New Days & New Ways

then?

I Passages

another day

the dim light

of a thinly overcast

dawn

filters yellow

light

into the air and across

the trees and pastures and

commuter-rush…

looking out

from my breakfast perch

the day seems

a Chinese brocade, raised

golden thread

embroidered on thick fabric,

gilded scenes

of morning life wakened

to the silvered calls

of mourning doves softly

sweetly

singing songs of daylight’s

resurrection…

another day, they sing,

another sunrise,

another chance for me

and you

a long time coming

fever

chills

aching bones

a dark poem

all the long night’s

making

forgotten now

black cloud

covers the rising sun

dispersed

by the cold spreading

light

night to day

a long time

coming

a mid-winter poem

I have the feel

of a string running out,

a slackness in my lifeline,

all that I am reduced to

loose ends

I’ve done many things in my life

good and worthwhile things,

though none lasted longer than

it took for my shadow

to fade around the corner

my proudest legacies

remembered only by me -

like clouds blown apart

by the wind, so much more fragile

than I had imagined

and now the line that anchored me

to the future

has gone slack and I feel just another

of the world’s many forgettable

loose ends

fog like a deep, dark sea

school bus

lurking

yellow shadow

in the fog

school children

on corners

waiting whirl-a-wisps

in the murk

prey

to be gathered

into the maw of the great

yellow whale

∼∼∼

sleek shark

in the night

streaming past

eyes

bright

probe

the dark

∼∼∼

my bright

cave

at the bottom

of the sea

soft music

to bind my ears

tight

against the carnage

of the flowing

hungry sea

storms of quiet

desperation

shift deep

sands

rock relics

of earlier deaths

the best there is on offer

dark

morning rain

light

but steady

the street

an ebony mirror

streaked red

like a lipstick message

from a disappointed

lover

a no-promises

day…

take it

as you find it

it’s the best there is

on offer

another Sunday morning

moon

falling toward the west

horizon

slips behind a lacy morning cloud,

hiding

the shadows of its ancient

scars

**

grackles

on cue

fly from their nighttime

nest

cover the sky,

dark cape

of the Phantom of the Morning

**

strong winds,

warm and wet,

blow

smells of the

the southern sea

across

the stark remains

of northern

winter

**

light

seeps

from a pinched

eastern horizon,

the sky not ready to open

to any new day

**

moon shadows

fade

as sun shadows

grow

toward the retreating

night

**

cat

does her morning

stretch -

doubles

her length

front to back,

legs reaching in both

directions,

belly on the ground,

tail straight in the air,

little red anus

like lantern light

at the end of a train

**

dog

stirs

in her bed,

too old for morning

calisthenics -

eyelid lift, up, then

down,

enough for now

crystal city

snow

in San Antonio last night…

sunshine this morning

through the prism of crystal ice

brightens the day

with cold intensity of light…

across the way

three deer cross a meadow,

the morning so quiet

I imagine

I can hear the crunch

of their hooves

breaking

virgin snow

l blame it on something I ate

I blame it

on something I ate -

this queasy stomach and watery eyes,

like looking through

a water-streaked shower curtain

disassociation,

that’s the word for the way I feel right now,

what it’s going to feel like

when I die, assuming

I’m not going to die in some screaming,

crushing, meat-grinder of a car accident, which

I’m thinking would be association with pain and the world

at its most extreme, the opposite of

disassociation…

instead

I’m thinking of how it might be

to die in my sleep,

one moment dreaming, the next moment

becoming the dream

as self separates

from it’s carrier, like stockings

slipped smoothly from a shapely woman’s legs

a fading,

then transition

to the next form, a new pebble

dropped into an old lake, rising and falling

with a slow and steady tide

and,

strangely,

thinking of that end

makes me feel better today

up at 4:30

sunsets

are a spectacle here,

vivid, ranging from lemon yellow

to searing red,

but I still prefer the sun

as it rises,

less like a movie special

effect,

more sedate, a gradual lighting

of the sky

before the sun

slips up over the east horizon…

appropriate

I think

