The Role of a Writer



“The role of a writer
is not to say what we can all say,
but what we are unable to say.”
~Anais Nin




This is truly the mark of greatness.
But have all the noble poems
been written by classical masters
and the gifted poets of today?


Are there meaningful works
still left to pen,
not merely big words
from our swollen egos
spilling their contents
at the whim of a moment,
nor with the simplistic meanderings
of joy, or grief or love?


To answer my own question,
I say write on, dear poets.
Allow not your words
to decay unwritten
in the brilliant minds of today
where they’ll lie barren and unread
only to wither and crack and parch
as clay in the desert.
I do believe there are jewels left
to be written.


But if we must write,
it should be for the future,
for the common man
who will gain most from
these words he cannot write.
We have an obligation
to write in a way
that he may glean what he can
from writings of poetic merit,
not stumble through
obscure words which are,
to him, as bird droppings
on a splintered windowsill
left to die in obscurity
gathering nothing but dust.


If we must write,
let us write for those who are unable,
so the future might find our words
alive and fertile, their tilled soil
begun as thoughts and feelings
first seeded in keen minds,
then sown into black and white,
rich and green and lush,
to live on in future hearts and minds
even as we crumble, ashes to ashes,
and blow away, dust to dust.


May we always write
not to say what we can all say,
but what we are unable to say
-- not for the now, but for forever.

Homeless Man



Homeless man I watched as you 
lined a deserted doorway, 
your Maytag boxes 
cardboard monuments 
in Fed Ex labels 
and signs pointing 'This Side Up', 


stark reminders of what is, 
and what could be, 
but for the grace of God. 


I wondered if I wished hard enough, 
a Fed Ex truck might spirit you away 
on a magic carpet ride 
to where you wouldn't be invisible 
for those who take the time 
to look and really see, 


to where someone would offer 
you a job with no Catch 22, 
first telling you to shower 
and have clean clothes, 
and you with no money for either 
without a job. 


I wished. I prayed. 
But for the grace of God go I.

Half Past Five
(A Halloween Horror Poem)



There’s a sewer drain
on Peck's Corner in town
and at half past five,
the streetlamp flickers on
at dusk and near where
gentlemen routinely take a leak
after leaving the Raven Pub.


They’ve been doing it
for years and no one
bothers to notice.
Of course, the smell of pee
assaults the nostrils, 
which in turn, informs the brain, 
but only the vermin care
... and there were plenty
of them near the sewer drain
on Peck's Corner in town.


I saw the body there
at half past five on Monday. 
The clock in the tower
told me it was so
and when I called,
that’s what I told the authorities.


His head was in his lap,
the legs were askew 
and bent at impossible angles, 
the arms down 
with elbows facing out,
hands on top of the head,
the head that was in his lap
just above the flaming red hair,
and he was sitting in a pool 
of his own blood.


His mouth was frozen
in a scream no one will hear,
but the eyes, the eyes ...
I will never forget the eyes.
The vermin had eaten the eyes.
Will anyone ever know
the horror they saw 
just before half past five?

It's All in a Song



I can't remember 
the last time I heard that song, 
but I do remember 
I cried then, too. 


It's not a sad song 
but the tears fall just the same, 
as though yesterday was 
caught in my throat and 
today is the gum stuck to my shoe. 


I wanted to yell 
at the guy in the car 
to roll up his window 
and have a heart, 
because he was breaking mine. 


I only walk down this street
every now and again.
Please God, someone tell him, 
tomorrow would be 
a kinder day to drive along 
playing that song.

I Remember Mama



I remember Mama 
blowing chewing gum bubbles 
to entertain us while she ironed. 
I was too young for school, 
Sesame Street wasn’t invented yet, 
the rain was pouring outside 
and I was awed. 


I remember Mama 
sewing at her machine into the night 
when she had to get up early for work, 
patching my favorite pair of cutoffs 
'just one more time' 
or putting pockets on pants 
because my little brother adored them, 
and I still hear her words, 
‘There’s all kinds of ways to say 
I love you.’ 


I remember Mama 
teaching us that beauty on the inside 
was more important than on the outside. 
‘A kind word to a stranger 
might be the only kind word 
that person heard all day’ 
and how good it felt 
finding out she was right. 


I remember Mama 
telling us to hold onto our dreams. 
Make them happen and never say ‘I can’t’ 
and how funny I thought it 
when she said 
the world was our watermelon 
and all we had to do was 
grab it and take a bite. 


I remember Mama 
who taught us best by example 
with her unconditional love. 
Love isn’t love until it’s given away 
and it’s in the giving that we know 
it truly does come back ten-fold. 


I remember, Mama.

When I Finally Close My Eyes



When I close my eyes 
for the last time, 
I want to have lived, really lived. 


I want to know I've tasted 
the smorgasbord of life. 
I want to have relished the good 
and spat the bad back out, 
knowing at least I tried it. 


When I'm done here, 
I don't want to wonder 
if someone caught the kiss I threw, 
I'll know. 


I don't want to leave here
with my heart as empty 
as my pockets have been. 


I want to know, without a doubt, 
that I've left something of me behind, 
something that's good, not regret 
for never making a difference. 


When I close my eyes 
for the very last time, 
I would like someone to remember 
I was here.

