CHRISTMAS EVE

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

I’m a stranger in a strange land,

he said when he called.

Work’s tough.

Into a project I don’t know if I can handle.               

I let the woman I work with emasculate me.

It’s draining.

I go home to bickering.

Wife is upset with son.  Son is upset with wife.

Wife is upset with me that I don’t back her.

I hate it.

He talked some more. 

Then, I told him my usual tales of woe

and the Lyme disease

that had me worn-out weary.

Hey, he said in hanging up,

thanks for really being there when I call. 

That’s important,

you know.

Sure, I said in closing,

thinking how shared mutual misery

always  helps take the sting

out of daily living.

Stranger in a strange land?

Damn, that’s a poem!

TRUCK STOP BLUES

Sometimes a man just has to get out of town,

out on a highway without destination

where he’s lost

from a past that holds no face of future

drive somewhere, maybe along old Route 66

through a lonely, prairie-state county,

deep into the middle of a night

where maybe the light from Eddie’s

Pure Oil Truck Stop pulls him over

for gas at a dollar ninety-eight a gallon,  

and the skinny waitress at the counter,

nighttime pretty to weary eyes,

brings hash browns and eggs-over-lightly

and where his quarter drops into the juke box

for he and old Hank

to croon a lovesick blues

deep into the yellowed light of night.



CHRISTMAS IS COMING -- AGAIN

YOGI HAD IT RIGHT

Another gray day dawns in Baltimore,

another morning of cold,

another 20-some degree day.

Gold peeks above the horizon.

Another Christmas is on its way,

another lame duck congress sits,

rains flood the West Coast.

Snow dumps on the Rockies.

It’s another gray day for the birds,

an Oriole season looms,

hope too that wins beats losses.                       

Juncos feed at the feeder.

The Preakness in jeopardy again,

another head coach fired,

some Republicans say yes.

A poem struggles to find its way.

It’s déjà vu all over again.

WHEN THE WINTER SNOWS CAME

WHILE THE MUSE DANCED IN ARGENTINA

Now how can I write a poem

when nobody’s knocking,

my knees ache like bad teeth,

the cold snap has gone on for too long,

dinner’s riding high in my stomach,  

the evening news has got me down,

my feet want to get away to some place warm, 

the poem is due tomorrow,

my days are sifting away,

Mother’s house waits to be cleaned out,  

Republicans hold the country hostage,      

it’s December 14^th

and I’ve yet to buy my first Christmas gift.

Tell me, you think the muse cares?

TATTERED WING OF FLAME

Driving the hills, the winding roads of Pennsylvania farmland

bent in its brown furrows

across the face of a cold, clear, early autumn day

the red-tailed hawk, bold in sun reflected bronze,

stood solitary sentinel

in a roadside tree shed of its leaves.

In that one burning moment I yearned

to be hawk,

naked in the pure light of day,

holder of crystal vision,

hollow boned,

and winged to touch the heavens

but the heavens -- knowing man was destined

to fly with leaded feet

and walk with tattered wing of flame --

sent me on my way.

YESTERDAY

Aprons, tea towels, letters saved,

stamps too,

postcards from the Holy Land

green Depression-ware bowls,

photographs,

her notes on the back

graduation announcements,

birthday cards from grandchildren,

great-grandchildren too

Dad’s citation for meritorious work,

yellowed news articles,

George Beltzhoover’s obituary,

Mom’s last church photograph,

a smile

from her ninety-first year

the albums, the boxes

saved,

brought home to my house

everything touched.

Tell me,

what did you do with your past?

MR. MACK & MORE QUESTIONS

MR. MACK

Mr. Mack died the other day.  Mack Lewis

born in 1918 near Richmond,

came to Baltimore in ‘24,

grew up on a rowhouse street in Patterson Park,

knew Polish and Irish as neighbors,

played with the Depression poor,

collected bottles, shined shoes, sold newspapers,

boxed for segregated Douglas High, 

joined the army, fought for them too, 

discharged, took a day job with the government,

then, spent nights with his love.

