They Sent A Photograph

Oh, happy family,
silent and bright, smiley.
The oldest boy, thirteen, wiry,
a lean bean plant growing
at his father's side.
The younger one, Afro-ed,
exuberant, almost leaping
out of frame. Mom,
coy yet confident,
doing what she
must do - succeeding,
so she thinks.
Dad,
the pillar of dreams,
stands in the back
looking taller than
Kilimanjaro clouds
that push down
on the world.
He holds them at bay,
Atlas of the Suburbs,
but only for seconds, until
the shutter snaps open-close,
and he can no longer
hold that pose.

Monday Morning, Somerville

I rise out of body lighter than hydrogen,
avian, I leap from uncertainty, strife,
fly unhindered on fluid wings
like a Crow disappearing
into the distance.

Poem from an email

Clueless Gary, one of Cole's Steelhead coaches, reserved a block of rooms at a Red Lion along the Columbia. He meant well, but after looking at the place, I thought: "No way." Outdoor pool, broken hot tub, the ruins of 1975. We found The Other Red Lion across town, pleasing and new. Daviau and other lambs'll tough it out in the dump, while we'll be set up like Kings of Siam. Four games in three days. Sunday determines 1st through 8th place. So much, so fast. It all ends at 1pm. Then the almost five hour drive home.

Neighbors

When I let Pepito out,
I saw Ben and Kim and
a number of helpers
loading two trailers with
all their possessions.
I saw Ben. He saw me.
We exchanged hellos.
Two hours later,
they drove away,
and I
haven't seen them
since.

Last Day of March Musing

Should I disturb
the numb slumbers of
wayward seasons, recollections
of a windy March Wednesday
channeling Winnie the Pooh.
So sad seeing
time walk backwards
in the backyard,
stray leaves tumbling
at my feet
slow motion,
I crochet a documentary
half in shadow
half in bright sunny light.
A moment free of
all worldly discomfiture,
alibis, denials.
No place to be
but in that moment
held forever
in that lovely
memory address.

Home is not just an Address

Is that Jesus, 
mid-picture, cloaked in red,
misty, yellow ball over heart,
arm half raised with big,
bruiser, butcher's hand
about to bestow
a blessing?

Is he Jesus
of the Streets,
eyes like Tyger Tyger in the night
pointed, piercing,
ready to pounce on
persona-non-grata,
who, in his own ignorance,
might tra-la-la,
tippy-toe away
indifferently,
forget 'ah, the humanity,'
the line of them
flowing back into foggy,
one-point
perspective?

Of course,
The Four Horsemen are
at the front. 
Keepers of the gate,
beaten, broken, busted to dust,
creating a moment
for all to see.
Is it grace, indifference, arrogance,
spite, Deus caritas est?
Men on four points of the compass.

Mr. West: orange, radiated face,
blissful look,
stares into midnight
remembering Moon Pies and
other delights.

Mr. South: white billed cap contrasts
burnt umber skin. His t-shirt
is the sea. He holds
an Eleanor Rigby expression
in his hand.
Everything else
is gone.

Mr. North is free.
The wind repeats
a childhood verse
sing-song
over and over
classical Crimson and Clover,
an ever forgetful
tape-loop, tin-whistle
symphony.
He wonders
what's for dinner.

Mr. East, burgundy jacket,
once thought John Lennon
was the answer. Life led him
on an Easter egg hunt
with no way home.
Eternally topped with 
scarlet ski-cap, he lapsed
in and out of rage,
cage to cage. Prozac sailed him
on another course,
or was it just
the tides of time
lapping against
the jagged shores
that turned the werewolf
into
the lamb?

The End is the Beginning

Like a woman in repose,
on display, dead, or at peace,
the mountain stretches over horizon,

shadow for hair,
girl's pinched nose of stone,
her breasts free clouds,

they rise smokey,
Marcus Aurelius mist,
stretched and pulled toward mystery,

see them go
like Mother's soul
up it went long ago

under cerulean skies
where yard met scrub,
she fretted her hours

upon a dull kitchen floor
slip-sliding away, daydreams,
mop in hand,

transistor radio sounds,
Marvin Gaye, Mo-Town bus ride
she waited to go

but he kept digging holes
many holes
drier and deeper

some water,
enough to tickle
a dying one's tongue,

but never enough to raise
crops or quench pride.
He rode the ghost horse,

black hatted, villainous,
Eli Wallach contra Eastwood,
man defeated, burned up in sunset

left his hatred
pulsing through me
like a gathering storm.

I carried it,
this thing, this wound,
drifting nomadic, lost,

close to my own end,
I dreamed of the mountain
again

in sepia silence
amidst Charlie Chaplin tears
in the theater of 10,000 awakenings

swallowed by shadow
vulnerable and small
I let him go