On the Occasion of an Anniversary

There are love songs,
And love poems,
Love letters,
And love notes.
I've written them all,
To you,
Many times,
Over the course of our shared life,
All the time,
For you.
There are times when,
Truly,
I feel speechless,
As one does,
In the face of awe-inspiring joy and love.
What more can I say? I think,
What more can I express?
But then you do or say something,
And it makes my heart skip a beat,
Or I feel my soul smile,
In a way it never has before,
But as always,
I know,
That it is because of you.
And here again,
I attempt to give words,
However meek and worthless they are,
To my love,
For you.

4-27-19

City of Trees

Every city has it's moment,
A time,
A season,
When everything seems perfect,
Even,
(I imagine),
DeLand,
Or Flint,
Or Plano,
Or Youngstown,
Or...
Phoenix.

Surely,
There are cities,
Far and wide,
All across this world of ours,
That are in perpetual blossom,
No matter the season.
In these realms,
There is a constant beauty,
An element of magic,
Like an intoxicating perfume,
Powerful enough,
And indeed capable,
Of inducing enchantment,
Upon both citizens and visitors alike,
All the year long.

Spring is one of those seasons,
Maybe the season,
Here,
In the City of Trees,
Sacramento.

It is not a romantic city.
It is,
Perhaps,
Mildly pedestrian,
A former star now eclipsed,
A backwater,
The butt of a joke.

But to see her like this,
When spring has painted her,
Vibrantly,
Exhuberantly,
And little flower petals flutter to earth,
Every minute,
As if a rainbow has shattered overhead,
And her trees,
Her glorious trees,
Of myriad shape and size,
Are reaching for the sky in verdant bliss,
Leaves near full,
Washed clean by recent rains,
It is to see her perfectly.

It could be,
That I,
A recent-ish arrival,
Am still enamored by her.
It is likely that,
In all fairness,
I suffer from a puppy-love sort of view,
Which allows me to ignore her faults,
And blemishes,
Shambling transients,
And unsavory corners.

Nevertheless,
It is spring,
And this city is a marvel.
She rests tenuously,
Yet languidly,
On the banks of,
Not one,
But two rivers,
Both of which could easily,
Quickly,
Inundate her leafy streets,
And ancient architecture.

Yet,
It is spring,
And it is,
Frankly,
Easy to be swayed by her charms.
For beneath these broad branches,
In the cool shade of her namesake trees,
It is so enticing to walk,
And gawk,
And wish that you could call her home.

And then how wonderful,
When you remember that you do.

4-26-19

Poor Man's First Class

"Would you like an upgrade?"

Not that it matters,
But what are we talking?
And how much will it be once I've paid?

I've been assigned a middle seat,
And I'm not exactly what you'd call,
The middle seat type,
So perhaps I'll give myself a treat.

The screen at check-in shows what's left.
The price is just about right,
And at twenty dollars,
It really doesn't feel like theft.

I'm looking for elbow room on the aisle,
I don't like feeling hemmed in,
And I don't want to pretend I'm a sardine,
Even if it's just for a while.

I see I'm in luck and I don't wait,
There's one in the middle of the plane,
And oh, wow! It's in an exit row!
That is great!

Once the doors have closed,
I feel like I've won the airline lottery,
Window unclaimed; my neighbor moves,
Now we both have room for our elbows.

"Upgrade? Gladly!" I say.
It may seem extravagant,
But I don't really care,
I could get used to flying this way!

4-23-19

If I Could

If I could...

