Mr. Beggar Man



You were a gentle soul,
with stained red plaid shirt, 
a hat speckled with bird poop,
in saggy-baggy pants that stopped
just above two heelless shoes that were
see-through to feet with no socks.


So many mornings
I walked by your corner,
putting money in your cup
if only to borrow a smile
when I had none left of my own.
I always knew the one you gave
would be the one that found 
those I had only misplaced for awhile.


Countless times we shared a lunch,
as you did with many others,
hot soup from the deli across the street
or half a tuna sandwich from home,
and you would share your wooden pallet
but not once a conversation,
and all the while, you never missed a beat
as you continued to pass out 
that glorious smile to everyone
who hurried by.


I wonder what happened in your life
to make you take up
residence on that corner,
only to die cold and alone,
the smiles you apportioned
your only living legacy.


You will be missed by many,
even the shopkeepers who
so often shooed you away.
I hope you knew
what you meant to me
... and I didn’t even know your name.

Full Circle



A little girl clops in mommy's heels, 
her dress, a floppy hat. 
The borrowed pearls she's chosen 
dangle halfway down her back. 


Her face a shining rainbow, 
ruby lips, cheeks tinted pink, 
blue splashes on both eyelids, 
powder snowflakes in the sink. 


She'll go twirling in a ballroom, 
a princess with her knight. 
Or better still, be mommy 
out with daddy Friday night. 


In a child's imagination 
everything is crystal clear, 
yet the truth beneath the surface 
is revealed in mommy's mirror. 


That little girl is all grown up, 
clothes and shoes are now my size ... 
but the mirror of maturation 
is in my own daughters' eyes.

Taps for a Soldier



A gentle breeze chatters the leaves 
as birds sing their greetings. 
The sun shines on a day like any other 
and yet like none before. 


Two mirrored rows of uniforms 
are lined like blue dominoes 
with white gloves holding rifles at the ready. 


One lone bugle cries out its sorrow. 
Only twenty-four notes, 
but each note, slow as a tear, 
blankets ears and heavy hearts. 


In the silence between, 
even nature holds its breath. 
Gone is the wind. 
Gone are the bird songs. 
Gone is the last hold on composure, 
all lost in the bugle's lament. 


Solemnly a soldier approaches 
and white gloves present a tri-fold flag
and in one final mournful note, 
legions of silent voices unite 
to call a comrade home 
and a young wife weeps.

Anatomy of a Woman Poet



Go in through the eyes of a poet 
deep into her alphabet mind. 
Ideas like flotsam and jetsam 
dodge poetry fragments and lines. 


Beware the dark shadows of memory, 
knife-sharp and bloodied by time, 
or gentle, orgasmic and sensual, 
swirling eddies, some without rhyme. 


Softly notice the spirit in hiding. 
Tiptoe past the bruised heart mending there, 
knitting poems, pearls strung on a necklace, 
unfinished jewels everywhere. 


Take note on your tour of this poet 
the outside no different you see, 
but inside, my God, a writing abyss, 
the poet, the woman, the me.

My Other World



In sleep, life’s constraints
are unbuttoned and unzipped, 
then cast off with the rest 
of the laundry in the hamper.


My fluffy pillow, a giant sponge,
to sop up any leftover worries
spilling out my ears from my mind.


In sleep, the good guys always finish first,
so it’s my number that wins the lottery.


In sleep, I can fly with dragons,
be invisible and cast magic spells.
I can take flying carpet rides
to almost anywhere, reading minds,
seeing through walls, and solving problems 
-- even my own.


In sleep, there are no wrinkles or gray hair, 
and varicose veins are merely beauty marks.
The mirror on my wall says 
I’m the fairest one of all 
because the genie in my pocket
grants my every wish.


My dream world is my haven.
There I can still believe
in fairy tales and guardian angels,
being in love with happy endings,
and only there,
can I still believe in you …

Stinkers and Gems



Sometimes I write a real stinker 
and sometimes I write a nice gem. 
More often than not, it’s a mixture of both 
that somehow escaped through my pen. 


I know what to do with the good ones 
and the stinkers will all crash and burn, 
but what to do with the ones that are both 
is something that I can’t discern. 


Right now they all go in drawers, 
male and female, they must multiply. 
When I open the drawers it seems there are more 
than I recall putting inside. 


I hope there’s a poetry storehouse. 
If there is, I must go today. 
I’ve run out of drawers and some smell pretty bad 
yet they’re too good to just throw away.

The Burning Letter



Wading through morning's harvest 
of the mail reaped the usual 
bills, flyers and junk ads. 


Then I spotted the familiar lazy scrawl 
on the table before me. 
After all these years ... 
a pearl among the cow pies. 


