Forgotten

They exist like gypsies
under the shady Maples
by the abandoned factory
where the shopping mall
was never built
and all the plans
for a brave new world
trickled across the gurgles
and hiss
of the river.

That Which Was

Like those
who scratch out
faces in photographs,
I imagine a landscape
where you exist no more.
It is lovely, lit by
late afternoon, slanting light.
Shadows lay like panthers
around hedges. Out back
where the lawn drops
forgotten into shrubbery,
Blue Spruce shoot
straight into the sky,
sudden highs
during depression.
How unfulfilled I was,
so unsatisfied. I existed
in your shade, perhaps,
because it was easy
like mushrooms growing
on the dead forest floor.
These days,
I thrive in my own light
never blaming you for
who I couldn't be
or things in me
that never took root.

To a So-Called Friend

I wish it was one of those things
that stood solid and beautiful
like a bridge
to the assumed.
You never have to ask,
friendship should never
be questioned,
so I won't,
the answer lies in silence,
two years without a call,
emails never sent,
just those shitty little comments
you kicked up like disgusted dust
on Facebook.
You competitive son-of-bitch
can't be glad
for someone
you think
has outdone you -
and what the fuck
does that
really mean?
I was thinking about contacting you
when I visit,
but I don't think
I will.

Aristophanes Didn't Fly The Friendly Skies

What is all this fuss, that flying is a must
like an Eagle in the sky,
I can only ask, why?

an airfoil is good if functions like it should
but what if it springs a leak?
You'll sink to miserable streets.

Blame it on the speech of a once illustrious Greek
who said cloud life is better,
but knew nothing of jet setters

or how one gets unraveled when on airlines one travels.
The word "Coach" he never heard
'cause if he did, he'd think twice about
flying like a bird.

Like a River

After Roberta died,
I talked to Paul,
at 80

playing tennis
like a fit
45 year old,
loving life with his
new girlfriend,
gliding
through streets
in shiny, black
limousines,
happier than Dad
could ever
be.
Paul lived
the Dream,
while Dad
tumbled drunk
into sunset,
sad,
morose,
broken.
Once,
Dad had it all -
laughter,
love,
Straight-A
student.

Why couldn't
he deal
with the ideal
accepted
like a Disney
dream?
Paul asked this,
but what destroyed
Dad
was like asking,
who killed Jesus?
I know, but I don't,
and neither did
Paul,
old family friend
from their days
of dreaming,
our conversation flowed
serpentine,
river 'round oxbow,
gradually

becoming
the sea.

My Father's Face

It was sky
but shattered 
into a million
pieces,
was twirled by
the wind
across the plains.
I waited
for days
and nights,
but it
never came
back.
I can wait
no more.
All that I have
is sky.

The Tendril

feels
emptiness,
extends
a green filament
to parts unknown,
does not discriminate
whether alive
or inanimate,
imparts a touch
without expectation
or thought.
Could this this really
be love
or just
Manifest Destiny?