autumns
again our ships return
can we embrace
what they may bring
another season, days,
or just moments
Aunt Enid
Aunt Enid’s phone calls
winter, spring, summer and fall
her birthday greetings
In-between
More than they were once
They are not the same
Beginnings from yesterday’s
moments, near as this next one
And us, royal inspiration,
purple clover upon the
fallow impermanences
of overgrazed fields
The only lasting moment
initiates the creative
within the next
And us, avatars of access,
mascots of divine continuity
within the from and to
between moments.
Jerusalem
Your time
Stands still
As motionless
Butterflies caught
In your ancient stillness
Decorate the backdrop of ages
Drawn by your ageless inner light
Held fast there by the force of your being.
How many have died to name you with their belief?
How many sacrifices does your jealousy demand of us?
Our frozen fluttering is a testament to the terror of your power.
Indifferent you allow us to expend ourselves in our passion
For the unfathomable depth of beauty that shines
Whether celebrated in the unity of love
Or ground to dust by a steel-shod heel.
Fluttering to you
I find no fault
Only the paradox
Of white stones flecked with red
That might be iron
Or might be blood.
-- Tom Rubenoff
Sunflowers
No one has to teach a field
of sunflowers how to worship.
Before dawn in high summer
their necks are bent
in silent prayer like monks.
But as the sun comes up
sunflowers rise as well.
At noon they adore the sun
the way monks in pews
adore the Host at elevation.
Listen and you may hear
sunflowers sing Alleluia!
Petals Drift
Last week Opal learned
she has cancer
might live six months
even though she's busy
quilting with other
widows at church
gardening every day
pleased with her roses.
"I'm 80, Betty,
That's old enough"
Opal tells her neighbor
over the fence
as she walks
in her garden
waters some roses
not as warm now
autumn is here
petals drift
in the breeze,
an early snow.
No Paper This Morning
Most days the newspaper hits
the lawn by four in the morning
but it's six already and I don't see it.
I'll have to pull on my pants
and go out to see if it's hiding
in my wife's flowers and bushes.
She keeps adding more plants
to the jungle she's created out there
with parrots and macaws on the way.
But instead of going out
I tell her it's a nice morning
and suggest she check on her roses.
In this heat, they may need water.
And while she's out there I suggest
she scan the garden for the paper
in case it's held hostage by the foliage.
After coffee she sails out the door
and returns with no paper but brings
an armful of roses, a bouquet
I welcome more than the poison ivy
I find every day in the paper.
The Ruby Throats
Hummingbirds dance
iridescence afire
around the red feeder
hung in the cedar
a symphonic swirl
ruby throats glistening
sipping sweet nectar
sipping until
it's time to jet back
to thimble nests.
The tiniest beaks
are open and waiting.
The Spider and the Spray Can Man
He's my buddy, this tiny spider
sitting in his web, not moving,
waiting for a fly that never comes.
The problem is, he spun his web
in a bathroom on the 30th floor
of an office building
where in 20 years I've never
seen a fly or other insect
never mind a spider.
The man from pest control
comes after hours
and sprays in silence.
We call him Spray Can Man,
He has "Butch" on his shirt
and creases in his pants
pressed by a wife who packs
hearty lunches, I suspect.
I've watched Spray Can Man
twenty years and never heard
him speak to anyone working
overtime in a little cubicle.
Years ago we'd say hello to him
just like Trash Can Man and Mop Lady.
I said "Merry Christmas" to him once
and Spray Can Man never looked up.
He kept looking down, like an anteater,
spraying one baseboard after another.
When it comes to insects,
Spray Can Man is a serial killer.
Yet the spider in the bathroom
has escaped his gaze and lives on
despite the lack of any flies to eat.
The spider doesn't know death's
his destination even though
I know some day soon
his life will be swept away,
perhaps by execution if
one of my fellow workers
sees him waiting for a fly
or if Spray Can Man spots him.
This spider will discover
life is just a belch in time
as I'll find out too some day.
If I'm wrong about what's to come,
I'll have missed a lot of fun.
Carousel of Marriage
Harry and Grace had a carousel
of marriage while it lasted.
There were arguments galore
and children by the score
or so the neighbors thought
as they counted kids
running across their lawns
causing divots to fly and
dogs to bark, a canine
tabernacle choir.
Fireworks on the Fourth
were peaceful in comparison.
The kids would light their
crackers in the yard while
Harry and Grace sat
and swirled vodka on ice
in plastic tumblers.
Harry and Grace had arguments
so loud the cops would come
but no one was ever arrested.
Grace would say Harry was wonderful
and Harry would say Grace was too.
But eventually Harry moved out
and Grace got a job doing hair.
Harry sent money for years
and the kids went to college.
Decades later a neighbor saw Harry
at the Mall and they had a nice chat.
Harry said he was happy his kids
got degrees and it was good Grace
had married the farrier and moved
to Wyoming where there were horses.
Not much work for a farrier in Brooklyn.
He had time to break up a marriage.
