Update.

I have sent out at least four submissions as of late.  Technically, two have been rejected-one was rejected, but they said they especially liked my poem "He Who Loves Me," and the other, a short story, was rejected because the Editor had broken his leg.  I try to write and read at least every day.

ON THE ECHO OF LILIES.

ON THE ECHO OF LILIES

The divine simplicity of meaning echoes with age.

The days and years go by and no one notices a single thing.

A single tear that falls, or the withered face of your mother,

Until, at last, she dies, and nothing is ever the same again.

Life is a lot like the lily.  There are fields of lilies.  Millions

Of them in a single field.  I wish I could point them all out to you,

But I wouldn’t know where to start.  Maybe I could paint you a

Painting and show you that way-but sometimes, pictures are hard, too,

Especially the ones of old photographs where you think everyone

Is happy and carefree, but it turns out there is emotional abuse.

The method of understanding begins with a metaphor-that the beginning

Is that of a teacher, and nothing more. 

Here are the lilies.  Here are the broken promises spread before you on

A canvas of wet paint; that the underlying pain is hidden, echoed deep

In the roots of lies.  The echo is there, buried deep in patterns, trying to

Escape its remembering.

Doctor's Visit.

Doctor’s Visit

The stethoscope is cold and slick to the touch.

I don’t know what brought me here, to this place-

The place with the four white walls and the hard table,

The place with the doctor prodding here and there

And everywhere else.  Does this please them,

Every time I come here, coughing up hundreds of dollars

Just for one exam, only to have them say, “You’re well,

You can go home?”  Then when I get home, I become

Stuffed up as a hen, and have to buy the meds and call

The doctor again, and he’s always wanting more-more

Visits, more money, more talks about my life and where it’s

Going, or the books I’ve read.  When, sometimes, I haven’t

Read them at all, I’m just trying to strike up a conversation

Since I have no companionship at home.  I am more alone

Than I ever was when I go to this place with the white walls

And the cool-looking nurses, and the bitter doses of pills

That enter through my throat and down into my stomach,

And sometimes I just wish I wasn’t here.

Shores of Yellow Daisies.

Shores of Yellow Daisies

In a yellow field of flowers, I have looked up

And seen space-space filled with temptation,

And nothing all the while.  Here we are forgetting

Everything we have learned in school, including

Algebra, relying solely on outward help-maybe in

As far away as Antarctica, where nothing thrives

But snow and cold.  I have lived this life that does not

Wither; I have lived this life that has forsakened me;

Where are we now, on this iceberg, rowing slowly

Out to sea, trying to focus on the sight ahead,

The sight behind, and back and forth around me.

The field is yellow.  Maybe they are sunflowers,

Maybe they are daisies that had a genetic mutation.

I never knew so many words could fill up inside me,

As if I were rowing towards something more than caffeine,

Waking up day to day towards the shores of myself.

FLOW FREELY.

FLOW FREELY.

The river flows freely from point a to point b.

The river is the nothingness, the nothingness dwells within me.

I am burdened by these half-assed promises,

That fly quicker than the man.  Words speak to me with

Gentle lips; the lover that is myself, the lover that is in me.

I need you!  I cry, my words sound like broken glass on

Broken rocks, and you don’t remember me, but I remember you.

Don’t forget where you came from, or where you are going;

The world is a river that is forever moving, forever flowing.

And no one knows where I am going.

Before October Rain.

Before October Rain

Before October rain-falls, a sad

Silence echoes like a teardrop on

The pine trees in the woods.  

The deepness

Echoes within me, like a still heart.  

The wind

Mourns a lonely tune, and suddenly develops into something

Larger than itself-a large cloud, 

hovering in the blackening

Day.  No stars shine, not even the tiniest hint of movement

From the heavens, no ufos or spacecraft, 

no wandering light

Of the moon.  Still she whispers, still she whimpers, 

like a solid

Drop of loneliness on that still night.  

And the echo is deep inside,

Stiller than anything, before the rain appears, 

making everything

Wet and sleek, like an annoying rock.

The Shadows of Yesterday Are Reminders.

All the shadows of yesterday cannot remind

Me of your praise.  All this time that is flying by,

Are like little drops of memory.  Justice is never done.

The tone is deeper than the eye.  The words flash quickly,

Like lightning.  I have taken the steps to inner peace.

What tales we weave of anything.  The shop is going

Back to basics.  A fly jumps to the wall.  We are all

Saner for having being here, at least that’s what I told

My grandfather one cold day back in April.  The tender

Hands of the clock keep telling time, weaving in and out.

I thought the evolution of praise was more than just

A bitter dose of medicine; that the hand of the clock

Will wind up; that everything will go back to normal;

Maybe not today, maybe not any day, but some day,

Just like I told him over and over again that nothing

Is ever wasted.  Every day counts.

Winter In Detroit, 1987.

Winter In Detroit, 1987

The scene is this:  snow swirling in great whiteness, people scurrying

About in their cars.  Heavy with packages, and small children-teenagers

Flying by with snowy shoes.  A dog walks by, maybe a German Shepherd,

And he tries to wiggle in the snow a lot, like it is a blanket and he needs

The warmth underneath the snow to survive.  The stores in the city

Have bright windows as people shop or pass by.  Shadows fall on the

Ground, as the weather gets even grimmer.  There is no wildlife, now,

Except for the homeless people wandering about the night, lost in a cloud

Of coldness, trying to find the warmth of buildings, trying to find food to

Sustain them.  This is the real winter of Detroit, the homeless and the non-homeless,

People worrying about their bills, or their love lives, or their parents,

Some dead, some not, like Harold Buchinchamp, whose parents died long ago

In a winter like this, trapped in their black Ford as it sank towards the bottom

Of an icy river.  He remembers this.  He remembers everything.

Poem.

Miracles happen every day.

Now I hear my favorite song on the radio.

But the car needs a tune up.

On Being In Bloom.

I am in bloom, though I do not feel like it.

I feel like I am on a roller coaster to nowhere.

I feel like I am going downhill, past the sunset,

Past everything that matters to me.  Time is like

A clock going downhill.  

The genius is in the reverie

Of the night, like a staple that glares outward into

Nothing.  Oh bitterness, I breathe you in.  Errors mistake

Me.  

I glare down into nothing, the abyss of time.  Awaken

Me into the dawn that breaks like a clock, in a clock store,

As all the clocks on the wall are going off, glaring, glaring

Like a face.  

I am the face that tells the time of nothing.

The ghosts haunt me every damn day; I wake up; pee in the

Bathroom; and the dog comes skirting in, shaking and afraid

Of something I cannot see.  

This is the roller coaster of life,

The mesmerizing tranquility of it all, the destiny that is mine

For the taking.  I am the genius going uphill to water.

October Sunshine.

The sun blinds us.  It is the first of October,

And we are thinking about all things fall-autumn

Leaves, the changing of them, and things that are different;

Pumpkin spice;  pumpkin pie; pumpkin cookies and all things

Nice.  Cooler weather, jacket weather, or whether or not things

Will get better.  Then there is Halloween at the end of October,

The very last day of October, and the costumes and candy

And bags of pretzels and golden apples; the sun blinds us on

The first of October, and everything is right because it is a different

Season, if it were the same season every day, nothing would change,

And everything would remain stagnant; fall would never arrive or maybe

It would be fall eternally, like the sunshine is at this very instant, forever

And eternal, like the love of you and me, and the sun is shining just like it is

In the Sahara desert, and the desert is quick with its blessings.  I say hello

And goodbye to it, just like I did to my last love, the love of my life who left

Me and rose like a flower in bloom.

The sun shines and it blinds us still.