Dads
Sunday, June 15, 2025
poem
Monday, June 9, 2025
poem
The Wasteland
One day you stumble upon a secret realm
Of color and harmony.
It’s the Land of Poetry!
Everything here is made of it—
Trees, grass, squirrels, the
Pain in the ass neighbors
Who complain when your kid’s ball
Rolls down the hill into their yard.
We call them a sestina.
But you think — What a marvelous discovery!
It’s been here all along!
Just when you thought all the magical
Wonder of the world had been used up
And there was nothing left to write
That hadn’t already been said
And no good way of framing it
That hadn’t been done before.
But soon the adrenaline wears off
And a certain kind of paranoia sets in,
A feeling of not only being watched
But the watchers are all waiting for you
To start doing something about it—
Linking and braiding and looping
Some of these bits and fragments
Back together again in interesting ways
We’ve never seen or heard before.
You know you’re on the right track
If just reading them elicits
Nostalgia for the ethereal world
Of dreams our old selves used to have
Alongside memories of events that actually happened.
What we did and how it felt
Finally meeting up after all these years of parallel play.
If you can pull that off, good on you.
You’ve accomplished something worthwhile.
It isn't easy, though. Look around. Pay attention.
Summon every last scrap of pain, joy, sorrow, rage and love you can muster,
Mash it all together like a leftover casserole and release it all
In the form of an archaic keening, as long as you can, until your voice goes hoarse
And you're forced to either take a breath or die....
But before the sudden silence swells a second longer
You hear a voice screaming back
And it’s not just your own echo.
Configurations like that very rarely happen.
Probably a combination of luck and hard work,
Living and suffering and loving,
So you better get cracking.
But you don’t know how.
You’re a poem yourself
Written in a dialect from 15th century Gallipoli.
To your mother you’ve always been
A walking, talking Shakespeherian sonnet.
All your friends could see it
And loved you because you didn’t.
Good old Jeff, trying to pass himself off as prose again—
Over-plotted, whimsical, and morose.
Even your notepad and pen
Are stray verses wandered off
From an ode on the love of your life
poem
Strangers on the Plane
The women across the aisle
Have been talking this entire flight
It was apparent that, prior to boarding,
They had never before met.
I’ve been silently reading a book
That’s supposed to help improve
My social interactions but the constant
Chatter is a bit of a distraction
It continues even through periods
Of heavy turbulence
I don’t know how they do it
When I was younger I had to make
A list of things to talk about before
I called a girl on the phone
The last item on the list
Was always some variation of why
It would have been better if I'd never called.
poem
Channel One
Everyone is television channel now
Broadcasting 24/7 round the clock
We sit down to watch, flipping
Through the choices listlessly.
Nothing seems good enough to commit to.
Half the channels are endless loops of commercials
Asking you buy something you don’t need
Like an expensive juicer or the cleansing solution specially formulated
To get all the juice stains out of your carpet.
Sometimes you stumble upon an old show
That you used to like for very specific reasons
You don't quite remember, but it’s nice and comfortable.
Reminds you of a time when life was simpler, safer, less chaotic.
It’s only nostalgia but you’re probably not going to find anything better.
Thousands of channels, nothing worth watching.
That’s not what you paid for! Cable/internet is expensive!
Come on man, it’s been a long day, you’re tired
And don't really feel much like reading tonight
It’s only Pessoa and Simic on the nightstand
And this is not a good time for them
But is it asking too much from your passive engagement device
To come up with something a little more distracting
Than— The Man Who Was Embarrassed By His Own Feelings
Or— The Girl Who Reheats Her Leftover Cod in the Office Microwave
Or— The Uncle Who Isn’t As Good To His Nephews as His Uncles Were To Him
Or— The Surprisingly Malignant Ex-Wife
Or—- The Woman Who Stayed Angry at a Man For 45 Years
It doesn’t even dull the clarion call alarm
Coming from inside the house
Warning that you don't have the wherewithal tonight
To deal with the deluge of despair and despondency
Ominously clacking their way up the basement stairs.
Remain patient. Go back to the beginning.
Press the home button and see what your options really are.
