost leaves of the willow,
rays of sunlight, the night
as it falls.

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

…and I start to speak…a dream
speech, oration from a place
deep within, and to be honest
it makes little sense in my head:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

When I speak of
of this strange nonsense
it makes little, frightening sense,
and the horizon feels so distant.

So how do I proceed? Shall I speak,
put air behind it,
form words to make it plain
and clear that I’m speaking
plainly in a language
that should be clear
even when it is not?

I try it out
and say it to you:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

If I speak like that
of the weather, of the sky full
of portents, if I use words
that meant little till right now
and you are puzzled,
hoping I’d reveal an explanation,
the unvarnished truth
of it would be held within
a series of questions —
is it meaningful? does it
speak to you? will you ask more
of me, ask me to explain it?
will you stay with me
until it’s clear?

Say it again, though you haven’t
spoken yet; say it
out loud:

Weather: rain,
limited sunshine;
leftover clouds.
Gray sky like veins
in granite;
pink glimpses,
a response to gray.
Red-tinged snowflakes
at night in a darkness
nothing could break…

You must understand that these are lines
from a poem I will try to write.
I don’t even know the poem yet
and I won’t until it’s written.
Someday, maybe when I’m gone
and all but forgotten, these words will be clear
and will appear before you one day
when storm or driving rain
comes forth in darkened sky
with that moon somehow
breaking through
a small slit in gathered clouds.

You will sit down and write this poem
and take it for your own, of course,
of course.

After all, I’m just a ghost,
just a ghost…
a ghost in soaking rain.

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

Saturday night:
the cat padding past the bed,
each footfall near noiseless, then
leaps onto the bed; a brief bit
of unwelcome clawing at the spread,
followed by curling up for sleep.

I lie awake a long time
counting all the medications I took
with a sigh. Thinking of everything
I didn’t do today, thinking of everything
I can’t do anymore. Wondering
what the cat thinks as she falls asleep.
Wondering when I will fall asleep,
and finally doing so.

Waking up: the cat leaps down
yelling for me to get up
and feed her. I stumble out
and do so; take my morning meds
with a sigh; measure my pressure
and sugar; dress, make coffee,
pour myself a cup, sit down,
listen to the radio.

Listen to the radio and think about
what I have to do today. Listen
to the radio and think about
what the people are saying: a man talks
about having lupus, a woman talks
about losing a boy to heroin.

The cat sprawls in my lap,
I scratch the cat, I listen to
the radio. Sundays
are like this. Tales of random grief
by strangers, disembodied strangers;
my own sighs thinking about them
while the cat
sleeps through them oblivious
and happy.

Goodbye, I tell
myself. Goodbye,
I tell them.

I turn the radio off
to start this day
of dreading the intrusion
of the real world into
my version of it — quiet,
uncomplicated, punctuated
by a cat snoring softly,
each of us peaceful for once,
for a precious few minutes.

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

With music on a radio
which is on a bookcase
which is in a living room
which is in an apartment
on a hilly street in a city
in a country on a planet
in a galaxy
in a universe
that is more or less
empty

worried
for my own recovery
from a stroke
from a second stroke
from a third stroke
from a tumor
within my chest
from glaucoma
within my eyes
from chronic weight imbalances
from aging
from embracing an end
from falling into
empty

worried
for my own recovery
from depression
from guilt
from sadness multiplied by guilt
from rage disguised as
empty

knowing there is
another world
out there
another world only
a razor blade away
another world only
a fistful of pills away
another world only
this one will be
empty

I have not been this
empty
before
Never seen my way so clear
Never seen my way so perfectly
lined against a ocean
neither stormy nor calm
I am neither stormy nor calm
myself
I am resigned
I will have resigned
from a job
I did not ask for
from a career
that tugged me and nudged me this way and that
from a life
as full of joy and pain as this one has brought me
from this life
of opposing forces
I surrender to
one final
hearing of this song
one final
toe tap imperfectly rendered
one final
nodding ragged and timely to its rhythm
I shut the radio down after uttering
in English
an imperfect rendering
of Nunc Dimittis
after looking it up
and getting it
still uncertainly enough
with no confidence that I got it right
much as my heart looses its last load
into me and
becomes
empty

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T

Listening to old music,
wearing old clothes, thinking
old thoughts…enveloped in
a sort of sorrow that’s more like
dread, more like the flowers
on the orchid that have been
outrageous for weeks, show no sign
of fading and falling but
you expect them to go soon;

you are surprised
to find yourself licking your lips
knowing you’ll go outside soon
to the disasters that await —
the unfamiliar car, the new horror times
with your mother and sister,
the long, knuckle-driving drag
back and forth;

listening to old music, your old
clothes, your old thoughts —
but this, right now, is good, is nice;
is only troubled by anticipation
of dealing when you don’t want to
and can’t really; still, you hum along
and sing where you remember the words
and pick at your clothes, thinking
of how you will change them soon.

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

Opposed to the river
as it meanders through
Worcester before going south
to the sea; disregarding the passage
I stay focused on the downstrokes
of the paddle, smooth
through the water; I begrudge
the earth that has put me here
in this place, in this time.

What the Blackstone does
is wander south. All I do
is sit and wonder
where I could be
that would reward me
for going anywhere except
south, to the sea.

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

Libraries and museums
hold scraps of death and life
brought into them by living souls
and left to them by the dead.

I sit with this for a long time.
Weakening rays of sunlight
come in at a slant and fail,
one by one, along these long halls.

Stepping out at the end of the day.
I wonder: which relics tell which story
better; which stories are of life,
which of death?

Relics don’t tell their stories easily but
I turn on my heel and leave them to burn.

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

Me and the cat,
the cat and me,
I and the cat,
the cat and I
wait in front of the television
for things to happen.
You can put us in any order
you like; we will wait together
like this for fifteen minutes
or five hours; I’ll wait for
the hammer to fall, she will wait
for food or treats or perhaps
nothing at all. Lucky being
that she is, she waits for
whatever comes. I wait for
things I know are coming
and that I fear. Two things,
three things; my own death,
two more, maybe ten or more;
maybe hers will hit me hard,
maybe harder than the others would.
I do not know. I do know
mine would bother her; she’d meow
louder than normal, become listless,
lost in her own miasma
of not understanding it.
I won’t understand it either. Instead
I try to predict the upcoming news
and events, such as they can be.
Of course I’ll get it mostly right,
a few of the important things wrong.
It’s the way of things.
It will not matter if I got it right
once it happens. The cat and me,
me and the cat, I and the cat,
the cat and I will be calm
in the occurrence,
no matter how it’s framed,
no matter how it seems to happen.

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

Sitting
seems to be
all that’s left to do.

I’m waiting for coffee
and listening to the radio;
what else is there to do?

I’m worrying about
my partner leaving
for a month;

worrying on behalf of the cat;
worrying about my mother, my sister;
what else is there to do?

I can get up and check on
the coffee, get up and take
a shower, get up and push

my fists into my eyes, get up
and run ragged into the street,
get up and plead with God for

forgiveness
or better: a sort of fail-safe status.
What else is there to do?

I’m planning to be alone,
planning my options
to see people, planning

to dance in a quiet room
thirteen stories above this one,
planning a murder, a suicide,

a quiet death all by myself in my bed;
what else is there to do?
Instead I sit and sip coffee.

Well, this is good coffee. I’ll have to
get more soon. Have to be
ready, alert, scheming results;

thinking, always thinking of the future;
instead I just sit here.
What else is there to do?

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