Thumbs Up

Angels hitchhike

on the truck side of lonely.

Lovely weeds bend in the flying dust

of wheels stopping to start again.

The driver might chatter football,

the radio Gospel, or tripe.

This part of the Damascus road

is between homes, jobs, baths.

The Son of Man

has no where the lay His head.

Transients, the easy victims

of innocence and dumpster diseases.

The next Samaritan binds

the next wounds.

Our daily bread buttered,

one side at a time.

Milk Case

A Saturday sun wastes hours on
on car hoods and roofs.Thistles
finger up the wire fence,
Ginsberg's sunflower long harvested
for a milk case vase. Dogs
and cardboard circle the alley, house
numbers a cramped checklist
of sideways bicycles and smokers
drifting from the tilted mailbox
to the porch divan.

Repainted recycling sign, open
and old as Jesus when He went,
gives preference to metal;
artists welcome.  Hub caps and hip cats
still cranking lawn sculptures
to connect the wealthier
to hand me down living, the free box not
being without cost.

When the tumble comes,
and all is inverted,
the wall of old Maytags
and Wurlitzers in the barn
will speak of the trouble we took
to separate colors and dance
to age appropriate genres,
everything in common
held at arm's length, lest, like crickets, we
rub elbows the wrong way
at temperature's change.

The Sept. Set

September;
slow house flies getting dumber,
window box peas just a brown
string strung along an open door with no screen.

Beyond the fence
a foghorn taunts the end
of summer, last squeals before school
trill the beach.

Our bluff curls the blue bay, harbor town houses
honeycomb the cliff, the slightly northern sunset
a gem for their windows, the reflection,
an odd gold for the just passing by.

Tourists and townies,
gulls and cormorants,
at night buoys, boats, and God
the only ones catching the breaking
waves.

What you find in the sand
comes home in pant cuffs,
what you leave on the beach,
makes for loon tunes.

No Joke

You know that time of morning
when the fog begins to lift,
you see your breath trail streaming
and you know that it's a gift.

Once constant pains and worries
are loose paddles in the drift,
early birds and nightingales
toss Charlie Parker riffs.

When we hear of someone's passing
into the great beyond
and we wish that we could tell them
that their live will carry on.

Our heartbeat  keeps repeating
not believing they are gone
a signal uncompleted
unsure notes to start a song.

Maya

God opened the morning

on tiptoe,

pinning laundry to an aluminum web,

spinning the wind into strings of breeze,

as a hanging apron

with a boutonniere rose,

awaits the shift change.

There are special clocks for this,

when a tight wound spring breaks free,

the lost moments gathered back

by a second chance hand,

time treasured by the grand

child's crayon circle

come full.

What can be read,

into a situation,

had to be there in blue, or purple,

before black and white

patterned the dance partner's feet across

a tiled floor.

When the poet stops selecting commas,

to indicate a pause for breath,

then the last line becomes

unending;

each of us,

taking a turn.

Dudgeon

The dove skull our cat

left on the lawn

crackled under my morning slipper,

not so much tribute

as startle to the weight

of lifeless bird breasts.

I bagged the carcass

with the morning pet scat

and returned to make coffee,

"Did you wash your hands?"

Surgeons, too, must slice their days

like this: so much for art, commerce,

maybe comedy, conundrum,

or commonplace communion.

The convenience of lightning

striking us down to prayer

not as reliable as a tame tabby

baring fangs and claw.

The Keys

My attention span
is five fingers long.

I can hardly riff beyond a seventh chord.

Arpeggios start on the odd thumb
and end where my hand lifts
to fall.

I tease the middle black buttons
like roley poley bugs, aiming for the edge
of the garden, and pounce, lion loud,
on the family of flattened thirds.

My parents sold the upright,
augmented with the bicycle chains, knowing
it would come to this anyway;

dancing in one pant leg before church,
trying to make the change fit
the times. 

Order Up

Cut bread straight,
my morning art,
jelly boy
gracing the plate
with melting butter.

Apart from the Vine
we can do nothing.
This thing,
this petite dejeuner
this host,
of toast, I do in hope
of the beginning times.

Blueberries with us still,
each dawn surprise.

Open Season

That wood splitting thud,
November bright, a dove weighs
on the crossroad wire, all saints
enjoy coffee in bed, some alone,
some not.

The calendar blank as a cat.
Trash haul racket another reason
to close curtains, the news today--
a cake from scratch, and a candle
posing for pictures.

Marigolds ring the fence in morning bell balls,
the dog, finally out, sniffs pumpkins
still whole on the porch. Your birthday
makes the year come true; a gift,
a wish, the sky an open singing card,
signed by God.

Cavity

The exposed root of tooth, yanked,

now dried of blood, upturned

as a desk ornament, is part palm

raised in blessing,

part antler of a disappearing buck.

My carbon kiss print,

washed by waves,

made small by dental surgery,

sticks to my lips, a remembered smile

of your voice on the phone.

I hope whoever pries

finds my checkbook balanced,

my baseballs dusted on their wine

bottle perch and my coffee cup

saving a swallow for your return.

