AFTER ALL OF THIS.

AFTER ALL OF THIS

After all of this, the clouds form and take

shape in the darkening day.

The lobsters play on the beach

walking back and forth up

and down the sand dunes.

The waves pick up, and

bounce on the sharp rocks.

The night is blessed. My love

is bitter and angry that I am

not with him; that he is

far away. The beach house

is around the corner but I am

sitting on my towel,

looking out at the ocean and

watching the tides come in,

watching the ocean.

The wind is an angry monster,

trying to take hold of the ocean

and seize it as if it were in battle,

and I see a ship out on the water,

bouncing on the waves.

Up and down it goes, and no one

knows where it will stop,

and then the wind dies down,

and the ocean is like a mirror now,

calm in its wake.

The Mother.

The woman who was my mother

claimed she never really loved me

and stole my clock one night to

get back at me.

She said it was for reasoning only,

and getting the clock was a way

of showing the passage of time.

Clocks tick for a reason;

and tock for always.

Sometimes we do not know what that

reason is,

or if it is even worth it.

At night, when I am laying in my bed,

I realize I am alone,

like a great auk on the bright blue water,

dipping its neck towards the obsidian

sky,

howling at the blank sun.

She said she cared about me at one point,

and the feeling went away soon after

I was born.

And nothing is more or less a miracle

than something,

and one day moves on to the next.

Some people are always alone,

like great, winged things that take flight

in the sky,

and the darkness is vast and we are vast also.

I feel a cold shadow of dread moving through

me,

and one day fades to the next and I am

by myself again,

and everything is the same as it was before

the light came.

SILENCE.

Silence

What's that noise in my head?
It is the silence.

It reverberates throughout

my brain.

I try to catch hold if it but

it will not stay.

I try to let it go but

it will not fade.

I told my brother and my uncle

that nothing is more satisfying

than change;

and all is not lost with change.

Some people claim that change

cannot be had,

but it is like a wildflower,

growing strong against the wind.

It is like the growth of a backhand,

as strong as the grass.

The sun shines high in the sky,

and the clouds are white and puffy.

The night comes and a calmness

settles over the city.

The silence is prominent.

It is there.

MOTH.

MOTH

The moth is fluttering

in the cold river.

She tries to swim upriver

but she can't quite make it.

All in all, she is a fighter.

All in all, she does not move

into a dark web.

Some things are better left

without words to mourn them;

the bread is better left in the

bread box.

I have found that sandwiches

taste better when they are not

moldy and bitter,

and things go from the inside

to the outside.

In my mind, the river flows

backwards;

just like bloodflow.

The system moves and changes

and bends,

and the water always flows.

THE STORM.

The Storm

The trees emulate

against the storm.

They bend with the wind

and ride with the rain.

The storm is cursed with freedom.

Everything is short of freedom.

Hope is divided by one thing.

That the end is a beginning and

the beginning will end.

The road is blocked with water;

a man is trying to get out of the water,

he swims and swims and does not

stop swimming.

Some things cannot be changed,

like tires or rocket shuttles;

some new beginnings turn to

endings,

and things aren't broken.

The river is not flooded or

destined to be flooded.

The stream is not a stream;

hope is not shattered.

I have not lost my will to survive

the storm,

I have not lost my will to end

the surviving dream.

Take what you will and follow

the stream;

the heartache is not in your hand.

I do not beat a steady thrum.

Shadows flock a will of its own.

TREES.

The trees

stand tall

in the storm that is

mourning

an old tune from

an old accordion.

Nothing comes out of

the darkness by my old

hands,

shaking like a leaf,

as I batten down the hatches

and make sure the

shed is secure.

I walk like a lotus

to the back door

and open the front door

to my house

and go in.

I pause a moment

reveling in the storm

as nature reveals

its innermost fury

shaking

sobbing

trying to catch hold

of its prey.

Its mouth is its only savior.

NATURE STANDS.

Nature Stands

Nature stands on its own

in all of its glory

surrounded by golden rods

and wildflowers dancing.

All these maids turn

fast like missing time,

and puffy clouds are high

in the sky whispering away

at nothing.

In the shadows,

a small light shines,

blinding me,

a coin in the grass.

I pick it up

place it in my pocket

and look around at the

large world

that is full of promise

and there are animals

sitting in their barns

far off in the distance.

I ride my motorcycle

far down the broken road,

thinking about

what I want to have for breakfast.

BEAUTIFUL GREECE.

Beautiful Greece circa 1987

The window overlooks a balcony.

It is morning.

I go outside still in my pajamas and stare

up at the skyline,

a light shines through my window

in warm rays.

Everything happens in its own time,

I guess,

but that doesn't mean I can't be

impatient.

The solitude staggers me.

I try not to be bitter because that just isn't

like me but it's hard to explain

something like that to a two-year-old,

who is always asking “Why? Why?”

and tagging along behind her dog,

a Saint Bernard,

who is kind as he is large.

There isn't anything better than a child

with chubby cheeks and sweet hair,

and a dangling booger now and then.

It is the best life there is.

It is like no other.

I can't tell what I'm doing anymore.

I don't know the way down the path.

WHY DADDY HAS TO EXPLAIN TO ME ABOUT MONEY.

Why Daddy Has To Explain To Me About Money

“Daddy,” I says, “what is it about you that makes

you want to go out and achieve your dreams?”

“Persistence,” he replies, “and eggs.” He laughs.

“Eggs?” I say in surprise.

“Yes, everyone has to eat, pumpkin.”

I try to wrap my brain around what he has

just said to me.

“What do you mean?” I asks. “Don't we all

get to eat? You and Mommy buy

food at Walmart every week.”

“Don't forget we go to Kroger sometimes,”

he adds.

“What about the people in Africa?”

“All around the world,” he explains,

taking me on his lap, “people are starving.”

“What does starving mean?”

“It means you don't have enough money

to buy food.”

“Where do you get that money?”

“You have to get a job,” he explains.

“Like the place where you and Mommy

work?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Exactly like that.”

I'm not sure what he meant by money,

but he was too tired to explain any more

and lay down to go to sleep.

THE PARK.

The park is good for self-sacrifice.

I see the river flowing like a lava lamp.

It is utter blissful in its wake.

Temptations are not meant to be taken literally,

but if you want to go out on a limb,

do it and don't be mad.

I have found myself thinking about other

things besides me, like my boyfriend

or my mother,

who loves to call me in the evenings

while she is at work and talk about,

well,

anything.

Including how she goes to the laundry mat

and gets mad at the supervisor when

she doesn't get her correct change back.

It's not the point of destination that is

the truth in self-sacrifice,

it is something more visible than that,

a fleet of wind on the breeze,

a crying out of distant noise,

the taking hold of your breath,

shaking and shimmering in the cold.

I like the winter.

It makes me think of times when I was a child,

listening to the wind whine in the chimney,

building snowmen out in the front yard,

watching the snow fall from the trees.