wood for the fire

The first year we loved-

we traded city lights for stars,

and even the tree’s stretched out

their branches to befriend us-

along those trails we stepped upon life anew.

Our cabin,

that one we bought out in the forest

(you remember, by the lake?)

the fireplace that sold it, rock laden chimney shooting

through the ceiling…

that baby grand you had restored

So I wouldn’t have to go without-

I’d spend most  every sunrise

chopping wood for the fire

so,

(hot chocolate shared on the rug)

 you could have your storybook nights

On those front porch mornings…

 crisp cold strumming the chimes

I‘d watch you glimmer

(fresh icicles in your eyes)

to the changes within the  maples, between the pines.

Your beauty; paramount

I was so grateful to call you mine.

five years now, I thumb my ring

Smile, and look to my right…

asleep across from my desk.

 my dream, my reality, that with which I have been blessed

that gratitude still holds its’ rhyme.

anchor n' flag

Quiet,

a military man.

a guardian to the sea.

an anchor n’ flag

tattoo under his jacket sleeve

you’d have never known,

he’d have never said

the lives he saved

or worse…

the ones he couldn’t

(memory: a helicopter pulling those faces away)

Whiskey and Water

 he’d have sat alone at the bar-

stoic; glazed into some place afar,

out off the coast of his old port town

where he’d settled himself down just to be closer to his old stomping grounds…

(a base not far off)

he would dream of the ocean,

wish to go back…

the days weren’t long behind

at twenty six there were still desk jobs to find

he fought the thought..

but hobbling up and along,

he murmured, looked down at his left leg

“You’re a seaman, but one sea leg is gone”

You’d have never known,

He’d have never said…

What happened the night he

lost his leg in one woman’s stead

more man than you

Hair a toe head tangle,

shoulders much too thin.

The other boys played football

I had a piano, paper, and a pen.

dressed all wrong,

too sensitive, effeminate

not at all masculine or strong.

I was a writer…

and I’d act as such with too much to prove

(intelligible, pretentious, ostentatious…fool)

and while the guys drank beer, and smoked the green

I’d steal their girls, and smash the scene

but eventually take the beating…

a year I hid alone

(cigarettes, and pills to make me sleep)

 Then growing up, I’d come to find

that my love for words, and rhyme

were thought by mankind

to be a total heterosexual crime.

So I tried. I tried

to suppress that natural love of mine

all the while reading the measures of man’s own mind…

according to a subjective view of what I saw right.

So I grew quite strong, and gained some size,

learned NFL stats, bought my old metal tank

drank my coffee black, and whiskey straight.

vowed no man would beat me

shot for shot, beer for beer, fist for fist.

and so it went on; this absurd list.

until a muse one day stirred the Cummings inside.

She was beautiful, fake, coy, and kind.

and when she left I was stuck,

still writing words I couldn’t help,

but wishing I could cease the whole sensitive senseless hell.

So yeah, I s’pose I am a poet at twenty two

but I’ll be damned if I’m not more man than you.

a pensive Atlantic

There’s coffee on the pot,
dear.
    an erratic rain
sifts salt shaker
from the sky
the water gathers on the leaves
intrepid,
it crashes melodic peaceful
to the seeds.
I’m reminded of you,
a mug to keep your hands warm
those days-
perched at our red 1950’s table
cardigan wrapped by the
rain race track window.
eyes; a pensive Atlantic.
staring across the
stream showered city

            I take a sip from my cup
            you bought me long ago
            along those Boston streets
            and smile.

 You were my moon, my reveries,
 and the moments in between
 I wish you well-

Rebirth in May

Rebirth in May-

were jeans out their original shade,

 washed out sleet gray

an Old Dublin tee, bleach stained

almost antique

pet peeve strings

hung off stretching sleeves.

-the windows down

brittle cold rushed between our lungs

along the emerald driven sea-

            We’d drive the highway

beneath the tall pines many times that spring

listening: Tom Petty, the Refugee-

Watching the forest’ pine needles

smear from the nest of my truck

(watercolors washed)

towering OVER us

it became easy to realize-

all Olympians must someday swallow pride.

and faltering below a vanilla bean sky

I understood my hands shall someday loose hold

of their grip on the bar, this life.

but on that day, in those times,

 we were eternal: my brother and I.

we were Greek Gods.

The room is empty

except for a few small boxes

and an old Les Paul’ wrapped in blankets.

        Middle of the room, sitting

on our designated computer chair

eyes sailing solemnly across the room-

It was this space I

had my first heart to heart with

true blue knockyouout anxiety.

It was this room I

first saw my brother, a masqueradesociopath

cry.

This room…

where I wasted so much time

keeping distant, recycling old films

thinking too much/not enough,

lighting too many cigarettes

(some days I thought I’d never be able to quit, thought I’d go out in a coughing fit)

never

reading enough words of the wise,

(figured I had it all figured out)

this room, this sea

was chambered stormfront to my hell…it was ‘home’.

Didn’t know that I’d get to a shore of peace

though tonight; eyes sailing soberly across the room

my ship has marked its’ course-

somewhere outside these clamored city walls.

I shall be released

(all in due time, all in due time)

but alas!

one last minute I must spend here

floating in repose

perched atop this boat, I’m pulling anchor; settingpacetorow

my eyes sail triumphant sorrow across the room-

we had our fun…

The sea is empty

except for a neon-light alarm clock

and a few small memories packed up in cardboard boxes.

Beautifully Fallible Fiction

You.

you are stubborn about the most trivial things

and

( which makes it worse)

 are seldom wrong.

You.

you shape the most curious

of faces when angry with me.

and scrunch your nose

completely out of attraction when confused.

You.        

you have cold hands

that freeze my cheeks

when you insist we share MY warmth.

You.

you kiss me unabashedly

when I least expect it

and smile too wide because

you

know your lips still make me nervous.

You.

you act unaware of how childish

the way you stare at me is.

(like a “check yes or no” note in elementary)

you breathe too loud-

it keeps me awake.

(I can’t help but be worried/your 10pm coffee)

You.

you almost always mess up the eggs

and burn the toast

(I wish you’d just let me cook)

But you…

you…

.glow.

when the sun first sneaks through our blinds

wrapped in white linen;

 you are daylight

(I still wake breathless to the sight)

There’s  this weightless charm about

the way you carry that

 anvil in your chest.

And I want always to protect it.

You are not merely beautiful

but rather flawlessly imperfect.

Now come to bed, for I love you, dear…