Maybe a glass of Spanish red wine.
Your wife is in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.
One of your kids is upstairs
And the other is downstairs.
Suddenly you drop the remote.
It all makes sense now.
You’re a television show too.
A side character like Norm from Cheers.
You yell— hey everyone! come in here and watch! it’s my favorite show!
But no one comes
They don’t hear you, or maybe they do.
It’s a rerun
And they've seen this one before.
poem
Hallelujah
Poetry is just the ashes
You have to imagine the fire
Which only makes you wonder
How many things will burn
You didn’t come up with it
It’s always been here
You were the stupid part of it
You fell into it
The love of your life is here
Hidden in metaphor
You only meant to lend it to poetry
But expected to get it all back
poem
Reimbursement Adjustments
Thursday, June 5, 2025
poem
The Hanged Man
Strange suited playing cards
Scattered across the land
Jack of stars
Queen of stones
Ace of scythes
Someone is searching
For the rest of the deck
So the game can resume again
No one remembers the rules
The card you’re holding has been
Passed on for generations
Hold it up to the light
To read your fate.
You’ll never know
When it should be played
Sunday, June 1, 2025
poem
Editing
I’m a character in someone else’s dream
Who wakes up before finding out what happens.
I’m the icing on the unbaked cake
Of somebody’s forgotten birthday.
A candle, at a romantic dinner, where
Only one person shows up.
I’m ice skates collecting dust in the garage
Waiting for the pond to freeze in August.
Bandages stashed in the first aid kit
For a wound that healed on its own.
Am I being clear or are these just words
Of a language that hasn’t been invented?
Are you the translator of the old scroll
Someone found buried with an ancient civilization
Modeled after the town I grew up in?
I say it shouldn’t have been written.
You say bollocks!. Go fuck yourself!
You’ve just been too afraid to listen!
I’m afraid I’m the show you’ve already watched
When there’s nothing else to do.
The prayer you've been saving
For when it's too late to be forgiven.
I’m the lines you had to edit out
To make it your best poem.
poem
In the Hospital
In the hospital of the city
Where I’d never lived I sat
Next to a patient I’ve
Never operated on and looked out
A shuttered window at the
Car I didn't own parked in a vast
Meadow of asphalt that wasn’t there.
The patient was trying to speak to me
In a language that sounded like heavy
Machinery in need of an oil change
You don’t get it, I tried to say, in an overly loud voice
Like an arrogant American speaking to foreigners
Trying their best to help me
When I woke up, all the lawyers were there
Shuffling papers and checking their watches.
They looked at me like I was a character
On a TV screen who had wandered onto the set
And forgot he didn’t have any lines.
It was impossible to change the channel
Even though I wanted them to.
So I sat for a while and watched the news
While my old patient fitfully snoozed
Hours after the difficult operation
I had assured him would make him feel better
But surely had not.
Once I was certain I wasn’t being watched
I felt for a pulse that had long since stopped
And counted the number of skipped breaths.
When he suddenly opened his eyes and spoke
Very clearly of children and wives
Using names that sounded
Extracted from a science fiction novel.
When his family arrived they called for the nurse
Who arrived momentarily.
They were righteously aghast—
How long has he been like this?
Why does he speak to a ghost?
poem
Calvary Cemetery
There’s a cemetery on the way to the Midtown tunnel
From LaGuardia that caught my eye
So I looked it up when I got home
And I think it’s called Calvary Cemetery.
According to Wikipedia it has the largest number
Of internments (nice way to say corpses)
Of any burial grounds in the country.
It’s just enormous. 365 acres.
A lot of the headstones were sort of thin
And tall and tilting, mimicking in miniature the skyscrapers
Jutting from the island behind them.
I can’t remember if this is metonymy or synecdoche
I'll have to resort to analogy or smile:
Envisioning an old photo in black and white—
A child playing with toy soldiers on the front porch
While daddy embraces his beautiful wife before he marches off to war.
Only here, the cityscape is a make believe
Game passed on from generation to generation
While the toys are the real thing
Sent across the river to an exile far away
Meant to remind the boys
Of the blessing it is to play