Excuses

The present product
of past,  and if you believe
that,  the future,  too

Saint Jude

Up before the alarm

again, throat dry,

head full of nails

each tagged with

a recipient soul,

keeping it together.

You've never noticed

the pensive man

eyes on the back

of your head as

you window shopped,

cried on a city bus

or tried to pay bills,

chin in soft hand,

the other rummaging a

deep pocket for grains

of hope, fuzzballs,

reasons to go on.

The positive error in

your checking account,

your daughter's smile

and numerous little

micro pleasures,

often discovered

after you've clambered 

off at your stop and

I've rode onwards.

The Samaritain

Today I helped an
old man cross a
bright,  busy street.

Taciturn, somber
he never asked
for help or anything,

cars whizzing by, 
office zombies and
children shuffling by.

Only some force of
inexplicable familiarity 
laced our heels together,

braving traffic together
nondescript,  inseparable 
chums from curb to curb,

til we turned a dark corner
and just like that he was
gone.

Rain II

Rain isn't pure
as it rolls over us
and rinses away
less than it leaves.

Enchanting scents little
more than reminders
of yesterday, somewhere
other than here,  now.

Seascapes we strolled
barefoot and pregnant
with ideals,  rivers
we cast line upon line in

suddenly drizzle on our
graying bare heads or
running off umbrellas
amongst the oblivious.

July's Wet Slap in the Face

All eyes look up

                                   then down, frowning

then up again

                                   away from ripples

cris-crossing 

                                   around wet feet

no different from

                                   six months prior and

most depressing

                                   of all.

A Wash

One from a parking lot entry
the other holding up the
door frame to a laundromat
a crumpled street and two decades
separate them and a lazy drizzle
that just won't subside.

One is a grey clad security guard
one is crowned with a white dome
one wears theirs much lower
one's toes can be seen
one of them is a woman
though I'm not sure which.

They observe the morning rain
they share their smiling laments
they turn their eyes up frequently
they shake their respective heads
they each stare at their feet
one gets back to work. 

Liberties

Given I've cursed myself

writing the title first,

I'll treat myself to a scribble,

poorly written, pointless lines

babbling, bubbling sloppily,

like those people I envy,

cranking it out without thought

or the slightest effort.

The Trooper

The storm blew in from the West

and out through the veranda door

so quickly, a white knot of thunder

in the already black night

that I forgot about the oil lamp

that I was reading by on the terrace 

when all Hell broke loose , fat raindrops 

carpet bombing my peaceful evening.

Somehow it survived the rain and gusts,

burning wildly from side to side

never surrendering until the last drop of oil

was gone, empty in the now silent, wet darkness.

Every Writer's Child

For some it's the squeak of an old hinge which sets them off

everytime someone enters or exits the kitchen

or perhaps how the toilet paper roll was hung,

adding to an already dubious, rump-filled fate.

Of course, those odd creatures who see even more backsides,

politicians, will make just about anyone's blood boil.

I tote no special immunity to any of these chafes

but there's something worse still if you ask me

*and you haven't*

to watch helplessly as a brave book is consumed

by an uncaring soul who just wants to beat it's secrets from it,

clutched in both hands, a mad grin, eyes positively flashing,

ripping through hundreds of pages, months...years of

some poor author's life devoured in a matter of hours,

left limp and lifeless on a chair somewhere thereafter.

Turning The Clocks Ahead

Every spring I like to tease myself

from the safety of my pillow

my feet still abuzz with the day,

me, eyeing my alarm, my jailer.

What if I didn't turn the clocks ahead?

What’s the worst that could happen?

Does anything important depend on

my being aligned with a flat-faced thing

which couldn’t care less about me?

It’s true my employer would frown

on my tardiness and administrative

appointments would be hard to keep.

I may no longer be invited to family

functions with defined shelf lives

and paper mâché agendas to manage.

These would hardly be bad things,

I think to myself as I extend my hand,

click the hour button once, reluctantly

picking up the line at my feet with

both limp hands, awaiting the pistol,

of another day, though I’d rather just greet

the other runners here with a cold drink

and a soft chair for their tired bones

when they lap me again six months from now. 

Weight

All I need is a little time
an hour for this
two for that
at least half a day
for the dusty pile
on the desk
on the floor
behind the door
leading to other
piles I can't recall
couldn't say.


Just one more pile
then I'll rest
then I'll sleep
knees locked straight
still bearing weight
dreaming dreams
of piles neck deep
of piles no peep
or thought
will seep.

Entitlement

The next time you stroll
a manicured beach, 
postcard perfect sand 
white on a topaz sea,

stop and take it all in
with the ease of breathing 
all you like and then
consider the contrary,

how Mandela spent years
in the middle of it all
with a stamped spoon, 
a blanket and conviction,

no sea view,  no camera, 
no way to know when
conviction would become
reality one happy day.

