MAN WITH IRON

Hot metal. Steam.

This is what it takes

 

to smooth out

the wrinkles.

 

I’m ironing again.

Something

 

I rarely do.

I am going to 

 

a recommitment

ceremony. Last time

 

I ironed I wore

a tuxedo for the wrong

 

reasons and under false

pretenses—with a hope

in my heart 

that did not pan out.

Because I iron

so infrequently

these two times

are bunched up

in my mind,

are coupled 

as one, that I wear

like an irreconcilable 

memory that bares 

a crease 

 

I can’t seem 

to rub out.

 

A sadness

that only time

       in time 

will make

wrinkle-free.

METHOD, MADNESS, OR MOTIVATION?

That is the question.

To suffer the slings and arrows

while thinking our aim is true  

is how we miss our mark.

Archery is an apt metaphor,

because arrows, when they strike

the wrong target,

sting, stick, or destroy

if we’re not careful.

Pretending we are not 

the object of our own affections

is where the insanity lies.

Are we acting or in denial? 

We might not know.

We might not see 

our method or motivation

as desire running the show, 

the drama, drawing 

the bow back, and not the archer 

or actor-playwright at work.

Questions are good, 

we should let them

guide our actions, 

be our stage directions.

The play is not the thing.

Life, reality, authenticity are.

THE SCAVENGERS

There’s a beast of a tree 

in my neighbor’s yard.

And from it falls

riches beyond belief:

avocados 

the size of baseballs.

I can’t dally though

if I want to be the first 

to lay my paws upon 

their buttery decadence.

I have to harvest them 

from my flowerbeds

before the dew dries

or else I will find 

they have already been 

poached by a stray, 

squirrel, or crow.

Life is like this tree:

it will drop in our laps

opportunities daily.

We best snatch them up,

scavenge them, before 

we miss our chance.

The moment is only 

ripe and unsullied

for so long.

MAKING WAVES

    after Joan Mitchell

It rises up

under a foreboding

menacing presence

that bears down 

like a dark cloud

gathers all its elements

into an arch and

with full force 

crests, ready to 

thrash and crash 

but instead brings 

itself to a halt.

Yes, why not simply 

step back from the 

the surge—the sadness, 

the anger, the loneliness, 

the shame—

 while it mounts inside

with the intent to strike 

and just watch it, become

a witness to 

the sweep and texture

the push and pigment

of its intricacy 

of its handiwork, so delicate

so well-meaning 

in its application

and accept the humanity 

in it, the art of the impulse

and pause and ponder  

at the desire to make 

and not make waves.

FLIGHT

Running along a path

all of a sudden

birds out of nowhere.

From oak and bramble

the dirt and gravel

along the pavement

eruptions of feathers

and flapping.

Every stride and step

creates a hatching 

spontaneous presences

a winged litany 

that quickly disappears, returns

to silence, absence again.

Nature's sleight of hand.

It has a name: flight.

BLACK AND WHITE

Crow 

is close.

Blizzard’s 

behind.

An image of 

black on white.

Ebony in flight.

Ivory drifts.

UTENSILS TOO BIG

Hell, it’s been said, 

is where we feed ourselves 

with utensils too big

and we starve

because no food gets in.

But what if hell was discovering

we were the implement

used to induce 

a perpetual state of 

starvation in another,

what would you do?

There you are

doing your darnedest

trying to feed and nourish 

someone you care about 

because you want them 

to let you in, to open up. 

But they can’t!

There you are an accomplice

to a feeding that devolves into failure.

How do you make sense of this—

that you are helping to fill a hollow

where a heart should be

but isn’t 

with just more hollow?

How do you digest this?