For more than 50 years, 6 nights a week,

climbed those 20 steps at Eager and Broadway,

walked past the sign he posted,

No drugs. No drinking. No smoking. No cursing.

saw thousands come to him to learn,

trained those boys in the art of boxing,

taught respect, how to become a man,

yelled, Stick the jab, counter with the hook,

saw a fighter become world champion, 

another die in the ring, one to jail for murder, 

one named Boogie become a millionaire,

another become a famous artist,

kept thousands off the streets of temptation,

watched his gym crumble, a new one built in his name,

heard the praise of a president and a mayor,

loved as a father figure by some,

respected as a godfather by others,

viewed as an icon in Baltimore,

died November 12, 2010.

Mr. Mack always said,

the gym, This is where I belong.

MOSTLY WE DO NOT KNOW

If she showed the few cards in her hand,

was it because she’s holding out or has a different deck?

If the man makes his bed and lies in it,

shouldn’t the bed have had a say in the matter too?

If, on the plane, you sat in the seat between want and fear

would you rise in weightlessness?

Do apples always bruise when they fall? 

How about if they fall in love?

If Victoria’s Secret couldn’t sell sex,

what would she do?

Is death really just a mute doorman

with a wry grin?

Is want

the hungry ghost we cannot see?

Is God the 1000 piece puzzle

and you the searcher for the missing pieces?

How did God know to make a child walk

just when he was too heavy to carry?

Holy warfare!  Christ and Christians,

did one really beget the other?

Politicians and holy men,

why is it only one can walk on a bed of lies? 

Have pork barrel politicians and Madison Avenue suits always wanted

the masses happy, numb, dumb, and full of Schlitz and sit-coms? 

Can you ever know what leaves you

when death comes?

Is it possible that all we have are questions,

a leaky lift raft on an endless sea?

Did Moses find the only one,

that burning bush with the answers?

Does thinking really hurt?

If your pen did not know fear of speaking truth,

what would it tell to paper?

What do your wounds sing to you?  Are they like the wood thrush that comes at dusk

to sing his evening song over and again?

If life is a dance,

how do we tell our feet to leave our wallflower’d ways?

FOUR FOR THE SHORE -- EASTERN SHORE OF MARYLAND

ODE TO THE EASTERN SHORE

You wear yourself without pretence,

lie flat without worry for a hill,

cloak yourself in cornfields, an everyday shade of green

burn your grass to a late summer tan,

stand unshuttered in two-story white,

walk your telephone poles down to meet the horizon

dot your roads with produce stands,

graze unworried deer at the edge of fields, and slowly

you carry away the names of your ancestors, Nanticoke and Pocomoke.

Eastern Shore,

you wear boring like a regal mark of beauty.

THE RIVER

Quiet collected

the overhanging canopy,

green that mirrored up on down,

the great northern cypress,

knees held high and pink and dry,

the swamp azalea

that gave itself freely to the fragrance of air.

Quiet gathered in

the skipper that tip-toed

needle-black across the water,

the Prothonotary’s warble,

a golden, sweeted song for the verdant woods.

Quiet embraced

the slow, winding turns --

whispered

Pocomoke.

QUESTIONS THAT CAME IN NOVEMBER

Dad, I wish you were back again

to ask all those little questions

I never got around to asking.

Like today, driving Route 50,

crossing the Choptank, recalling

how you once fished that river.

I think we were in the kitchen

when you brought the fish in, dropped

their cold slabs into the sink. 

I wish you were here again, even

with your back turned to me at the sink

scraping scales, cleaning the catch.

I wouldn’t ask what it’s like

on the other side or even for answers

to this riddled life I’ve yet to sort out.

I’d just want to ask, How was it that

cold, November day?  What did you catch?

Was the captain stern, his word law?

How did you keep your hands warm

handling wet fish?  How was it decided

to end this frigid day of fishing?

Dad, I’d want all the details,

leaving nothing out, all you can remember,

to help me remember.

