How to Forget

Someone please tell me how to forget, when I smell you drifting in hallways and feel you in my waking dreams. I see you in my unmade bed, I hear you ringing in my head. Someone please tell me, how to forget.

Snowball Cakes

A carpet of white light fell last night like frosting. It is in the yard, under the cherry blossom tree. The bushes are caked with icing like powdered sugar. We dip our figures into the batter to form round cakes. We play food fight with sparkling, slushy ingredients. My snow angel helpers have red, ruddy cheeks. They eat the fresh snow like dessert. Their eyes tear as snowball cakes explode in their outstretched mittens. They laugh in their snow boots, as they watch their chef father form a figure on top of a make-believe party cake. They topple this ice man with giggles and globs of iced cupcakes. The snowball cakes seep into the wet hard ground, and then they melt into the soft fluid forms of memories. And the ice man feels like he is baking and rising, even as he feels the fun dissolve into darkness, and as the icy water runs down his skin, the chef and his angels go back inside to warm and remember.

Kite Strung Like a Butterfly

There is a kite strung like a butterfly on a clipped tree branch. A single string holds it to the trunk and limbs. It dips and bobs like a ship, tied to a dock in a storm. It has a metal nose like a mosquito's stinger. Its wings show numbers and advertisements. Its colors are red, green, black, and white. The wind pulls the frail line, coaxing it to break away. I want the synthetic, tethered butterfly in the air, alone, spread out against a pale blue sky. I want to see its patterns, dancing with some paper clouds and a spectral moon at midday. My eye imagines it floating away from wooden fingers, no more grasping for the sky from tree branches. The butterfly pulls the string and wood away, into fresh imagined air. Its wing rise into currents, to circle the earth with beating wings, until it descends back to the ground, after the fall, and lands atop green grass, in the shadows of tall deadened trees.

Spider

She waits. The web is beautiful, sheer, wet with hot dew. Its threads are anchored in cold corners. She doesn't wish to see the corpses. A grasshopper, once, she sucked his blood dry, and licked his body into liquid. Until he ate his arms and legs off, for his shell to fall. She likes bloated bugs, puffed out moths and loud, buzzing flies. She eats them as they emerge from garbage dumps and sinkholes. She spins them with threads as they squirm. She likes when they begin to smell and squeak. And she knows when they twist the tales of web entrapment into epic tales of amore enchantment. She eats them anyway and smiles from shadowed corners. Her limbs look so nice, on naked walls or in nylon webs. They dazzle the head, engorge the body, envelop the soul, until the drained bugs slowly turn dusty and dry, and the spider heads back up to her high perch, her home, to hunt.

Washing the Curtains

The curtains need to be washed. I remove the rod from the bracket, and unscrew the knobs from the ends. The metal pole is gold and hollow. It sags in mid-air, before the closed windows. The fabric is dusty, torn and tattered. Claw marks, as from a cub's paw, create peep holes. I see the white paint, bubbling and flaking across the windowsill, like peeled skin. I see the broken glass, crisscrossing along my windowpane, like slashed eyes. The rocks in the garden are cold and dry. The leaves get caught in the stone crevices, and wave like hair tossed in the wind. I wash the curtains with soap in my hands. Dirt and hair collect in wet drains. My hands run the curtains, slowly, back over connecting metal rods. The fabric dries in cold, winter air. I step back, and away, and can't see through the holes, anymore.

Virtual Deer Hunter

The man on the train beside me is a virtual deer hunter. He turns his phone, lines up the buck and fires. The bullet moves in slow motion towards the target. The blood sprays; the animal collapses in a death spasm. The man moves to another target. He chooses a deadlier assault rifle for the next hunt. He shoots his cannon at bears, wolves, elk and moose. The results are always the same. He takes phony contracts for quick kills. Piles of carcasses amass on his smartphone screen. His score goes up, death by death, digit by digit. More kills, more virtual animals, more virtual bodies. His screen has me thinking of death and distraction. I recall a childhood moment as we move. I am in the woods of Pennsylvania. I have a rifle in my hands. I walk softly through the brush. And a doe peers through the trees at me. Her eyes dark and glassy. Her mouth chewing food. We stare for an eternity before I take aim at the sky. I shoot one bullet into the air. The doe careens off into the forest. And I go home a happy virtual hunter. Without a single kill to my name.

In the Wake of the Train, Colors like Speckled Bands

In the wake of the train, the colors appear like speckled bands. They gleam like patio lights, strung from awning to fence to table set. Lined across the blackened tunnel, I see sets of green and red, like Christmas. I see blue bulbs, like waiting eyes. I see red circles, like stop signs. Then, I see the white eyes of you, behind. You follow in the dark, along the rails. You do not stretch from side to side. You come dead ahead and cut the colors cold with your white hot stare.

