Ritual (Over 100 Quarantine Days)

When the work

is done,

I retire to the garage

to smoke my cannabis,

watch a sitcom rerun

and unwind

as I always do.

I walk to

the front of the house

to check 

my daughter's car

to see 

if it is locked,

as I always do.

I walk around

the black

2012 Honda Civic

and check the doors

and the windows

as I always do.

Noting this ritual,

as I have done over 

100 quarantine days 

in a row, I numbly think:

"There is 

absolutely nothing special 

about this day."

At that moment,

I became conscious

of the purple in the dusk,

the melody in the breeze,

the hopeful laughter of 

the children playing 

up the street,

the scent of her hair

lingering from an

earlier embrace

and the warmth knowing

all was safe,

calm and bright 

for the moment,

and the truth 

whispered in my ear:

"Every single thing

about this day

is special."

That Moon

The moon hung
big and buttery and
close to the Earth.

It didn't say
anything
or try to mean
anything.

It was just
there
to tug
at the tides,

to give lovers
something
to make promises
upon,

to be witnessed.

I wanted to
pull over
and savor it,

but there was
a reason
I didn't,

something
I thought was
more important
to do.

So,
like a fool,
I pressed on.

I can't remember
why I passed
that moment by,

but I'll never
forget
that moon.

[This wasn't it, but it was like this.]

Agency

A flurry of activity

will not make up

for a life unfulfilled.

This moment

came unbidden

and will leave

unnoticed,

unless you

decide

to matter,

to count,

to touch,

to hold,

to love. 

Casual Beauty

There is still
a rosebud
waiting,
dew-moistened
for me.

In this miasma
of  fear
and uncertainty
and mistrust
and doubt,
I remember
that casual beauty
exists,
often hiding
in plain sight.

Ignoring
my cold,
scared
jittery stomach,
I turn
and keep my eyes
forward,
scanning the horizon
for the edges
of the dirty-grey clouds,
squinting hard
looking for
that reluctant,
explosive blue
that I know is still
out there.

Who put all
these treasures
there for me
to find?

Never mind,
it doesn't matter.

Just slow down,
be quiet,
exhale gratitude.

Thankful

"No,
I don’t know you,
but you know me.

Every year,
right around Thanksgiving,
the LA local news
show the homeless,
lined up and waiting
for Thanksgiving dinner
at the Fred Jordan Mission.

I’m that guy –
I’m always the one they
talk to.

Yeah, the homeless problem’s
pretty bad out here, but
the way they film it,
you know,
they way they cut it,
it looks like
there’s camaraderie here,
and that it's almost fun.

they show
lots of people
and tents,
maybe some dogs.
They make it look like
all we’re missing is
the s’mores.

And because it’s LA,
it’s never snowing or raining
so it makes for a nice
“this year
let's all be Thankful
for what we've got,
and be thankful
you’re not one of
these poor wretched souls”
story.

They make it feel like
by just watching the story
about the homeless,
that you’ve actually
done something
to help.

Well,
I don’t mind
going on camera
and talking about it-

Right!
I probably qualify
for my SAG/AFTRA card
as many times as
I been on TV –

but it’s not getting better.

No, it’s getting worse, and
I’m getting discouraged, and
it just keeps getting
colder."

Polished Dancing Shoes

Still yourself
until you feel
the vibration.

Sharpen your senses
until you can hear
the thrumming,
pulsing life
in every living
being.

Listen to the world
turning on
its weary, aged axis
and attune your breathing
appropriately.

It may feel like
a night lasting a year,
but it is only
darkness,

and just when
you’ve adjusted
to it,
a flash will blind you
for a moment,

and out of the glare
a meadow will bloom,
the ocean will sing,
and your heart will know
the music
of the spheres,

this planet
whirling in
its blue-black space,
within a larger galaxy,
twirling within
this infinite cosmos,

and when that happens
you’ll be ready
to put those
polished dancing shoes
to good use.

[Inspired by Belinda's post at http://busymindthinking.com .]

The Things I Love the Most Are Not Things (for Anita)

You don’t need to
write me a poem,
or pen me a song,
or bring me a fist full
of fresh picked daisies.

A mountain of possessions
will not persuade me,
nor will a watertight argument
convince me to your side.

The things I love the most
are not things,

so bring me your passion,
long for me in your breast,
swaddle me in gold compassion.

Your joyful laughter,
your melody
sweet and true,
is the dream
from which
I never hope
to awaken.

Written in response:

http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/27/im-going-to-miss-you-when-youre-gone/

The Rivulets of Desire

These wet
and slippery
tongues caress one
another,
as lovers share
the same
hot breath.

A niggling,
ticklish
drop of sweat,
waterslides
down the small
of her back,

and joins the droplets,
the rivulets of desire,

the slick anatomy
finding and
reuniting with
one another,
resulting in
the grandest,
and most sumptuous
mystery of all:

how can so much
moisture
cause so much fire?

Commencement (for Sarah)

I’m more thankful
than articulate:

for every doctor
who looked at her
and helped her through
cerebral palsy,
visual spatial deficits,
even the quacks
who made the true healers
shine brighter,

for every therapist
be they medical
or physical
or psychological,
who never lost hope
and kept trying
even though
there were many dark days
and almost as many
misdiagnoses,

for every kind
and loving soul
who wished her well
and didn’t think we were
bad parents because
we didn’t know how
to quell
the inconsolable, crying child
who turned out
lived in depression,
suicidal ideation,
and crushing desolation,

and to those
never relinquished
the dream
that she would be
standing in
the foyer of life
in her graduation robe,
deciding which door
to approach next.