I seek you still

Even when frustration darts from our eyes

Like poison-tipped arrows

I read a poem this morning titled “Woolworth’s”

And it reminded me of Ben Franklin

Not the Franklin who was born on Milk Street

Or the Ben who co-authored our Declaration, was our first US ambassador to France

Who invented bifocals and the lightning rod

But the Ben Franklin that resides on Main St.

In Middlebury, VT

And again in Ojai, CA

Seat to two of my homes

This poem found me. Well, technically speaking, I wrote the poem so I suppose I originally found it. But then I forgot all about it, only to re-discover it this morning. The re-acquaintance felt akin to finding a lost sock behind the washing machine, all fuzzed up with dust-bunnies. This poem may be shite. Who knows? But a big old shout-out to Aaron Burden for the photo, just the same.

Winter – how she beckons.

She’s in the house now as much as she’s in my body

Sluicing from the kitchen faucet, sharp and brittle

Solidifying into a hard pellet like a doormat buried in snow

A poem inspired in two parts: first, by the line in Anton Chekov’s short story, Gooseberries, that reads: “Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and soap.” But mostly inspired by my new friend who reminds me so much of the best parts of my long-since departed mother, Margot.

a short poem about loving together in life and in death

A reflection about my sisters and me - going about the remarkable work of assisting our father in his death

A Love Poem, For Tony

Now that I am un-married, there are certain things I just don’t want to learn

Simple and easy things, tiny dumb little chores that I could probably master in a second if only I was willing to give a second

Still, he tarried and, still, I lay

His to pardon, or his to obey

I dared not gaze upon him but held my breath instead

Held my breath and keenly listened

To all that was not said

I know what it’s like to claw at the air

To bite at the salty pain that swivels on my tongue like an ocean wave

So laden with prior and present life that the wave feels heavy

Even so, my teeth close on nothing

But he’d walk that distance

He knew he would

His fingers would travel that fretboard

His thumb and pinky – calloused now – would span that gap

Because he was practiced, after all

and loving and compassionate

and capable and smart and, just like his mother promised

So awfully talented, so painfully worthy

It worried her, his future

It worried her to the quick

And with her soft, warm fingers she held my cheeks in the palms of her hand

And turned my face toward the mirror

Look at yourself, she said

Oh, the cost of being coy

…a man with whom I used to be.

A medieval painter depicted Time as an old woman

Tisk, tisk chatters the radio by my bed