I would walk down familiar,
Leafy streets,
In our old neighborhood,
Comfortable in the knowledge of place,
And time,
Like a king in his domain,
Even if I was a pauper king.
I would gladly hunt for scorpions,
Every night,
Because that's what you do,
In the desert,
When you've been stung,
And so has your daughter,
And you want to keep everyone safe,
Even though it freaks you out.
I would get the band back together,
Because music is part of my soul,
And we would rock!
I would drop in and see old friends,
At the drop of a hat,
On a whim,
Without warning.
I would stop in at my favorite bookstore,
You know the one,
The cool one,
With the wafting hippy smells,
And old used copies of Kerouac,
And random bric-a-brac,
And buy too many books.
I would go swimming,
Because when it's over 90 degrees,
It's swimming weather,
Though the pool may still be a bit cold.
I would grab a beer,
With friends,
In a familiar pub,
Even though it's long gone.
I would get the other band back together,
Because cover songs are fun,
Especially Timberlake.
Everyone loves Timberlake!
I would see family,
Staying late into the night around the fire,
And then do the same thing tomorrow,
Because we can.
I would meet my running buddies,
In the dark,
Way too early,
Because it helps get your ass in gear,
And it's more fun to complain with friends,
And complaining on a solo run is crazy.
I would drive past that hospital,
Trying not to look,
But looking,
Because,
It's where my dad breathed his last.
I would help my mom move boxes,
And watch a game at her house,
And tell her I'll see her next week,
And tell her it'll be OK,
Because I need to remind myself.
I would go into work early with burritos,
Or donuts,
Or just because,
So that I could chat with my teacher pals.

But I can't do those things,
Because they are in the past,
And the way is forward.
Perhaps,
My path,
If I'm lucky,
Will lead me back to days like that,
Though it will never be quite the same.

4-17-19

Packing For Arizona

If you're a city-slicker,
As am I,
Might as well,
If you're thinking straight,
Leave your good shoes at home.
Flip-flops are the only footwear you need.

While you're at it,
Skip the pants,
Unless,
And I don't mean to judge,
You're one of those,
Um,
Pants with flip-flops kind of guys,
Which I am not,
But it works for some folks.

You won't need a sweatshirt,
Or a jacket,
So do yourself a favor,
Skip it.

Shorts,
T-shirts,
And one,
Maybe one,
Button-up woven,
In case you're doing something fancy,
Though a sweet polo will do just fine.
And you'll need a swimsuit,
Of course.

These are the clothes you require,
Should you,
Like me,
Find yourself going to Phoenix,
After February,
But before December.

4-17-19

A Little Solitude Is Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

This house,
Quiet and vacant,
Abandoned.
Home alone,
I do busy work,
To avoid feeling lonely and bored.
I clean out the fridge,
Eat all the leftovers,
I feed the dogs and do the dishes.
I empty all the trashcans.
Gather loose laundry.
I watch the news without fear.
I have no need to worry that perhaps,
The broadcast,
May contain something ugly,
That the children will hear.
Overwhelming silence,
Except for the dogs,
Who trundle about,
Lost,
Searching for their small humans,
Unable to comprehend,
The idea of object permanence.
"They are gone for now,"
I tell them.
"They will be back."
But I get it.
Like the dogs,
I feel a little adrift,
Restless,
Forsaken,
In the absence of those I love most.

4-16-19

Morning

Morning.
To the West,
The horizon of hope,
Sun and blue sky,
Greet me like an excited puppy,
Giddy to run.

To the East,
It is stormy,
As you'd expect,
In the Home of the Wicked Witch.
There,
The sky is a lurking dragon,
Stone cold,
And horrendous.

Two faces of the same day.
One smiles,
One snarls.
Beneath this conflicted sky,
I start my day.

4-16-19

The Volcanologist

I used to get so angry,
Hulk angry,
Belligerent and uncontrollable,
Over all the things,
I felt powerless to address.

Which was everything.

It was easy to get riled up,
But you can only apologize,
Repeatedly and profusely,
Before the ones you love give up,
And turn away when nothing changes.

Because they will.

Anger burns,
Wastes energy,
Wastes time,
Destroys what matters most,
Leaving you spent,
Hollow,
And alone.

4-15-19

Poet, Justify Your Poverty!