OFFSHORE KAYAKING

I wanted to tell you how it was that day

how they arrived

shedding the sea from their backs,

rhythmically rising and falling,

offering their shiny, black moon eyes to me

how they rose from the green hold of the sea

barely a fathom or two away,

released held breath,

then slipped sinuously away

then rose again by my side,

or slid under keel, or followed along

with slight twist of tail, and

how it was so magically mysterious.

Like I said, I wanted to tell you

how it was that day and

how it is we sometimes get a glimpse

of delight

ours and maybe another’s.

FIFTH POST

KEEPERS OF THE FIRST FIRE

Last night after the thunderstorm struck,

shook the house in its foundation

and winds tore trees from their roots,

I sat alone in the sudden quiet,

like first man huddled

in his here-and-now darkness

with his yearning for comfort                                              

and I knew that time had not erased need,

knew too how we all go on

day-to-day as collectors of comfort,

minders of memory,                                  

and like those keepers of the first fire,                     

living with longing                                                                     

sewn into leathered hearts.

LOVE, ITALIAN STYLE

Sixty-five was in her rear view mirror, but

she was still in possession

of fine olive figure and flame

her stone-cutting, Carrara ancestors

had carved in her 

as she strode into the palace of vanities

to have her hair painted auburn,

nails done the color of blood,

and whisper secrets

she would only tell there.

I tell ya, she said.  He’d be at my place

every damn night if I allowed it. 

I had to tell him,

‘What do you think this is,

Jiffy Lube?’

Okay, so I’m letting him come over later. 

We’ll head to Mimi’s to eat,

rent the new Kevin Spacey movie

from Blockbuster,

and then go home.

Finally, when repairs were finished

she looked in the mirror,

liked what she saw, hiked

her eyebrows twice, smiled to herself,

then said

Who knows,

maybe he’ll get lucky tonight.

 

THE CHILDREN OF SAN MIGUEL

In that moment when the young boy

offered a ride in his wheelbarrow of rust

I stopped, gave him my heart

in a smile

blind classical guitarist

saw gypsy flamenco angels ascend

hands of washerwomen
healed in the town’s baptismal font

the burrito and Coke

became a feast in a wandering desert

and Mexico blossomed blue

for the sun to loosen braided locks of gold

and for me to fall in love again, see

the face of my grandchildren

in every child.

ON AN OCTOBER DAY

TIDYING UP THE SHED

With eyes of fire and jaw set to concrete,

he strode from the woods

onto the beach, white-naked

but for the brown shorts and six-inch

hunting knife, determined

to do the work a man was called to do.

He stepped into the sloshing surf

where the dead loggerhead turtle lay,

with trophy shell

big as his wife’s washbasin. 

He cut and sawed and took one leg,

then another, pulled on the intestines,

long as his wife’s clothesline,

and knelt in the swirled, bloodstained

water and took knife to the bill-faced,

barnacled, black-eyed head

the nagging voice that said

he kept an untidy shed. 

A TASTE OF THE SUN

(from the book with the same title)

She had the adoration of the local men

and the latest issue of Vogue stuffed in her pocket

walking to the city

wanting more than she knew before

and the men

stood on the hill

yearning with intoxication

for the one walking away

and all

had a taste of the sun

seeking relief

from the pain of desire.

MY BROTHER’S CAR

The eleven-year-old, low mileage, garage kept car

I bought from my brother,

meticulous,

maintained on schedule,

oil changed every three thousand miles,

vacuumed weekly,

waxed every fourth Sunday,

hardly taken out in the rain,

never driven to the ocean where salt air lived

now sat in my garage

in fear.

THIRD POSTING

THE SONG OF THE SURF

One was a fisherman, the other kayaked the surf.  

Both held hope in aging bones

that knew the pull of an ebbing tide.

They’d meet at dawn where the breakers broke

and burnished bronze  beat a path from the sun to the shore.  

One caught bluefish, the other

sought swells.  Mostly a look and a nod                  

were all that was said.

