A light atop the stairs
glows warmly as homework is done
to AM radio tunes caught by
a portable transistor.
The TV is on downstairs. Must be
Gunsmoke or Bonanza.
In the basement hobby nook
a model airplane is being built.
The smell of glue comes up
through the kitchen register.
But that can't overpower the aroma
of cookies getting toasty golden
in the old gas oven.
Scratching on the back door ~
our four-legged family member wants
to come back in from the chill night air.
And I wonder then, pausing at play ~
a small, plastic army jeep in one hand,
a question of great depth urging the
other hand to hold me steady as I
go up the stairs to my room ~
will life always be this perfect?
Grasshopper and Me
A voice moving
up from distant breaths left not taken
and between glimpses never had before,
reflects the Thanksgiving Day sun
with fractal perfection.
Landing from yesterdays when
time was not so short,
in flight as an extended walk
in green skin with striped eyes
and red-barbed legs resting
upon my proffered hand as perch
to gaze, perhaps, as do I
into the white streaked with blue of
this little friend
speaks the silence of understanding that
we are not predator and prey
to each other.
It, as am I,
is just watching the world
and its players rehearse
until they get to leave for their
Grasshopper and me.
EXCERPTS From: What is Was Now the Chemistry of Being
Her hair a subtle expression of
dynamic order with the three bows
in back where it was pulled together
allowing her long, slender neck
to command attention beneath
her charming face so able
to reduce a man to silence.
Her small but full breasts clothed
in a brief halter with her midriff
bare, taunted the imagination
as moments festooned the hours
while past and future were
whitewashed in music even before
her delicate hand lowered the
needle to the record on the gramophone.
Her tight skirt, just brushing the bottom
of her pretty knees, inspired a wandering mind
to take a breath as overwhelmed eyes
caught the way the heels she wore so sculpted her calves.
I lit a cigarette and may have inhaled it with one draw.
All I'm sure I still remember right were her eyes and
her sighs and her smile as we danced. I'd swear in a court
that it was all just fiction; a fabrication; a fantastic
wonder no one would believe could be the truth.
Not even myself, at first. But then, sleep finally took us,
cuddling as we fought against the reality of
hours ticking like sign posts brilliant and vulgar,
reminding us that soon, the day would be gone altogether
and I'd be gone off to war. Now I remember hoping
that the years since then are the dream and I will soon
awaken in her caressing arms,
never to leave her again.