"To thine own self be true."

Ill-advised,
Self-serving advice,
Which Polonius gave to Hamlet,
The Prince of Denmark,
Who promptly went mad!
But what of that?
Why not go mad,
When the world seeks to make you over,
And stuff you into a box?
(And it is into a box,
One way or another,
Where we all land in the end.)

We can't all burn out brightly,
In tragic magnificence,
Leaving glorious wreckage in our wake.
And we can't all be world changers,
Leaving behind a lasting impression,
An enduring impact,
An well-regarded legacy,
Commemorated by a nice plaque,
Or a larger-than-life statue,
And a short paragraph in a history book.

So what do we do with our time on Earth?
Grocery shopping?
Yardwork?
Career?
Laundry?
Taxes?

Perhaps,
Spending our days,
Obliviously tending our own little gardens,
Creating space,
Where,
With luck,
Our little flowers of creation can bloom,
Is the true goal of life.
Shutting our ears to dismissive,
Negative thoughts and criticisms.
To remind ourselves of our own vision,
Our own path.
For no one but ourselves knows the way,
Or the why,
Or the passion of our souls.
No one else can tell us how to live.
We all have our own choices to make,
While also remembering,
(And this is key),
To make those choices kindly.

Let the acquirers,
The obtainers and gainers,
The fame hounds,
Have their berth.
They will tell you,
Smugly,
To make more of your life,
As they stumble drunkenly,
Self-satisifed with power,
In comfort,
With hollow madness,
To the grave.
(Because,
Let us be frank,
That is the destiny for one and all.)

But what better endeavour than to make?
Not profits,
Or widgets,
Or ends
But anything that reflects the good,
The love,
The shared experience of this worldly,
And brief,
Lifetime.

We must occasionally ponder,
In my opinion,
The purpose of this life.
It must be different for each and all,
And yet,
In the end,
Not so different at all.
For we will,
One day,
Walk alone,
Naked,
Burdened by nothing but our souls,
Through the final portal.

What lies beyond?
That is a good question,
(Which Shakespeare explored already),
But the answer does not matter,
Not nearly as much,
As the answer to the first question,
What to do?

What to do?

I choose,
Perhaps misguidedly,
To spend my time filling up the world,
Not with monuments to myself,
But with goodness.

Should I not seek to follow my own path?
If not,
Then whose path should I follow?
Why stay in line?
Stack my meager share of gold,
To what end?

Just an end?

What you gain in this life,
It surely won't matter in the next,
If,
Indeed,
There may be a next.

Now is all we've got,
And it is worth more than gold.
Spend it wisely.
Share it kindly.
Plant good things.
Spread the seeds of your own joy.
That can't be wrong.

It takes courage then,
To stand and expose your heart,
Your soul,
Your very essence.
The world is full of unkind tongues,
Wagging,
Lashing at the puny,
The small and unafraid.
We are easy prey,
Lovely targets.

We'll all be judged,
On our faults and foibles,
Our mistakes and failures,
Our success,
Or lack thereof.
That is out of our control.
I would,
Given a choice,
Choose to be judged by my contributions,
No matter how insignificant,
To the beautification,
Of my small patch of the universe.

4-12-19

The Season of Procrastination

In springtime,
when the weather shows off,
(as if in competition to become,
the very definition of perfection),
and the sun is warm,
and so bright,
(just right),
it is hard to care,
one iota,
about the responsibilities,
and dull requirements of adulthood.

Come to think of it,
perhaps,
that is the purpose of spring.

4-9-19

Twenty-five Years

Out of nowhere,
A sudden supernova in the sky,
Spokesman for a generation,
Burdened with the weight of expectations,
Too young too die.

Another generation come and gone,
Never knowing what was missed,
Only echoes on a radio station,
Of an overnight sensation,
Reduced to a name on a list.

When the wave broke,
And the price was too high,
We ignored the desperation,
Thought it was a revelation,
Too young to die.

