andrew in the evening


her place:
evening is hard he said
moving between this world
and the other
guarding my words
tending with such care
the fences i have built
to make this little place
in our lives
i weary of the deception
but no solutions come
conscience urges me
to give you up
pull the curtain 
cover the inspiration you are
and paint my kitchen window
or the pastor's children
but then
something of me would die— 

he paused and noticed
she was quietly arranging
her hair and her collar
smiling at the familiar monologue
knowing he would return
that she would give him
what she could give
no fear and no regret
paint what your heart sees
she said simply
i will be here

his place:
evening is hard he said
stopping to kiss her hello
and sample the stew that simmered
like his passion for beauty
i am driven to create
and some days it just doesn't work
the colors are wrong
the light in the waves
mocks me and eludes me
maybe i should paint the kitchen window
or the pastor's children— 

he paused and noticed
she was quietly arranging 
the plates at table
knowing he would never quit
until he got it right
she would continue to give him
all she could give
no recrimination
no looking back
paint what your heart sees
she said simply
i will be here

 “andrew in the evening” was first published in Painters and Poets.

​
under the bridge


navajo my parents said
we will live on the reservation
but eight years old was not enough
to measure the importance of the move

i didn't know it should have made
my father's life less hell
only that my daydreams 
and my treasure box
went north
out of familiar walls
green grass and the crab apple tree
to sage brush
sand
and wind.

nine is not enough to know
words like depression and despair
but i lived them there
the trading post and house
surrounded by miles of nothing

the bridge was just a bridge on top
but underneath
the wooden beams dark with creosote
had offered some unschooled talent
a canvas for his fantasies
his brush a piece of chalk

ten was not enough to know
of coupling and such
and the revelation of differences
frightened and intrigued me
the short walk to the bridge
became a daily pilgrimage
to see if some new knowledge
had been inscribed 
white lines of passion 
on greasy brown boards

when the flash floods came
they washed away
the sodom and gomorrah illustrations
left me with no reason to return
except the packed sand banks
where i went back to being eleven
and carved out a city 
for my matchbox cars

“under the bridge” was first published in Oddball Magazine



prodigal


father and son argument
over my place and his power
pushed me out of home
full of arrogance and hate
greyhound was close
and i was gone

california called me
friends with open arms and attitudes
would replace the family from hell
who no longer needed 
this conformist turned pacifist
hippie in my father's eyes

the anger that fueled my flight
carried me to flagstaff 
and beyond 
to southern california
where i knew it never rains

in the uneasy stillness of late night
butt on the floor
chin on my knees
collins in my ears
the last of the fury faded
leaving me alone and lonely
for all i had so eagerly left
the realization punctuated
by salty drips that found my cheeks
but could not hold and fell
like my pride
down and away

the phone call was simple
returning was not
no fatted calf
just resignation
father and son hoping 
neither quite believing
that things were somehow 
different



player


he was there when we started
a dark tangle of flannel and other cloth
almost invisible
in the deeper colors of a moonless night
partly under the park bench
partly on the path where
our regulation bike lights 
were never enough
never enough

there was just time to notice him 
and then a friend as we rolled by
anxious to complete our course
we forgot them both soon enough
as intersections and traffic
brought our focus to survival

the ride was nothing different
except a little shorter
and returning revealed him
motionless just as before
but we were slower and this time
i saw his pillow clearly
the familiar outline of a guitar case
and my mind went off in so many directions
was it his only suitcase or empty
and did he play too
perhaps we even know some same songs
and i could sing a harmony
have i seen him on a corner
playing cheap or free
and where would he have learned
his first chords
does his mother know what he's become
and should i stop to leave
a five for him to dream about
and waking find beside him
or should i be as many are
ride quickly by and turn away
to stop the flood of questions


dust to dust

​
dust is universal
nature's way of hiding
the ugliness we leave behind
every scrape and scar
we put on her

oh, there are valiant efforts
the vacuums and feathers
to push dust about
or suck it into bags
we throw away
but always,
left alone
dust gathers
everywhere

the piano in the parlor
the poetry on the shelf
though dear to us
are only places for nature
to resume
her slow steady task
and in the end
even we return 
to dust