My Poems and Stuff

How Long I’ve Loved You

Fifty-one years
Nine months
And four-days

Long suffering
Begging not to die
Begging to die

A yellow grass
Bent by the weight
Of your absence

And again I recall
Your buttery dress
The softness in your hair

Slipping through my
Failed fingers
The letting go

The not letting go
A talent for loving
What has been lost

Until it is found
And you are found
And I come into

An exact rightness
Eclipsing every mistake
Made along the way

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The Stuff Of Life

It’s Earth Day!

imagesIt’s Earth Day!  Woo-hoo!  Way to hang in there…Earth:)

You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record….

Ummm.  Hold on.  I’m not ex-act-ly sure Earth Day is today because I’m using last year’s calendar. I crossed out Sunday and wrote Monday, crossed out Monday and wrote Tuesday, etc.  My great recycling efforts have led to my confusion.

Other like-minded save-the-Earth people are mixing things up too. Like the beach restaurant owners who closed their restroom doors and installed port-a-potties with hand sanitizer dispensers, one of which was empty.

I admit I wasn’t thrilled about the change, but I didn’t catch any communicable diseases either.  I have been known to share other people’s bath towels too, though.  Been there, done that. Experienced no adverse effects.

On the home front, the water police gave my neighbor a warning for watering on the wrong day.  Shoot dude, why water at all?  Put in some xeriscaping (yeah, it’s a thing) or let it grow wild in the back like me.  Buck the system and go native. earth-day

You may have already judged me as a dirty hippie, cheapskate, or lolly-gagger.  I’m okay with that. Shocker, I know. I’m just saying why not rock your world, and give it some love.  Use the same cup or towel all week-long, because Earth day should be every day. According to my calendar it is.

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My Poems and Stuff

Naked

PhotoFunia-2076271
Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold
Over my chronic age-old, old age concerns
And the goddamned snow wouldn’t stop falling
In the middle of March cutting through naked
Tree branches buried in the backyard ravine
But I made it to retirement breaking down
Beds and screwing them back together
Seventy was a good age, I thought, to pack it all up
Until my bones groaned and I fantasized
About that next round of experimental drugs
To be extended to me in a flimsy paper cup
So I lurched forward to take hold of it–
The grave my wife purchased last year
And I sat wondering how I arrived here
Stuck between boxes marked ‘utensils’
Useless…the new television set
I can’t turn on or off. Oh hell,
It’s already April–the spring
Of somebody else’s life (the best I can retell)
And this doesn’t feel like birth, but dying
In this white chair the movers left here by the
Floor-to-ceiling windows not made to open
Shut tight while the three-car garage bulges
With past mistakes, broken things, and T-Shirts
Unworn since the late great summer of 1981

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