Advice to a Barista who thinks I have an Answer

You're not just standing there
like a dead Constellation.
I see
the lost Art in your eyes,
feel the parts and pieces
that give meaning
to otherwise hum-drum
Mondays,
turn Tuesdays
into a rubies,
the Pollock, finger painting fury
that came as easy as breathing,
where will that go?
Do you know?
'Cause if you don't,
it'll fly into oblivion
like the Passenger Pigeon.
The world will crush you,
twist and turn your quirky smirks
into furtive looks and frowns.
You'll forget the quick lightness
of your being,
the unrehearsed hip twist,
slide and spin,
open-eyed, question mark
gesticulation,
"Room in your coffee?"
I get you - I do.
Please, do more
than I have done.
Daydream often.
See the beauty in foibles.
If not a mountain, climb a foot hill
now and again.
Don't wait for Deus Ex Machinas.
Wave to midnight.
Be passionate.
Be who they say you shouldn't be.
Just be. Yet,
I know,
it's so damned
hard.

The End of the Year

I find myself
alone, drifting slowly
like an Inuit
on an ice flow
away from 
familiar pin-prick lights,
curling chimney smoke,
home fires
I might not
see again.
The unknown flows like an ocean.
I ask,
Do you know?
But the stars won't speak.
There will be a time
for this and that
a time to take action
a time to swim
to a distant shore.
There will be a time.
But this isn't it.

Great Blue Heron

Watch the mirror-top,
catch what you can,
Great Blue Heron
standing on straight, re-bar,
stalks of marsh grass legs,
prehistoric, as still as the Stone Age,
waiting for silver
to dart into range,
strike without rage,
cold, spring-loaded kill,
no feeling, no meaning,
nor malice,
smooth as an arrow
slices the afternoon,
the epitome of cool,
but not too hot,
control - complete,
swallows its shiny meal
in a quick flick of beak,
masterful, succinct, savant,
finishes the flourish
on strong, sturdy wing beats,
glides out of range
into sun set mystery.

Building my Dream House

If I had the wood, I would,
but knowing I've developed no skills,
nor desire to pound nails,
I'll just write a few lines and
eat my banana.

Social Media

You can't save him.
He can't save you.
Push button, pseudo-celebrity lasts
as long as it takes
to fill a water glass.
How's your hemorrhoids?

Charlie's Dream Poem

I think it still exists among
the moth-balled things
in yesterday's attic
in the land of lost letters,
dust-covered photos,
clothes fitting Studio-54
fashion.
Lyrical piece,
sung one night
while studying
the canvass -
your ceiling.
Food was the subject,
how it filled your dreams,
became the ceiling,
inspiration
sustenance,
meaning
purpose
hope.

Charlie,
do you still write
poetry?

Wallace Stevens

I detect a butterscotch and whiskey ambiance,
sounds hushed over plush Turkish rugs embellishing
the Manor's Maple floors, thick draperies darken rooms,
deaden, dampen stray, superfluous noise.
Here, poetry resides in privacy and privilege
as deep and uninterrupted as the North Sea.
I entered once or twice, crept about
on padded feet, awed and deferential
like the Help waiting to get paid.