Weeds and Blooms
Alice, a mother and housewife,
watches her husband, the doctor,
out in the garden on weekends
weeding with a speed and ferocity
she can't muster, her energy spent
taking care of the kids.
They never discuss his work
at the clinic where he digs
bulbs out of wombs, snuffing
any chance for blooms.
Remembering His Third Wife
Never speak ill of the dead,
his father always said,
and his father was a pastor
who preached from the pulpit.
That's why whenever
he thinks of his third wife,
and he does almost daily,
he never says anything bad.
Instead, he sends himself an email
and records for history yet another
evil deed she managed to execute
during the years they had six kids.
Between kids she drove him nuts.
He never thought she'd die
and never hoped she would
because as he said in an email,
the Devil has his hands full.
Then he saw her death certificate
and, by golly, it was embossed
so it had to be good as gold.
Since he couldn't keep the original
he took it to the office
and made a giant photocopy.
Now he wants the right frame,
black as he claims her heart was.
So far he has sent himself 400 emails
about his bonfire life with her, a brief
prologue to the Hall of Fame injustices
he maintains he suffered simply
because so long ago he said "I do."
He isn't certain what she said.
Perhaps it was "You're through!"
Find Him
Millie on crutches
in the day room
tells Fred on
his walker
to find him.
It's important
says Millie
even if you're old
and can't walk.
Hire someone
to push your
wheelchair
toward him.
If you can't
get out of bed,
hire two people
to wheel
your gurney
toward him.
It's too late
if you hire
ten men to
carry your coffin
toward him.
Now is the time,
and for many
that's a problem.
They have
too little time
to find him.
Bubbles
Foam circles on the water
A dance of millions
Bubbles joined by surface tension
Jostling in a swirl and eddy
Expanding into glittering existence
Popping into nothingness
They seem to know not what they do
From our point of view
Picturesque
Reflections of trees and sky
Light-bending ripples
Scintillating sparkles
Please and calm the eye
As the rush of water soothes the ear
For them, shoved by irresistible forces
In unforeseen directions
Blinded by constant collisions
Deafened by the roar of existence
While life and death writhe and spit
Those nearby one moment
Gone the next
Wow
It must be hard
To be a bubble
-- Tom Rubenoff
Harley
Let’s face it he’s an aging Chocolate Lab,
Overweight, domesticated to the point
That he will rarely go out without me,
Even in the backyard, doesn’t chase cats
Anymore or rabbits or even the squirrels
On the deck, sees them and walks by,
Even when they‘re close and temptingly
Run off, slowly enough to catch, he goes
By them to his favorite spot or two and
Does his business, then he barks at the door
As if he has been a long term exile, left
To a cold cruel world; but on our walks,
The one we take every day at the same
Time, he returns, though briefly, to being
A dog, instinctual, primal even, his nose
To the ground he charges from spot to
Spot, pauses for long periods as if deciding
As if he recognizes something of importance
Then trots on, stops again; it’s on these
Walks when his species, his breed come
Through, he becomes a drug sniffing dog,
One of those state police dogs in search
Of a criminal or someone lost in the woods,
Or one of those dogs after the earthquake
Looking for the living and the dead;
On our walks he plays, for a short time,
All the roles we assign dogs, plays them
Convincingly, but he tires quickly now,
Wants the shortcut home, tugs that way,
Ready to get back home to the comforts:
A bowl of water, a few dog-treats and
The family room’s couch with its dreams
Of chasing cats and finally catching them.
-- J. K. Durick
Providence
He must get
to the ocean every summer
the primeval waves
recharging his batteries so he
can continue the civilized struggle
against bills and banks
blighted lawns and broken cars.
Last year he was so desperate
to get into the water
he found himself swimming alone
except for the seals and sharks
his family on the shore
angry and yelling, frightened as hell
but he figures when his time is up
his time is up.
Philosophy
When I was younger
I’d walk the train tracks beyond
where we lived pondering
the direction of my life
where have I been?
where am I going?
what am I doing or not doing?
what could I be doing better?
Even though I’m older now
and still have no answers
to these my life’s questions
I no longer tread the tracks
to ponder them
because those big trains appear silently
from around the bend awfully fast.
Laughter
My mother called today
wants to pay for her funeral
in advance “so you boys don’t have
to worry about it.”
But I’m not sure how
one does that, who do you pay
after all she may live
another 15 years so I say
just write me a check you can trust me
$20,000 ought to cover it.
Been a long time
since I’ve heard her laugh so hard.
Getting On
Not to have been before,
symptomatic of having crossed over.
Impartial? Callous?
Ah, so indifferent the calculus of time.
Young nothing could prepare one
but, now, no more come-hither days.
Instead, left-over shadowy shadows
as incognito as windowless facades.
Even the most distant of winds tends toward it.
Get Away
Get, get away from me
and though I piss, shit, spit
it will not leave.
Some days I cry, some days I don't.
Whose sugar daddy am I?
Crimson puff of hope
without bed or joy.
I will not delay;
yes, participate,
not secretively, not darkly;
indifferent to the credible.
What will destroy destroys
as TV's ministry upholds
that old-time gospel.