Recipe For a Sunday Morning

A stirring lilac breeze for an alarm or,
alternatively, a morning dove's song

Minimum one, maximum two people
absolutely no minors

Several medium-firm pillows
a well-fluffed quilt, untucked

Two auto-frying eggs and strips of bacon
and auto-toasting toast, buttered, triangular

A large glass of freshly-squeezed (by someone else)
pink grapefruit juice

Espresso served in tiny cups à la volonté
steamed milk upon request

A stout newspaper, of which no more than 50%
can be composed of actual news

Miles Davis "Kind Of Blue" looping
in the background

One pair of loose fitting boxer shorts with t-shirt
one pair of bare feet, regardless of the season

And absolutely, positively
no planning whatsoever

The Portrait

Standing in the garden facing the four o’clock sun,

the roses drawn up to their full height,

you approach me from behind, press a piece

of paper and a pencil in my hand and ask me

to draw you a picture. I hold the translucent

sheet up to the light and traced the scene

which slowly soaks through, the proudest

rose bending at its apex due to weight of

its oversized pink blossom, petals spread

by the onset of autumn and swaying gently

in the breeze.  Above it, the soft glow of the

sun seemingly just inches away.

Between them, the silhouettes of distant

evergreens cut across at a slight angle.

Satisfied that there’s nothing left to

capture, I scrawl “The Confession” across

the top of it and hand it back to you.

With a grateful smile, you fold it in three

and slide it into your back pocket before

anointing the rose with your green watering can.


Many thanks for the nomination. I nominate: Classic NYC Story

Upon Turning Five

Today the clouds mill above us, more white
than grey, content to shuffle their feet,
taciturn and glowering, heads down,
clammy palms buried in deep pockets.

Not at all like the day you were born,
unseasonably warm, fresh sun slathered
on elm leaves which refused to turn their coats
out beside the hospital window, casting your

first colors upon your tiny hands as you slept
upon my chest, gentle green mittens caressing
the base of my neck, not holding so much as
confirming you were where you wanted to be.

This morning was no different, really, though
your feet were on the ground, hands around my
waist, a smile and closed eyes pressed to my hip
before you scurried out the door to school.

October Showers, 6AM

Morning had not yet fit its fingers through the
cracks in the shutters nor was its reflection
visible in the face of the alarm clock,

but I could hear its footsteps in the stairwell,
the soft steps of autumn,  creeping with an
inconsistent rhythm so cold were its toes.

Sunday

It starts simply enough, a symphony of birds who

Clearly value their constitutions and sleep in,

A leisurely double espresso in bare feet and shorts,

John Coltrane simmering in the kitchen and

Me slouched in a straight back chair at a red and

White striped table centered by a chorus of

Unlit candles and a conically folded white napkin.

Rain patters on the veranda roof in the next room,

Streaming in such a way to pass the dishwater sky

In front of a series of circus mirrors, the stares of

A cigar-chewing fat man, a rail of a girl with a half

Eaten cotton candy and someone with the misfortune

To resemble a pavlova sculpted by a blind man

Read a magazine over my shoulder with interest.

I wonder if the perks of living everyone’s childhood

Pleasure everyday outweighs never having a day of rest and

Being obliged to stand at attention for hours at a time.

I answer my own question silently and lay my

Magazine down as the rain grows still, allowing the sun

 To illuminate a sink full of dirty day-old dishes.

Motivation Letter

I am seeking

                                    Something new

That I know

                                    Something challenging

That I’ll achieve

                                    Something fulfilling

With no surprises

                                    Write back soon

The Poet

I sit in the wake of a day well spent

Bridging  two forest green lawn chairs

With my feet, my bare toes strumming

The holes in the back like a bluesman.

Absent-mindedly parsing thoughts between

The rough hewn strings, above me an

Indecisive sky blows blue then grey then

Blue again while I count the hibiscus blossoms

Which August has already claimed.

I wonder if flowers go to Heaven and –

If so – is it the only afterlife where it rains

Long and regularly with burst of intense sun.

I note the still impeccable state of the red bird

Feeder on the worn white brick wall and

Worry that the neighborhood fowl consider

It a one-star establishment in their travel guides,

No bath, slow room service and only me for

Light entertainment apart from you, opening the

Garden door to ask what I’m doing out here

To which “writing” is my only reply.

Keep Your Hat On

Hold this while I pack…

…or am I unpacking?

                                                Neither, really, they’re just

                                                two fallacies eyeballing

us, we shed our skins

whenever we grow out of them

                                                or they grow weary of us

                                                and we slither towards some

familiar thickets to scratch

our bellies, or to bathe in the

                                                long dewy grass, home is

                                                whenever the outside meets

the inside without touching

frequency is a matter of wear

                                                You can keep that…

                                                …I never use it

Gare Centrale

Of all the places you could have been today,

you chose here: five centimeters away,

your back pinning my right arm flat, your

briefcase tenderizing my crotch as the car

twitches out of each station, the penny

of my thoughts stretched into copper wire,

holding me victim to your wife’s

poor choice in cologne.

Tintern Abbey

The ancient entry is polished daily
by whispering feet and careful tongues.
Only whispers live here now.
No one profits of the acoustics,
as if they fear direct retribution
From the Holy Mother perched on the West wall.

A placid strait of green sweeps before the alter,
swirling around jagged islands of once proud columns,
a sea which Man or more may stroll toe-to-heel.
The walls seem scaled, the plump fish
Which nourished mind, stomach and soul for centuries
Content to wallow in the valley’s shallow spring.

To stand in its belly, ears alert to
the sun’s arrival in a flock of sparrows,
eyes anticipating the tingle of the approaching wind
through the lilacs you smelled upon entering
this outcrop of Man’s immortal soul,
Is to stand pleasantly corrected.

Richbourgh

The sun strikes noon through the elms
and we repose beneath their parasol,
chewing reverend silence with our back teeth
daisies clutched, salting a boulder with our hides,
one small enough to conquer but colossal
enough that our toes blow raspberries
at the thirsting milkweed below.

As much boulders as we were explorers,
chunked quartz and lime measures
for a requiem for a simpler time
when broad men cobbled fortune, 
drifting in any direction they chose 
and reinventing themselves.
Cyprus could be wrenched by the roots
and stamped anywhere, their leaves
no less stiff, blood and sweat no less
fertile even when imbibed by arid chalk.
One plus one equaled two for but an instant,
men were disposable, women were grainy
and structures were temporally eternal.

Before us, the wind taps cat tails in Introitus,
Kyrie whistles through doors never dreamt of,
the Agnus Dei grazes upon the broad grass
rolling out of trenches which now contain
rather than repel, only the frame remains.
From our perch, we let our petals scatter 
in remembrance of a time which bore us and wilted,
our candle lit across the pebbled Earth.

Lament

There is no need to feign interest in my deep
lines, pétillant personality exposed by several
millenniums nor in my particular position,
rebelliously pitched amongst the clover and 
crabgrass, stoically standing guard before 
chain links stretched for no one’s convenience.
You didn’t trek all the way from Heliopolis,
Athens or whatever the place to be is these days
to point your back towards my acrobatic neighbors.
You’re only looking at me now out of obligation,
the tales of this place have grown tails that take
hours to work through, so you find yourself savoring
that moment which you’ve planned and saved for 
over a decade while staring at the triple XL cherry
poncho draped across a loquacious woman from Virginia
or pretending not to be annoyed by your three year
old’s constant need to water the English countryside,
whether or not it needs it. 
Stones included.