I marveled at how the letter felt, 
tucked into the pocket 
of my blue jeans,
first halved, then quartered, 
where misbehaving hands and mind 
breached ceremonial rules 
not to touch it, 
and not to want to open. 


I was unable to ignore it 
or throw it away and 
I'm not sure how long 
I walked around with it there. 
I do know it began to burn and blister 
and it scorched my self-control 


and it wasn’t until I saw the jeans 
in the washer, letter and all,
twisting and turning in soapy water 
that I was even aware of what I'd done
to find some peace at last.

No Tears For Me



No tears for this one,
not for me, that won’t do.
I don’t pity me,
so I’m asking, don’t you.


I’m content wearing my life
I’ve had a grand view.
I won’t waste my life
feeling sorry, feeling blue.


Each makes his own bed,
we’re just captains at sea
in our oceans of life
where you can’t help but see


that no matter how bad
things at times seem to be,
there are many worse off
than those such as me.


Love, hope and laughter
when scattered about
have a way of returning
to us, there’s no doubt.


So no tears for this one,
not for me, that won’t do.
I don’t pity me,
so I’m asking, don’t you.

Choices



Life is full of crossroads, 
those hard lefts or rights, 
and the little pathways 
of curves, leading this way or that. 


Each way has its own set 
of bumps and potholes 
and the occasional hairpin turn. 


I've wondered at times 
how my life might have differed 
had I taken a different route. 


Lord knows, 
I could have used 
a few more straight stretches, 
but at least I did make choices, 
some good, some not so good. 


How sad for those 
who merely hitchhike through life 
never daring to choose at all.

An Unwritten Poem



Sentiments trickle in bits and pieces 
to dangle like soap on a rope, 
hanging around, but just out of reach 
till the right words come 
to breathe them to life. 


Precise and unexpected, 
at times they fit, 
chosen as I might choose 
the flawless petals 
of a perfect rose, 


but words to be glued 
in that same perfection 
into absolutes, 
those hoped-to-be 
unblemished poems 
from a blemished heart and soul, 
a poet's bared humility 
for a reader’s pleasure.

Happily Ever After



Sometimes you have to use 
a little mental floss 
to clear out the cobwebs.


Don't grow up ... 
grow down a little. 
Life doesn't have to be so serious.


Take on a dare 
just for the fun of it.
Kick off your shoes
and run through that fountain
you saw in the park.


Watch the sun setting 
into the water 
from a wooden swing 
on an empty beach. 


Roll up your pants 
and skip barefoot 
through the waves
and gather sand dollars
in your shoes. 


Hear a child's prayers at bedtime 
... and really listen. 


Puddles are there
for splashing 
and mud is for making
mud pies. 


Life doesn't have to be so serious.
We all need to live 
happily ever after 
every now and then.

Barefoot



Barefoot and holding hands,
we walked the water’s edge.
I remember looking down
at our hands. I couldn’t tell
where your fingers stopped 
and my fingers began
and how good that felt.


Pants rolled up mid-calf,
we flirted with the waves
and then you wrote my name 
in the sand with your big toe
and we laughed until we cried.


We talked about you, and me, 
and whispered of the brand new us.
The colors of the sunset
had blended the blue-green
of the water right into the sky
by the time we packed up our things
and put on our sandy shoes
to leave, and I had never felt
such joy and sweet abandon.


Sometimes at night
when sleep is a stranger
and the covers are pulled up chin-tight,
I think of that day on the beach,
how we talked of you and me,
and the brand new us,
and the reckless abandon.
I can’t go barefoot now
without thinking about you.


We never talked about
the things that could get in the way
and how to push them aside.
We never gave a thought
to how it might someday end.

Missing You



I wish I could shut down 
the part of the brain 
that misses you ... 


just seal it off, lock it up, 
and throw away 
the darned key. 


Missing you is exasperating. 
It wastes my time, 
wears my heart out, 
and drains what's left 
of my energy 


... since I've already spent 
so much of it searching 
for the stupid key.

The Price of His Toys



The moments are rare, 
but when the mower is silent 
and the hammer and nails 
have joined the drill 
and other tools in the garage, 


my eyes can get hell bent 
on pursuading the rest of me 
they see not a man enjoying 
his golden years, but the child 
the man once was. 


It's a brief insight 
but when I'm allowed to see, 
it's a treasured glimpse 
into a life I wasn't privy to share. 


Today on the lawn 
I saw a young boy, 
a precocious lad of perhaps six, 
hair tousled, 
both barefoot and shirtless, 
tying rags to the tail of a kite 
and running with the wind, 
delight oozing from every pore.


Then just as quickly 
the vision was gone 
and I was left staring in awe 
at a gentle giant, 
comfortable in his own skin 
and merely flying a kite 
with our grandson. 


Once more I am reminded, 
there really is no difference 
between a man and a boy 
-- only the price of his toys.