the pink

the prettiest face

streak of grey on her forehead

distant threats of beauty

is the light coming up

so slowly, it aches to watch

the pink hold dullness at bay

to her breast, turns it tin-blue

over the buildings, the lone chimney

downtown welcomes

the perfect dawn

feed the world

like a facebook like

mists of time soar over a past

that is petulant, remains for a day

a particle of a moment among the kalpas of creation

we will never aspire to more

than our hearts can flutter

open the oven door

take out the warm loaves

feed the world as you know it

save crusts and hefty chunks of butter

for all you don't

justice

 justice is a tiny thing

a grain of sand, a simple heart
let the guy change lanes in front of you
he may be dealing with more weight of debt
than you could ever forget
help the crusty man carry a smile
the old woman with her bags of regret

kindness is a magic of brown leaves
falling from the sky
a warm hand, open and full
heals every single one of us

truth is asking how and why
justice, again, is a hut built
in the shelter of the now
we huddle, together
need to human need

the reason I do not dabble much in politics and protest

the world

will wander where it will

the continental plates beneath the plates

always pointing

to impossible, unexpected endings

wholeness, resolution

Einstein's #4

a muted voice -- Kate Bush who'd easily 

go Running Up that Hill

the frigid air from the cooling vent

the rotating cast of customers

buying bagel sandwiches

bagels with cream cheese schmear

a baker's dozen of assorted bagels

doggie bagel treats

at the Einstein Bagels

by the Heinen's store

by the Erie Island Cafe

by the snazzy Old River Shopping district

right on the border of stodgy Rocky River

and progressive, authentic Lakewood

I come here a couple of times a week

relax with food and coffee

read, write, and occasionally

catch a surprising songbite on the overhead speakers

Future Islands

Death Cab for Cutie

Modest Mouse

slightly askew of corporate fare

here are a group of people

I know but don't know

tasty brunch on a round, sliced roll

and music that sometimes

hedges on sublime

line 'em up

sometimes they align

in such a way

chaos theory proves itself

the beauty of clouds

streaks like steak filets

lined up on the grill

mountains of mist

piled up behind them

foreboding, like older brothers

protecting younger siblings

and somewhere in this region of sky

a rhombus of clear blue

cut out of the conventional

freedom, always a gift

hard-won, breath-taking

the goldfinch

 We get into some pretty deep conversations

My therapist and I

It’s not so much about

How I am doing, what happened in my childhood

In my week, but –

How can I be helpful in this insane world

What is this world

Who am I in relationship to it?

 

I am happy today, we seem to be getting to solutions

Ways I can improve my life, while I have not been trusting

That anything can improve

 

At a poignant moment in our discussion

A small bird flies up to the sill outside

I note a gold streak on its breast –

Not a sparrow, if sparrows could even fly to the 4^th floor

 

I call it to Marie’s attention

She looks, “by God, is that a goldfinch?”

It’s so tiny, so fast

It’s hard to get a scope on it

But it is a rare sighting

And the poor thing seems to be trying

To get inside the office, hovering for a half minute