Sunday Night Dropoff

I drive to the usual dropoff spot on Sunday. The children laugh, discussing the day behind us. I turn the car down a side street to hear them giggle, just a little bit more, to ease the depart ahead. Often, I dream of driving past the appointed spot. Just driving south, away, to the highway. I see dark water fishing, underneath the lights of a drawbridge. I see jet travel rising, above the lights of a runaway. I see a family in a warm house to the north, sitting before the light of a fireplace hearth. But, tonight, I am in a car for dropoff. I turn into the lot, pick a spot, and wait. The familiar fast food grease turns my stomach. The reappearing oil slicks blacken my feet. The incessant buzzing spotlight makes me feel like a creature on a wheel, in a cage, with absolutely no escape. We hug. They leave. I go. And my car and I drive back from where we came, in the dark, on the road, and utterly all alone.

Wake

Ivy and shrubs grow below the oaken funeral home doors. A gold knocker and knob waits for tapping and turning. Crimson carpets trimmed with gold leaflets, flow through flowered-scented rooms. The shoes keep treading across worn floors. A clock keep ticking and chiming in the corner. Coffins are life buoys, for some wake-goers. They anchor the arc of procession. They come in all makes and models. I remember oak, pine, cherry and ash. Titanium keeps out more moisture below the dirt. As I walk by a body, though, I remember too much. I move away from lines, cards, and mechanical head nods. They all fade into custom and ritual and rite. My mind is left with the dead. My thoughts go below ground to the grave. My eyes raise up to memories, of good and bad times, far away from funeral homes, when friendly faces said hello, and walked down long corridor hallways, and into offices, for eternity.

Wingtips

My wingtips slip across the sidewalk. I scuff the bottoms on cement. My feet scrape curbs, like a penned bull. I belong in hiking boots and sandals, not penny loafers. My toes and heels detest patterned dress shoes. I remember wearing my cleats and wrestling boots. My closet still has my trainers and construction boots. I wish to wear something else, right now. My soles crackle underfoot. The grains of the street sound my coming. The grit of the asphalt echoes in my ears My wingtips click like nine inch heels. I slip and scuff and wish to walk in different shoes. I lower my head and ignore my noise. My wingtips must be worn to the ground.

Bottled Day

I walk a circled path under the trees. A light breeze touches my forearms and face. It is October, and an autumn sun warms my skin. People circle with me, soaking in fall sun skies. Green leaves rustle on their living branches. Only a few have started to tumble down, to the ground. It is warm, and colder, breezier days will follow. These are the days to bottle before long. Today is one to capture for winter winds. To hold it close to mind, as snow and ice form. Frosts are not so distant from us now. We await the yearly coming of the cold. But today, the fall looks back to summer, and prepares us for departing leaves, with a memory of a perfect bottled day, to keep us circling along the path.

Water on Red Metal Beams

Amid the rubble, there is a red metal crossbeam. Iron workingmen placed it there, years ago. We, we never noted its placement, until it all fell. This ordinary line crossed a building space, an open sky. The architect made the blueprint for placement. The foreman instructed the men for execution. The workers secured its rightful permanent place. The people took their lives underneath it. Somewhere between beers and cigarettes, And discussions of dates and deadlines, this cross held its daily office workers. Generations of men and women, up and down the lines. They took for granted the beams underfoot. They came and went, unaware of red metal beams, like this. A simple column, perhaps, meant to hold things up. A sturdy pillar, perhaps, meant to distribute even weight. and then, it didn't hold the sky underfoot. They fell, together, in a storm of heat, fire, and water. That beam was found amid a pile of unimaginable pain. Tonight, on tv, it is a relic. A dead treasure in a glass museum. It is cut metal, a certain symbol for a time of chaos. A friar douses it with water. We try to make the pain holy. And yet the red rust of the beams wear on me like dried sacrificial blood. That water doesn't sanctify the cold metal. The memory of this crossbeam, drips like a leak into my hot soul. Watermarks on iron; they come and go into rubble. It is the memory of red rust, repairing what's been built, and lost, that resonates, as I think of water, fire, and metal. I imagine tears of wives, husbands, sons, daughters, friends and children. Slow trickles accumulate over the red crossbeams. They drip and drown the relics and rubble, annually. They renew the blood of the builders and workers. They regenerate all that gets forgotten when we build, and fall, into memory.

Watching the Road

I watch the road from the top of the lawn. It is a slight slope, but a lot to keep. The blades play tricks with my eyes. And the mower never cuts the lines evenly. The road's dividing is split yellow before me. It's a passing lane. Cars going north or south. I watch them as they pass. I sit and eye them in my swinging chair. Or stare as I cut my grass in my riding seat. They are all in such a hurry. They speed by in seconds, going somewhere. Some carry surfboards on top to moving shores. Others carry ski blades and poles to plunging summits. Some are solo drivers. I wonder what music they play. Some are family units. I wonder what movies they watch. They all go by my house. I watch them from my lawn. They do not see me beyond the burnt telephone pole. They do not know how I think of them, on their journeys, north or south, alone or together. They never know I wonder about them, long after they pass. Their tires blend with the sound of insect chirps, until they grow distant down the road, and the rolling tires fade back into a blissful solemn hiss, of cutting engines and singing bugs, all around me.

