There

There was a day in summer
when I rode my bike
to go passed it

Then I stopped a moment
to let my imagination unwind
to recollect the scent of viburnum
to let my mind wander along the edge
of a neatly placed railroad tie
to see
the spirea bursting bridal white
from the edge of the maturing trees

Trees that used to be a gangly young wood
before being cleared away
to accommodate the building
of a sturdy gray structure with black shutters
amid the chaos of wild grapevine, hickory and locust

I recall the pink and white impatiens
neatly planted each beside the other,
beside the other...
And the red walkway
brick to brick held together with new sand
leading to the front door
which when opened
allows a breeze through the entryway
to the back doors
to a wooden deck
sitting high on hand-built footers
absorbing all the energy of the
golden rays
a skin seering heat when touched
awaiting the protection of the canopy's
shade
with the birds which will come to sup
at the feeders
come evening

And in my mind's eye
there are the screens readied and clean
waiting below each window
for their seasonal turn
and a sweating glass of melting ice
leftover
from a quenched thirst
and two folding chairs
and a wrought iron plant stand
freshly painted a light yellow
or maybe off-white..
there is a stream
in all it's meandering
and the odd shape of the side yard

the unwound hose
the wheelbarrow
and spade
the opened doors of the garage
the dogwood
the evergreen
once spindly and hopeful...

Here the thought wanders forward
beyond the bedrock driveway

And back to now
and to the red bike that doesn't belong there
nor it's reminiscent owner

And the memory
folds itself up like an old lover's letter
neatly placed back in it's tucked awayness

The sun
hot and clear
shining on the upturned face
to a new sky

And a mower hums
a dog barks

While I pedal forward again
back from where I came

A wee sound picked up
and carried by the air
underneath the doorway
dancing down the stairs
through the kitchen
bouncing lightly
off the walls
narrowing inside
the tunneled hall
muffled and squeezing
beneath the bedroom door
and a quick sweep
to pirhouette around the corner
so tender and small
alighting so soft on the
the tiniest bones
in the human body
as a gift
unwrapped
Sweet song of a bathing child
Sweet song

Late
She said mumbling,
Did you remember to
set the alarm?
He told her bumbling,
Erm..yes
She was all fumbling,
It's still winter
outside
He replied grumbling,
But I set it for
Spring...

Raphael Darling
Blue wading pool
Bronzed skinned
In bright sunlight

Little boy sings
Wonders about
A twinkling star
One thousand years dead

No matter
Only this day exists
In sparkling water
Contained in round plastic

He stands in the middle
Reaching limbs to the light
No movement
A naked fountain

Sweet cherub
With Fishes
Spitting water
To heaven

I do not know many poets.
I do not know any poets, really.
Which sounds bleak, I know.

I think sometimes that
I might join a
Poetry reading group.
Or allow a (real) poet to
Read and critique me.

I think again.

Because
I really do not know
How to write a poem.
Or how to read one.

And frankly, I do not care.

Why do I write?
Why do I breathe?
I do not know.

I do know that I breathe to live.
I do not write to live.
But it is surely the same
Drive that leads me to breathe
Or eat
Or have sex
That I feel in my center solar
When it is time to write again.

I do not ever know what I will write about.
All I know is that it is time.
And I do not work on it for weeks.
I work on it for minutes.

Until it is done.

It has got to be like
How a colonic would feel.
Except, of course,
I am not getting rid of
A lot of shit.

Or am I?

At least, I do not think so.
I write only in a way
That looks good to me.
Or sounds right to my ear
When I read it aloud
To myself.

I sometimes think I would like
To write about lofty things.
Things from other places.
Places that one might deem
More important
Than the ordinary life that is my own.

But then I realize
That I do not know of any place
Like that.
And I cannot write of things and places
That I do not know.

How could I?

My friend Jim told me the other morning
that he was telling a friend's son
that he was trying to decide
whether to paint a landscape
of the gardens where we live
or of the animals.
The young man told him, "You shouldn't
paint about any of these things. I took some
photos while in Europe. You should paint those!"
And Jim said to me, "I don't want to paint about there!
I want to paint about here."

I understood that.

What this gives rise to
Is the value of speaking
For your environment
Not just of it.

Telling of things you know
For the things you know.

In other words
To point to the ordinary life
And offer a language
For the voiceless
To be seen in its
New expression.

And in this way
One might never see a familiar
Landscape
Or an animal
In the same way
again.

Most mornings now I eat my cereal on the front porch
Sitting on the stoop, barefoot
surrounded by green clover, weeds, spindly overgrown pansies
two cats (one not mine, but who claims me anyway)
and a dog.

Often called "quiet solitude" it is anything but that
Though I still recognize the hint and feel a nudge from my
surroundings that I am sitting in a new reality
And the world I inhabit is tilting in another direction
It is one without children

There were paintings in our house when I was young
Wildlife ones painted by an artist friend
who is still a friend
Two of them were placed on the wall above the sofa
side by side
one of a red fox,
the other, two squirrels
One afternoon my nephew, very young at the time,
pronounced them as,
"Two Skunks and a Dog!"

I often think of that when flanked by these
two cats and the beagle all vying and vying and vying
for the leftover milk
in my cereal bowl
Realizing that those paintings now
reside in another house on another wall
My memory of them an echo
And only projected upon these
unsuspecting creatures whose energy too
is fleeting through time

I was thinking yesterday and this is without
pride or gratitude, mind you, I wasn't even feeling
guilt about it when I recognized
that I was holding it, holding time
sitting in a perfect 'something'
On the front porch
I experienced something quite undone, unfettered
undressed, even unrequited
I just happened to be there with the animals
and they didn't know it, of course, because
they are always there
But I watched in quiet servitude to whatever
it is I serve
Acknowledging, simply, yes it is--
(Held and gone that quickly),
It is perfect.

Whatever perfect even means, I don't know
But it is the best description I have
Because earlier, or later, depending on perspective
I'd awoken at around 2.30, deeply troubled when
I heard the word "mom" spoken so clearly
by my oldest child who is no longer living with me

He wasn't there when
I opened my eyes
I got up to check on the smaller children
and wondered if I would find his shoes by the door
Where he used to leave them after coming in at night
In the past it was a certain sign of his safety
that he'd arrived home
But the space by the front door was
and is empty of his shoes

He is gone
And so I released my panic for his sake
I went back to bed with a soft heart
A mind eased
That his shoes are now sitting (or not sitting)
beside another door
at this late, or early, hour
for me to not worry over anymore