no one better

no one here better

than a stand of grass

not one iota of seniority

over the dusk that shifts

its collusion with blue, yet darker 

to bleed of brown

and ecstatic hunger of smoky black

stars tell us there is never

reason for pride

we will revolve and solve

the mystery that begat us

the desire that ran us

off the roadways of grace

and we leave our children to the wolves

who teach them mercy, strength when needed

and the truth concedes its smallness

to cast shame on us, restore us to wholeness

survivor's guilt

lines on the street

survivor's guilt

I can drive my Honda

the old guy from my building

with the heart condition

waits on the bus, bundled

in late winter freeze

*yes, I give him a ride if we are headed in the same direction

dreaming windmills

dreaming windmills

seeing one, standing short-stacked

against the pink apartment building

loving what I dream

living disbelief

looking once again

a tree branch, broke apart

hanging across the trunk

bare arms of winter tree

bare arms of winter tree

ebony harmony

swaying beautiful because

it has survived

and spring shows its nose

turning that corner

in crocus pocus

in buds of rose

farther and farther

farther and farther

away from your goal

Paul Simon sang

he was slip-slidin' away

I thought he was crazy

or a pessimist, still

after all these years

there's no conquering that hill

warplanes, cafe jazz

the warplanes are not blotting out

the cafe jazz, here at Blackbird

I'm certain, where the buildings crumble

there is no music but jets above

bombs below, and roadside explosions

I am fortunate, as so many find themselves

even the tiny sufferings and shame

that mark my charmed existence

are small enough to be immeasurable

in the jetsam and sputum of history coughing

washed down the gullet of time

inconsequence and grace

make me more fat and comfortable

than I have right to be

to be honored

any spectacle

worth honoring...

      not the tacky red gaud

      of TV reality

      not your derisive laughter

      nor your feeling superior

      in how you live --

      punching into the world,

      knifing the air in front of you

      with a clean nose

...but a window

onto a slice of life

so sweet and charming

so full of baby's s laughter

and old man's wispy beard

the hand that rocks the soul

has held the infant Jesus

while Mary relieved  herself

in the brambles

that hand reached in

and pulled twenty men

out of a collapsing coal mine

everyone deserves transformation

but not all should be inducted

in your heart, holy of holies