My scripture today reads, "As a deer

pants for water..."  so might it be

a geography of brothers holding flutes

at opposite sunsets, the beach

taking the prow of a canoe,

right on the chin.

Read It and Weave

If the sun on my back
had fingernails,
if the wind whistled in the Dorian mode,
if the kindness of paper to my pen
could sing, then
my good foot would climb goat sure
the rock wall and my garden ticket, creased
and thumbed, allow the guards
to open the gates
of Pelican Bay State Prison.

But the hunger strike, these fifty days,
avoids light, masks the iron shadow
and confines all to a windowless
warp of the soul.

"No one lights a lamp
and sets it under a basket...'
but if you lift even a lip of the woven stories
there is light enough,
to read.

Getting Directions

A string of naked ladies,
the pink flower,
face away the ridge road.

Orange sunset spent
on the odd nude
stalks.

The ocean, not a mile away,
but the hill parched
for August.

Our blanket catches shooting stars,
nameless steaks
scorch the night.

Their Father, our Father, knows them,
but for us it's just point at heaven
and awe.

Grocery Beads

I hobble sane as the whiskey
crowd, same grey sweatshirt, same
ankle, steady as a bent spoke
on a balloon tired Schwinn.

The maritime fog factors
in and out of our bones.
What's common is hand rolled
and set in folding chairs.
If you manage a dog and a cane,
you manage well.
Solitude is less than
alone. 

I talk to a level head
in a grease cap, glossing over
the trailer park and untied slippers,
maybe there's a papa praying
behind the paper window
curtains, maybe not,
wives not always promised,
or kept.

A commerce
of counting bottle pennies
off a wizened and brittle palm
puts my hand in the stake
of inebriation, the grace of God
ought to do more than put
another pint on the tab.

Spell Checker

New rule.
You are what you hear;
bottle nosed whale slide blues,
mint and fern whipping the air,

to turn your head
the voice of the Shepherd
whistling through His teeth.

Facts and faith, a jumble
of Scrabble letters face down,
we need to spell ourselves.

It's possible to have the Christ
in ways unbelievable to believers,
but to believe He has us,
that's worth baking bread.

Frequent Flyer

When I say I use tools,

I mean toothpicks

and spoons,

a cashmere shoulder

is all I hold of Manhattan. 

Kicking from the deep end

I pool svelte talent

and

blink, when

eye contact

stabs the heart.

What if the lonely lied

and it's better this way;

whispering on a bus line,

watching napkins float on the river,

retrieving songs the park birds scatter?

Somewhere the Christ

is cornering the market

on cardboard mansions,

and I make my living

handing out flyers

for the tour.

Egg Hunt

Awake,
a grave refuses
permanence.

Wide eyed lily
witness,
scent
to a blind world.

Mothers tell us,
"Wipe the sleep from your eyes."
O, it's been wiped, mother,
it's been wiped.

Now the blood spilled
is the blood pumped
deep as a welling up
of forgiveness.

Spared despair, we crack eggs
in a bowl and wait,
as our not-a-ghost Guest takes
another minute
to wash the family's feet.

Good Enough

Hammer a nail
into your hand
at the table.

Bend a rose stem again
and again
around your head.

Taste a thirst for justice
racked
on vinegar and rot gut.

A Friday good enough
to crack our grave opinion,
blackens at noon.

"This is My Body
broken for you" without
breaking a promise or a bone.

From the hanging tree,
the never dead again Son said
"This is your mother," to every boy born.

and "This is your son,"
to every lady in waiting
on the Lamp at her feet.

Hammer time played on a clay
pot; mud, spit in our eye,
see our way clear.

Blood pulsed into a chalice
from a torn skin
good

to the last drop,
this Friday
we thank God.

Host Card

The Jesus of my Catholic youth

bid me come 

as a little child.

The finger pointing Sacred Heart

like a passing billboard

"You're Name Could Be Here."

I read brilliant smoking atheists

and wonder whose name they'll cough

up final in blood spit.

I read monks, who never knew stamps,

writing letters

of eternal consequence, by candle and quill.

I stick my knuckles out

for the nuns to rap, but only the Lord answers,

perfecting the Harlem shake.

Charity all

after cure and care

are settled alike.

Gaggle

Baying geese beat alarm clock
to spring ahead Monday.

Grey sleeves, sky and scarves,
the warmest ground turned by moles,
coffee bitter.

Found pennies say trust,
the lost hour of sleep jams a foot
in the office door.

Service, with a mile of beach
in the rear view mirror.

Always thus, this, or that
jumbling like laundry.

Elect, 
or neglect to shoulder
the road. Damascus waits
for lunch.

DH

When the war drove you home,
in a green Ford,
I jumped like a fawn.

Teenaged brother to a wounded vet
I didn't yet know bullet whistles, white phosphorous,
or any heroes in heroin terrors.

I learned lightning strikes orchards,
rain drains the living room,
and rolling thunder is what shut eyes see.

The family's Thanksgiving Day smile camouflaged
a poker face of one-eyed jack rabbits ducking fire.
You mentioned the Chaplain's collar cross gleaming

as you chucked fate into a fox hole,
I draw some shine from that, from that
and the sun, dripping tender.