Tufts of Grass

Tufts of grass on front lawns. Sweep of waves have come and gone. The dirt is unsettled. The sale signs swing. Pods find room in driveways. Bulldozers clear plots for living. The chains swing by the shore. The sea pounds the beach, unaware. Water comes and comes onto sand. Water waits for occupation.

Frozen Weekend

Frozen weekend. We shared wine, cheese and grapes. Children running. Stars shooting. Music meaning. Film rolling. We listened and feasted to a West Side Story, all was our cutting and securing and packaging. I watched your hand slice on my butcher block. You left it all in a wrapped container in a refrigerator. It was sealed with cellophane. The fruits are spotted and rotting. The cheese is hard and molding. The wine has been capped with metal foil.

Two Swans

Two swans in a marsh
White feathers in cold water
They circle to shore

Cherry Blossom Bird

Cherry blossom bird

Wings stretch out to me and leap

Fly from branch to sky

Yellow Oar

The padlock is clipped. The gate is swung open.
Gravel recast on the salt marsh path.
Trees removed and snow falls in the sea.
Along the edge of water and ground, stuck in mud,
a yellow object juts out from the cordgrass and common reeds.
My boots plod through trackless ground.
A yellow plastic paddle, cast on shore by a storm.
I take you with me. You mean much to me immediately.
Your story surrounds you in the sand.
First, you are a weapon for beating, a cane to aid my
restless walking in the cold wind of a barren landscape.
You swing at my side. I wield you like a sword to be stuck
inside me. You become a crutch for a feeble set of wandering feet.
But, you are no weapon the further I walk.
You cannot hurt me or pierce me.
You are what you are.
I do not need you to help me forward.
You are a yellow oar to be dipped in cold hard water.
You take my boat from shore to shore.
You task me on my journey.
Your image I share with others, we canoe the cold waters of the channel
in winter. Our ship is docked on rocky ground right now.
I await a launch from long remembered walks around this lagoon,
walks where we shared the blazing glory of a yellow sun,
watched the image of the earth ablaze in fiery orange,
as the lights of the world set across the ocean of time.
The candle of day still has color in the sky.
The jets of night still carry travelers to distant places in cloudy airs.
The boat still floats along the tidal currents flowing in and out to sea.
My yellow oar, in my cold hand, seems alive and chipped and strong.
It shows the sign of high tides and rough seas.
It knows the pull of earth and tides and heavens.
Somehow it is here with me for eternity.
A symbol found on coastland, a plastic castaway in a cove.
I carry it home with me, cupping the object in my hand,
like holding a child's hand as you cross distant foreign lands.
The yellow oar paddles away from broken shells, muddy waters,
shore rocks, and tall seagrasses.
It still has the power to steer a course out into darkened waters,
where lights dim, and yet the sun flickers cast signs to shore,
and the glow provides calm for the restlessness of my path.
I hold the yellow oar in my palms to prevent the setting of the sea.

Scratch

The claw rips the skin asleep.
Sound pulls the ear to pain.
A paw rushes away into darkness.
The creature can't be found.
Blood rushes to air and pools.
It flows and drips.
Soft paper dabs the wound.
Red drops fall on white sheets.
Water pours on open flesh.
Pain rises into blinking eyes.
It scurries down cheeks,
a slow stream of flowing salt.
It scampers down to trembling chins,
and steps down upon strained necks,
into tight chests and upset stomachs.
It settles in bones buckling underneath,
and rides around in nerve ending extremities.
Potions clean with bubbling heat.
Scars form outside after time.
The tracks we wear heal, outside.
Inside, they wait for a hand to peel
their skin shell back and feel the pain, again.
Until the scratch becomes a sad, sob story,
in the wandering hurt mind and hardens, like a stone.  

Life Preserver

A man falls overboard into cold, choppy water.
The wake of the boat is steady and straight.
The waves lap over his bobbing head.
He treads water and strains for safety.
He motions to a deck passenger and yells "Lifesaver."
The man tips his cat. He acknowledges the message.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cylinder package.
His ruddy fingers unwrap the paper and foil. 
The candy has a hole in it. It is winter mint.
The passenger smiles and tosses a drowning man a lifesaver.
In the water, the man must now swim or sink alone.
The mint sinks with a flutter to the bottom and is lost.
The deck passenger walks along back to his state room.
He shrugs his shoulder at the drowning of a castaway mint. 
He has tea and television to content his passage.
The swimmer drinks the salty sea as justice.
He knows the meaning of the passenger's jest.
One must protect the power and play of words.
Carefully selected. They toss lifelines from ships.
Loosely grasped. They sink and dissolve into darkness untouched, untasted, undigested.
The man overboard swims to shore and remembers his sea mint.
He must voice his life preserver with care, from the soundness of shore.