Years passed, then unannounced the day came
when the sun painted its path

and the waves curled ashore,

but the two -- grown used to looking for,

seeing, and calling out

to one another – did not. 

With emptiness on its hands

time gave away its golden seasons to others,

but the surf circling its song, knew,

waited for a fisherman’s heart to mend

and a kayaker’s illness to ease

then led them back to the shore they loved. 

And again they saw, smiled, and called out,

but this time they hugged --

the two who never knew they were friends.

THAT SWEET VOICE OF THE ORDINARY

Last night, in the middle of the night,

my phone rang,

Mom, I said, startled, How are you?

But, there was no emergency,

and she didn’t say it, but I sensed

she just wanted to talk.

So we talked our usual, the everyday,

the common bits and pieces

of daily living --

the aches and pains,

what’s new in the neighborhood,

and how the kids and grandkids

were doing. 

Finally, I had to ask,

Mom, you died over a month ago,

 how…

That sweet voice of the ordinary,

the one that brought comfort

for so many years, drifted away

on a dream I couldn’t call back.

FEARLESS

For those nights of the days

spent in the Green Mountain National Forest

home to moose moving through the thicket,

bear I never did see but thought about,

beaver crawling about where I made my bed,

and other creatures

breaking the wooded sticks of my night

I slept simply out in the open with tarp

tied to tree and a sleeping bag upon the ground.

Then, for my first night out of the woods

and into a motel,

I closed the door, threw the deadbolt,

and then

hooked the chain latch

just to be sure.

A FEW SHORT POEMS

MOURNING MEAL

Driving by

the American Legion

my head was quickly turned

by the somber six

gathered by the flag pole.

Circling the deceased

and dressed in their cloaks of black

with heads bowed

under hoods of red

they stood.

Turkey vultures

picking away at the dead raccoon.

WELL, IT MADE SENSE WHEN I FIRST SAID IT

Every now and then

I think about

every now and then.

RAIN AND MORE RAIN

I

Looking through the mottled windshield of rain,

an impressionist’s silvery pointillism,

everything’s hazy –

the car in front of me,

McDonald’s where she went for food,

the young boy dashing through the downpour

that age of clarity.

II

Sitting in the car after leaving

the doctor’s office

rivulets of rain

ran every which way

after hitting the windshield

like answers

that couldn’t find their questions.

WHAT WE ALL MUST BECOME

At one time I could cast my line

into the sea,

feel connected,

and stronger than the one

of me

but now, Mother’s gone

and standing, stranded on land,

the fisherman,

looks out

to the fathomless face of the sea

and only hears

Come, it’s your turn now.

FIRST POSTING

Hi there,

I'm starting a new venture so bear with me as I find my way through this cyberspace world of blogging to share some of my poetry -- and at times my photos or maybe a drawing.  Okay, here goes -- three poems.

Join me!!
John

AT THE EDGE OF DAWN

It almost could have been anywhere.

The slow beat of a temple drum,
monks move to silent meditation.
Golden-eyed trucks crawl the dark,
the moon bulges towards full.
Tuk-tuks prowl early for fares,
dust hangs on the cool morning air.
A rooster ratchets the edge of dawn,
wood smoke drifts across the road.

A silent passerby nods, Sa bi dee.

As I said
it almost could have been anywhere
in this subtropical world,
but this time
it was in a small city
awakening in the mist of the Mekong.

Luang Prabang.

TRANSPORTED

Somewhere over the Rockies
flying at 29,000 feet,
no longer Baltimore, not yet Telluride,
no longer departing, not yet arriving,
emptied from past, not filled with future,
and across the aisle from me
my grandson sits quiet and absorbed,
stares into another world.

Lifted on the hollow breastbone of Now,
he too writes a poem.

FROM 37, 000 FEET

Below me
lights sprinkle the dark

houses
peopled with dreams,
despair,
the TV droning, bills to pay,
taxes to do

beds stained with sex

hoping for love.