He jibes as Father
Dances behind him, spinning too
with arms out. And I realize
I’m not witnessing sailing.
Father and son are flying.

They twist and dive
around cloud cars for
in this moment they are
high above the city. Not here.
Their lips flap and noise the
PSHB-PSHB-PSHB-PSHB
of imagined propellers.
Laughing and talking her
flyboys to a smooth
landing in the minivan,
Mother watches clapping,
for this flight was brilliant.
Showing me in my daily haste
I have forgotten to fly.

(more…)

Click above to hear the poem.

The VOICE speaks.
Heed it? Or drift,
as I often do,
away from it?

Disregard it.

I align with the
rumble-tumble rag-tag
rough-weathered faces
of boredom and monotony.
But we stand together!
Crowded down,
bunkered in
too tight.
And I long to breathe
a patch of fresh air
or swim in clear and cold waters.
A glimpse of God gently seen
in the eyes of a stag
or the crest of a hawk.

But instead I wait.
Filling time with everything, and doing nothing.
Scurrying ratlike in my vain intensities,
like the prey far down below.

I never bother a glance up.
The hawk dives, and
devours me in a single,
smooth movement.

And before I know
I’m in trouble,
I’m dead.

Sacrificed at an unholy altar
of ambition and apathy.
Knowing my potential
but doing nothing to attain it.

Lavender sky, wisps of
blue clinging to the fading day.
Clouds orange, purple, pink
painting my face delighted.

A chance relief.

I’m reminded of the
infinite peace that lies
somewhere between here
and the distant, ebullient horizon.

Bougainvillea glinting with
the unwavering light of history
reminds me how quickly
I too rise and set.

No matter how far I walk
you will go ahead of me
lighting my way,
spreading grace between
each days’ crest.

I promise, one day
I’ll sit on a fashioned wraparound
porch or lie in a glade on land
of my own

To watch the fullness of you
sink to meet the earth.

I have two small windows in my office-
2′ by 4′ rectangles of which
Only one works.
The other is covered by
Tangled Crape-Myrtle and Spanish moss overgrowth.

The functioning window is merely half usable
Because the thick bower covers only half the glass.
It lets the sun in, albeit filtered,
Through its ever present leaves,
But it is grand nonetheless, lighting
My 40-plus hour world.

I don’t gaze out it.
The outside world
Taunts above my eyes’ level.
The only visible thing through the rapping leaves
Is the roof of the adjacent building.

I’ll dream within instead.

My curved desk is cluttered.
Bits of paper-important work notes.
The morning’s coffee cup-brim stained
With lip dragged remnants of
A long caffeine-soaked draught.

Pens, pencil, notes are the only
Tangible evidence of my work.
The rest?
Confined to 1’s and 0’s; I’m entombed in digital.

Even my writing and my poetry-the best
I’ve done, what I’m most proud of,
Has only existed or been conceived
WIth back straight or hunched
Over a keyboard clacking.

Will you know I existed after my drives crash;
My printers break?
I’m fleeting, fleeting indeed,
But my words are fleeting yet.

For now, just this once,
I’ll at least write this poem with my own hand
On some scrap of paper.

Eating a granola bar
in an office at work,
I was drawn in because
my boss’s TV was on.
Loud…irritating, so I ventured in.
I stood stone-faced
angry at sensationalistic
“journalism.”
(more…)