Life Goes On



Memories are like 
a jack-in-the-box, 
they're bound to pop up 
when we least expect them, 


and when they do
sometimes we cry, 
sometimes we smile, 
sometimes we only sigh, 
but it’s okay. 


Memories seek their validation 
and we must give them that.


Only then can they 
diminish to a size 
where we can put them back,
close the lid with care, 
and go on with life.

A Box for Good Will



As a friend, I had come to help 
yet one more time 
and I watched as she set 
the cardboard box on the floor. 
It was labeled for Good Will, 
penned in large block letters. 


From deep in the closet, 
she brought out an old blue suit. 
It had faded over the years, 
but I saw in her eyes 
the memories still had not. 


Softly, she smoothed the sleeves 
that dangled flat and empty. 
Then she stroked the slack trousers 
on the smooth wooden hanger. 
Gently, she brushed 
the dust from the collar and lapel, 
and then I heard her sigh. 
Her resolve had melted away. 


Again we talked and remembered. 
We spoke of long ago, 
how the sleeves encircled her 
in warm secure hugs, 


and the trousers had covered 
lean muscular legs, 
legs slightly bowed, 
legs that loved to dance, 


and what she missed the most 
-the heart that beat below 
the lapel of the old blue suit, 
the heart that beat with love for her.


For over thirty years, 
the suit had stood sentinel, 
loyally guarding both her 
and those memories, 
and I watched as she carefully 
replaced the suit and closed 
the closet door. 


Through quiet tears 
she asked once more 
how all of that could ever fit 
in a box for Good Will.

Cold, Cold Heart



I offered my heart
in the palm of my hand,
a burning nova
to a private world
where love and forgiveness 
knew no bounds.
Tender and trusting,
it beat only for you
so long ago,


but hurt fans out 
like the surface ripples 
on a pond after a pebble falls,
each new hurt
spreading rings ever wider,


and with each new ring, 
more feelings fade
spreading wider, chilling deeper, 
till cold as ice, 
they become as stones
bouncing on a frozen pond,
their rhythm etched forever
in a cold, cold heart.

A Nickel for Thoughts of You



I wish I had a nickel 
for every time I think of you 


watching TV in your creaky chair, 
chin parked on your chest, 
"... not sleeping, just resting 
my eyes for a minute ..." 


or with your brows furrowed, 
chasing an errant whisker 
through the lather 
on the stranger in the mirror, 


or your gnarled hands working leather 
and the amazing precision 
of your intricate designs, 
considering the size of those hands, 


or you secretly watching me 
from across the room, 
-- and me secretly catching you 
secretly watching me, 


or your gentle touch 
when you pass my chair, 
just because you're glad I'm here. 


Love is measured 
in so many little minutes. 
It's important we not miss them,
who knows, 
life might be metered in hours. 


It isn't really about the nickels, 
-- but it would be fun 
to see the almighty pile of coins.

The Changeling



At dawn, I looked 
with my eyes wide open. 
The brown of your hair was 
snow-stormed to wintery gray, 


crowded out to God knows where 
to join a master work 
in perfect granite, 
your finite features 
raisined into roadways that buckled 
into nose and cheek and brow. 


Somehow spared by nature's cruelty 
were your steel blue eyes 
that walk my dreams 
and lips that taunt and tease. 


Where was I when all this happened? 
Here, a changeling, too, 
and robbed as well? 


Today, when morning kissed my eyelids, 
I felt blessed it reached across 
to touch yours, too.

Missing Him



Whisker droppings in the sink, 
moustache trimmed 'just so'. 
Water speckles on the mirror, 
always in a rush to go. 


Lazy bubbles on the shower door, 
toothpaste squeezed in the middle. 
Trash bags waiting by the door, 
clothes picked up, 'just a little'. 


Seat left up on the toilet 
like a dragon waiting to bite. 
Remembering is so bittersweet ... 
little flaws have become giant sighs.

No More Words, Show Me



Words slowly chip away 
at the good that was 
till they deaden a giving heart. 


Plates piled high 
with hurtful names, 
or full of blame, 
pointing angry fingers 
with words. 


(Clean up your plate, 
must eat up the reasons, 
all the reasons 
why I have to change, 
never you). 


Finish lines moved 
with more words. 
I love you's thrown like confetti 
as if your 'because' was real. 


No more words. 
If you love me, 
show me.

Secret Room



A little room within my heart 
has a door that wears a star 
with a weathered name emblazoned there. 
This is where you are. 


It's not a large room, tucked away, 
but where my soul can see 
just where it is in case I need 
a precious memory. 


The door is safely closed now 
for a time that's yet to come, 
but when and if it does, 
the door will melt away, my love.

The Return



The weathered building still stood, 
its lemon-yellow facade 
now only a faded patchwork 
of condemned signs 
and boarded up windows. 


It was the first time 
I had ventured back there 
since losing you. 
Steeling my heart 
with a deep breath, 
I opened the door
and walked inside. 


The rickity stairs were higher 
than I remembered 
and now, years later, 
the trip up 
was almost as difficult 
as the trip back in time. 


In broken ruins thick with dust, 
thicker still with memories, 
past and present collide 
and pain and sorrow
fade in tears of liberation. 


It was right to return. 
Some days are diamonds, 
some days are dust, 
and some days 
can never be 
anything but both.