How to see clearly

Remove the lump from your
throat and put it in your pocket.
Keep it there. Walk a way. Wait.

Ignore the lonely moon for now.
The old man, too, and the spring rain
pasting the street with yellow leaves.
Remember: this is nothing new. Not
the cool air in your strong lungs. Not
the single bird watching from its high
wire. Now is not the time to stop. Not
for verbena, not for dear friends, not
even for the dead or newly dying.

Wait for a Tuesday - a Tuesday in mid-
July. Wait for a plain hour so hot that
it has stripped itself down to skin and
bone, down to planks of wood, down
to those unsurprising elements. 3:oo.

Step away from your life for a minute,
leave the building now and stand on the
street corner until the last young mother
pushes the last new baby out of sight.

Take the lump from your pocket and
watch as it crumbles in your hand.
Left with the fine dry dust, be happy.
When the wind picks up, uncurl
your fingers and let the grit swirl
around you. Open your eyes wide.
Keep them open and walk in the storm.

verbs, transitive

I do not know if I
am coming or going.
There is a wheezing
woman between the
snoozing man and me,
interrupting my reading ,
her yapping dog, escap-
ing, scampering down
the narrow aisle to the
delight of the squealing
child kicking the seat
of the disapproving,
expiring man gazing
at the covering clouds
layering the horizon,
obscuring New York,
its buildings grasping,
reaching. The dying
man is thinking while
brooding me is realizing
--going or coming--
there is no debating
that hurling above Earth
its axis tilting, its life teeming,
is nothing if not exhilarating.

Poem #3

Tick tock
goes the clock
and here
I sit
with writers'
block.

Love Haiku

When he is near me
this heart brims over with rhyme.
Love is that simple

cruelty, poetry, april

I have not written in so long and now it's April--the cruelest month-- National Poetry Month. So I will try to write a poem a day because, unlike Freddy Mercury, I work best under pressure - with deadlines. And if you like, at the end of the month I'll bind these poems in a book with a cover I made just for you.

April is the cruelest month.

April is National Poetry Month

I have not written in so long.