I will place an occasional poem here. Keep checking back.
why
sad songs, bad news,
both seem so much easier to create,
to resonate daily through my life
too often to be serendipitous
all things I crave…
they are never the things I have,
and are always possessed by another,
someone more fortunate than me
rainy days, snowy days,
are remembered more vividly…
than those numerous sun-kissed afternoons
duly recorded in history
trespasses against me,
permanently adhered to my consciousness,
so different from the good deeds done…
by good people towards me
time flies, time crawls,
so dependent on the mind’s state,
minutes take eternities to dissolve
when the heart is melancholy
getting dark
1000 miles per hour,
spinning away…
from the cauterizing sun,
into the void of the dark side.
oh, mother earth,
wasting away,
shedding your ozone,
as dark moles appear on my skin.
mutagens in my food
stealing away…
natural ingredients,
preprocessed away from my lips.
burnt fossil fuels
finding a way…
into alveoli
purloining my oxygen supply.
edges of tree lines
shrinking away
turning to sand,
marching into desertification
2020… What if ? [writtten during COVID]
What if we got up tomorrow and things were different…
there was no such thing as social distancing?
What if all people still hugged their families…
including the 1,000,000 already gone?
What if we still saw our families without trepidation…
all gathered together under one roof?
What if we drank cocktails on Agricola Street…
crowded around one little table at the Compass?
What if we got together in Newfoundland…
watched whales from the patio at By The Sea Cafe?
What if we all boarded a plane again…
flew across the ocean… to Amsterdam?
What if we took a riverboat…
visited Passau and drank wine at Die Kuche?
What if we took a vintage car to Holguin…
smoked Cubans after dinner at Delicias Cubanos?
What if we sunbathed on Esmerelda Beach again…
laughed with Arnaldo and Julio at the Caleticas Bar?
What if we saw your lovely faces again…
exposed smiles, breathing uninfected air?
What if, when we get through this…
we’d all appreciate each other just a little more?
summer storm [written from my front porch]
it starts slowly
a tease of rain
evaporating instantly
from parched grass.
to my right… blue
my left… ominous
still just a promise
of droughts end
dark cloud, fully charged
waits for earthly points
to unload its fury
to announce its might
suddenly, absolutely
heaven opens
releasing its bounty
mother nature’s milk
a jagged finger
pierces earth’s crust
enough to fuel cities
the air freshens
another flash
ten seconds to the clap
house shakes again
the dog jumps
drops become fatter
turn to torrents
can’t fall any harder
but it does
trickles on the walk
turn into rivers
plants stretching out
leaves like tongues
on my left, the blue
appears like magic
chases off the dark
steam rises
a blink of nature’s eye
summer storm, come and gone
I witness it all
from my verandah
Old-timers hockey night [experienced at my average game]
thirty seconds.
half a minute of sucking wind
to feed oxygen-deprived bodies
nourish blood-starved brains
to put the puck
in the net.
sixty minutes
of thinking you can still be
as you remember your vigor
before tar and nicotine
before bifocals
before the paunch
game over
except for raucous discussions
of how good you used to be
light a cigarette
have a beer
cough up a lung
today I did nothing
today I tried to catch a plane,
one of many aluminum cans…
with riveted wings,
ferrying crammed masses…
through crowded skies.
today I tried to catch a moment…
with my wife, my kids, my dog,
busy doing things…
not needing to be done,
but is most important.
today I tried to catch my breath,
one of the many millions…
spewed forth in gasps,
into our over-saturated…
stale atmosphere.
today I tried to catch a thought,
one of many screaming along…
gelatinous coated synapses,
disappearing into eternity,
into nothingness.
today I tried to slow down,
made tea and read the paper.
I did the crossword puzzle.
today I did nothing,
and it felt good.
The Loneliest Terminal
Airport bars are islands,
adrift in the tides of arrivals and departures,
where the clocks forget their purpose
and the lights never dim.
Here, the drinks are poured for ghosts,
each glass a fragile tether
to a life paused mid-sentence—
a goodbye half-spoken,
a promise left waiting at a distant gate.
The stools are filled with strangers
who carry their stories in suitcases,
zipped tight to keep the ache from spilling.
They sit hunched,
their faces lit by the glow of phones
or the dull flicker of muted televisions
broadcasting games they’ll never finish watching.
A woman stirs her drink with the same rhythm
she tapped out an unanswered text.
A man stares at the condensation on his glass
as if it holds the answer to a question
he’s too afraid to ask.
Conversations falter here,
half-hearted and heavy with transience.
What’s the point of connection
when the next boarding call
will scatter them like dry leaves
on the wind of another timezone?
This is not a place for beginnings,
only for endings,
or perhaps
a fragile moment of stillness
before the rush resumes.
And yet, beneath the hum of jet engines
and the clatter of glasses,
there’s a soft ache,
a silent yearning for someone to say:
I’m staying.
But no one ever does.