that as each day ends in a blaze

of glory

it begins as a

tiptoe through the dark night

like my own start in the morning,

quietly

down the hallway

to the bathroom, careful

not to step

on the blind cat

who sometimes gets lost at night

and ends

on the throw rug

right outside my bedroom door…

I enjoy the day’s beginning,

the sights and sounds

as seen and heard from my patio,

alone in the dark,

then not alone as first light

filters through the trees

waking birds

who begin their morning calls,

then the first pink

of the sun

finally showing itself

over my neighbor’s fence,

then full light, the dogs stretch

and bark

at the train passing

several miles away, so quiet the morning

until then that the clatter of their wheels

and the wail of their whistle

sounds so close, just across the creek

and down the street,

right past the house

where the policeman lives

with loud family fights

and parties

every Saturday night

ka-thunka, ka-thunka, ka-thunka,

conjunto bass

shimmering the air,

slipping through dancing squeezebox squeals,

sometimes wondering if I should call

the police on the police,

remembering they all carry guns

all the time,

ka-thunka, ka-thunka…

but this morning,

none of that, up at 4:30,

just me and the gathering sun

and the birds

and dogs

and a train like right next door

night lays in

night

lays in

with a sign

like an old woman

pulling bed covers up to her chin

breeze

rustles trees

like feather dusters

brushing the stars, frogs

come alive in the creek, nighthawks hunt…

on my patio

I strip down, lay back in my chair,

and join the frog-symphony, imagine

the fresh, cool mud

between a catalogue of reeds

on the rain-freshened creek-side,

imagine the blood-tasty mosquito caught

on my long green tongue,

settle,

squish into the

singing

night

muffin making and other activities of the long night

it’s a bright and sunny

Sunday morning

and I’m thinking about sex

now

I can tell

some off you

are surprised that I’m thinking about sex

on such a bright and sunny

Sunday morning,

but I don’t know why…

I’m an old gent

after all,

a getting-on gent,

a heading-for-the-last-round-up gent,

a drawing-near-to-that-last-hillrise-cowboy

and men

in my particular chronological condition

think about a lot of things,

the weather,

dumb-ass politicians,

uncomplicated bowel movements,

occasionally a poem,

and sex…

mostly sex

cause even though we may not be getting

much of it anymore ,

sex is still the prime concern,

at least of those whose

wilty

whiskariser

have yet to fall off,

and since my whiskariser still

abides

I spend a lot of my thinking time

thinking about sex

that’s just the way it is,

just ask any whiskariser-intact

old man

and he will confirm

if he’s even the least bit honest

sex beats weather

and dumb-assed politicians

to think about

any old

day…

in particular,

this bright and sunny

Sunday morning,

I’m thinking about a particular

girl I once knew

a long time back,

in the old days when Ike

was still hitting par

with Mamie,

a particular girl

I’m remembering

whose nipples

were in constant confrontation

the one always hard

like a marble,

proudly erect like a sweet

dark cherry

on a cream-puff pie

the other lazy

always lying back,

holding back, small and

unobtrusive…

her conflicted nipples like

her conflicted nature,

the one ever-erect

showing

the wild part of her, the

part always ready

for the next adventure,

the next sensation -

touch me, kiss me, play

me lightly with your teeth, she’d say

lick me like a triple-dip ice cream

cone -

(and other such things

she’d say

I’m much to shy

to repeat

in a public forum

such as this)

but there was, still,

the other side

of her,

the Betty Crocker-in-a-white-

frill-apron-muffin-

baker

side,

the nipple so slow to rise

like reluctant muffins,

so hard to arouse, the nipple

of modesty,

of consequence and restraint,

of look twice before you leap,

the nipple of probably shouldn’t leap at all,

the nipple of banked fires

and still nights and clouds slow moving

against dark and starless skies…

but the fire was not out, just laid low,

waiting for the breeze of soft whispers

to flame again, to re-ignite the stars,

to push the clouds and clear the sky,

the fire when it came

as hot and bright as any other,

only slower to rise…

and it was