A Recycled Poem For Autumn

Pine beneath my bare feet, a glass of Spanish red in hand,

Adréas Segovia plucking and fretting somewhere unseen

and a handful of receipts, ticket stubs and post-its

now sprawled across my lap like rune stones

are kind enough to spare the time to stare

out the window - every poet's pastime - and count

the leaves on the nearby trees which have already turned

their coats inside out and their collars up before leaping.

On the back of a hotel bill from August when

I could not have been further from responsibility,

I tell them how I recalled when they entered the world

and how much I enjoyed watching them grow up

over cups of morning coffee or beers in the evening

and how they never noticed me watching as they

danced like Gene Kelly in the rain as storms blew

spring away so the drier summer months settled in.

But most of all - as to not dishearten them

(you'd agree they have enough to deal with as it is) -

I tell them not to worry, that I will be here when they return,

a pen in one hand, my head in the other, a smile on my face.

Down the Drain

Down the drain,
the rain crawls on
its belly murmuring,
looking up at us
today, not tomorrow

The Grandmother Poem

Hello stranger,
it's been a while.
Too long, I know
you're busy.

Sit down,
stay a while.
Eat something,
just stay.

Put down your phone
or whatever that is.
Folks can't  stand
still anymore.

Now everything needs
a name, an angle
changing every
other minute.

Not like when I was
a young poem,
a rose, the moon,
even death would do.

Yes, I know,
you need to go.
Take one with you.
You never eat.

I'll just be here,
knitting time
'till you return
or not.

Challenges of Parenting

I was barelegged with you in a field this morning.
You couldn't have been a day past five. 
It was I who helped you navigate the long grass,

the dips in the soft, unseen turf,

you who found the ripe blackberries,

spread across your face like war paint.

Or was it your high school?
You walked off the grounds for the last time,
a sheet of paper pressed between leather 
under your arm as your  books always were,

I wore a simple floral top and black slacks,

a proud smile that just wouldn't come off.

I can’t recall. But no matter.

It's 4 o'clock , another sunny Monday, 

that day after Thursday,

when that kind young man
who looks so much like you

always brings warm apple pie

just the way I like it. 

He should smile more often.

T'es Où?

That's all I heard for 10 minutes straight
one sautéed Brussels morning in the metro
with everyone, their brother, perhaps their dog
peeing on my leg, or at least, it felt that way,
sweat running down inside my trousers

and this one woman who refused to shut up,
pink phone clutched in glittery talons,
cheap earrings swaying in time with her hand
and three offspring exploring the car like raccoons
in my trash, threading through my legs, drooling.

"T'es Où?"
"Where are you?"
as they say in London

Who could say? Possibilities abound.
Prague is nice this time of year.
The local department store had an ad,
two-for-one socks, today only.
North Korea's not half bad.

"T'es Où?"

Not here, obviously, being brighter
and more fortunate than I, who is here,
who can hear you, who wishes he couldn't ,
who wishes North Korean visas
were easier to acquire.

"T'es Où?"

was the last thing I heard, her voice,
her odour, her brood, trailing out the door
into the baked street above, where she
may still be looking for that person's hiding spot,
her children sniffing trees in her wake.

The Allure of Green Energy

From my spot across the celestial room, 
ever-crowding with yawning mouths, 
birds tweeting in obscure bird dialects, 
cars and neck ties in constant transit,

I wonder if she really loves me in the
way her smouldering gaze suggests
every morning while I plod to the metro
and another day in the white collar salt mine.

She does this 5 days a week,  never letting 
on how she really feels about us as
she leads me down the primrose path
to something out of "The Archipelago".

If she was more than a flirt,  surely she'd
lead me elsewhere - a sunned park bench, 
a line of white sand on a topaz sea,
a street corner with a bus stop - anywhere.

The worst is that I know I'll see her here 
a mere 10 hours from now and while
her head will be held lower then,  she'll
lead me home as if nothing happened. 

In My Tribe

In my tribe we prefer the touch of

Mother Earth on our bare feet to the

shackles of shoes or straight jacket socks.

In my tribe we eat simply beneath the clouds

bread in one hand, cheese in the other,

a bottle of wine between our knees.

In my tribe days are thirty hours long,

not because we wish to be more productive

but so we may ponder all we chose to ignore

with our backs against a worn tree trunk,

our eyes lost in some distant clump of cat tails,

drumming fingers keeping time with the sparrows.

In my tribe everything is precious,

gathered and kept with five year old glee

including the autumn sheddings of trees

which we cup and cast over the water's edge,

not out of remembrance or thanks but

simply because we wish to.

Shlameel, Shlamazel

I could have broken a row of mirrors,

running by with a stick straight out

or wandered behind Chinese restaurants blindly,
crossing black cats' paths like live wires

and then walked away whistling good fortune,
hands in pockets, safely away from all wood.

Instead, I farted caution into the coming breeze,
stuck a fork into the toaster of life

and went to work