Cryptic to the end,
Damaged and bold,
Hellbent on damnation,
The voice of a generation,
That will never grow old.

4-5-19

Sancho's Pleas Ignored

"¡Buenas tardes, señor!
Your mount,
A noble steed,
Stands at the ready,"
I say to my master,
This legend,
The questionably sane,
Man of La Mancha.

"What's that you say, Panza?"
Master wheezes,
Tired,
Bleary-eyed,
Befuddled,
Closer to the crypt than the craddle.

"Your ride,"
I reply.

"But surely this is a mistake, Sancho,
For that is your donkey!
Where is my faithful Rocinante?
This is no noble steed."

"The perfect companion,"
I remind him,
"For this misguided quest."

"Misguided?"
Quixote sputters,
"¡No, no, no señor!
It is my honor,
My duty,
To vanquish these noisy giants!"

"Giants, my lord?"
I sigh sadly,
(For we have been down this path before.)
"I will remind you,"
I say,
Pointing toward the surrounding hills,
"Those are merely windmills."

Quixote squints,
For a moment he seems to see them,
Maybe,
As they are,
Just ordinary windmills.
But then he shakes his head
And he mounts the beast in a huff.

"Giants!"
He roars,
Stabbing the little donkey with his heels,
And the donkey prances away,
The old man teetering in the saddle,
Off on a fool's errand.

4-4-19

Memphis

A perfect vision,
A perfect dream,
From an imperfect man.
A legacy we tilt toward still,
Even as new bigotry sprouts,
Like ugly weeds,
In the fields cleared of past prejudices.
But we soldier on,
Because love and equality will prevail.
Because that dream,
Powerful as ever,
Still calls to us from the mountaintops.
Because a world that welcomes all,
In freedom,
And peaceful openness,
Is worth building.
We gather at the table of brotherhood,
Even as we bicker and complain.
We sit down together,
Even as old wounds won't heal.
We embrace old enemies as friends,
And we still have miles to go.
But that perfect dream reverberates still,
Through every valley,
Every town and city,
Every heart,
Slowly thawing the cold shoulders,
And melting away old dividing lines.
This vision continues to grow,
And inspire.
It can't be snuffed out by a bullet.
This vision,
This mission,
This perfection,
It's what we have been working toward,
As a species,
Since the dawn of time.
It is this: Together we are better.
We have miles to go,
But we're getting there.

4-4-19

Spider's Lament

Like Emily Dickinson,
I could not stop for Death,
Or,
I should say,
I wouldn't.
But,
As it turns out,
Death made all the arrangements,
And I had no choice in the matter.

It's my fault.
We are an oft misunderstood species,
Maligned,
Suffering from poor public relations,
Known to associate with all things creepy,
And macabre.
We are universally hated and feared!
I stupidly chose to ignore this truth.
We are,
It is well-known and documented,
Unwelcome,
Despite the fact that,
Spiders like me,
Eat pests that can actually kill humans!

(Did I happen to mention that mosquitoes,
And bees,
And wasps,
As well as OTHER humans,
Kill more humans every year,
Than my kind?)

Doesn't matter, though,
Does it?

It's all my fault.
I take full responsibility for my own,
Untimely,
And unnecessary end.

It's as simple as this:

I scuttled,
Looking for food,
Into a dark,
Inviting space,
Just doing what I do,
And then everything went bright white,
Brilliant.

I froze,
My multiple eyes,
Slowly adjusting to the sudden light.

That's when Death found me,
A repulsive object of human scorn,
And I was promptly smashed with a shoe.

And so,
I became Death's companion,
Since Death is unafraid of spiders.

(I am being told,
Too late,
That there is no love for my kind,
Ever,
In this place called a "restroom."
How was I,
A spider,
Supposed to know such things?)

I will do my best to warn the others,
But,
From this side of eternity,
I make no promises.

4-2-19