Scratching...

I don't have much to say,
but I'm saying it anyway;

And so I continue to fill the space
between my thoughts and the end of the page.

Scratching...

Scratching, scratching, thinking and
scratching until something comes out.

Either I'm profound and clever
or just sad and desperate.

And so I close my journal for the evening.

Ornithology, or how to identify your feelings

I am but an amateur:
my Pathos sits in the shade of a pool umbrella
as a yellow-breasted swallow performs
schizophrenic swirls upon
aquamarine translucence.

These are the dimension of love that are difficult:
full commitment to the dive,
then changing your mind abruptly;
Kamikaze Logos - my inward thoughts
performing as a handsome aerialist.

We use science to understand the world,
but I am still an amateur
misidentifying my regrets as I sit
by the pool watching this bird
eat his breakfast.

Song of Myself

Ah, Whitman!

The leaves of grass may be dead, yellow and brown,
covered with a littering of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.

I chose to sit in the shade, on this side of the tree
that slopes upward toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward, downhill, but I want to feel the strong,
rough bark of this tree hold me in the breeze.  I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing at the school.

In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.

It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.

The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
Nor Whitman,
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their in nity
for us to understand.

The difference:
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.

Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.

They are still here, and so am I; glad I chose this side of the hill;
Glad I chose this pen,
and this day and this sun.

Matera

Take me out of this moment,
this place in time, and
invite me to your home,
smooth and quiet.
We can take my boat and

float down this milky-white river
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.
I will speak to the raven
overhead and ask him to fi nd me.

Take me to your cobbled streets,
and show me wide buildings
crowding the shops. Let me

sit in the cool corner
under forgiving basil plants.
I want to smell of mint and basil,
so let me bathe in Romanesque sun.

I can feel us nearing
the bright, green clearing, malve growing in Santa Lucia;
smelling the stones
of the short, wide homes.
I can see the raven calling
and the rain falling.

I am here;
we are near;
I do not fear
anything.

No more drafts

After receiving my latest rejection email, I have decided to put the rest of my poetry online.  I have been holding onto a few poems, some old; some new, that I have been afraid to publish on my blog because I am holding out hope that they will be published in various journals.  Yes, that would be amazing, but I am tired of holding onto these poems.  I want to release them out into the world for all to read and comment on.  I am not coming from a place of high-and-mighty: I do not feel that I have been depriving you all of my amazing poetry!  Instead, this is about release.  I need to let them go so that I can stop letting these poems hold be back.  I am only as good as my last poem and I have not written anything for a few weeks because I have been holding onto these poems.  No more!

Stay tuned for a slew of regular poem posting.  Thank you again for everyone who reads.  As always, I appreciate any comments you are willing to make for my poetry.  

Where is love stored in the heart?

I can feel it, starting in my groin, my inner thighs,
rumbling.  It isn't desire, love, nor sex.
It's dull scratch elicits nausea
as it rises to my abdomen.  I ignore
it's pull, tugging a my intestines, focusing
instead at the children around me, waiting for their
swim lessons, crying as rubber swim caps
get yanked over tangled hair.
Children waiting for their turn to splash:

chicken -- bird -- soldier

Different lives surround me and I can
still feel it growing, a direct B-Line
to my chest.  I stare
at the other mothers trying to distract
my brain, for once my head and heart are
connected, the rumble has won.
It is difficult to go back once it
has grown: full-blown longing, insecurity:
sadness takes over.

As a last resort, I dip into my reserve
supply of gratefulness, stored in the left
atrium, pumping oxygenated blood throughout
my body: a temporary shelter, a lean-to.

It's time to pick up my own children from the pool.

I may be untitled

I really would love to tell you that I can never

find the words to say:

I'm a poet/writer/coach/father/husband

I don't know why I drink whiskey
at night except to understand
and seek for understanding.
I love this album!
Sipping whiskey, I feel connected to
Yeats
Whitman
Heaney
and others....

All the other writers.

I'm drunk; or may be, but my pen is still moving.
This is the space I need and want
to transport me to a deeper, higher
level of everything.

I may be untitled, but I'm still writing.
I will see you on the other side.