Turning on a Dime

One by one the days collect
Like logs against the pier…
Security is a bulkhead breached,
Still pensive, I persevere.

I pull the blinds in darkness,
Ear phones in to mute the storm,
Leonard Cohen reminiscing,
As if destruction is the norm.

Newscasters forecast heavy winds,
Sound the hurricane-warning bell.
El Nino makes winter turn summer,
A narrow miss, escaped from hell.

Right when life seems bleakest,
Things change from what they seem.
Miracles can happen, saying…
“It is still alright to dream.”

Forever, Just me!

One of those rare moments where I am left speechless. Why attempt to write any clever ditty when this photo speaks volumes; each pixel capturing my spirit, sense of irony, and my quest to live life on my terms. (disclaimer: I don't wear garters however...they pull my undies down when I fly)

True Forgiveness/ Dedicated to Haiti

Nothing speaks forgiveness,
Like an Iris cut and thrown away,
Then cast out upon the asphalt,
Where it blooms for us anyway.

It will happen...

A Young Man's Dreams

A young man dreams every mansion,
Or a Corvette, as if he’s the owner…
I viewed the future as a fight,
Boxing reality, with a boner.

The Buick Electra convertible,
Earned with real estate invested,
The Mercedes bought from rentals,
And stocks sold and then divested.

Honda Preludes timed out,
The Pick -Up truck’s body rusted,
Politicians, bankers, lawyers,
Then friends, no longer trusted.

The Corvette sits decaying,
In an unplowed farmer’s field.
My monumental wall to my self,
Stands crumbling, aged, paint pealed.

The reality of a life’s dream,
Is never what it seems…
The impotency caused by others,
Ends a young man’s early dreams.

Burnt Bridges /Zhou Yu's Train

It is said you can’t go home again,
Burnt bridges make it true.
Yet every match I held to welded girders,
Rekindled thoughts of you.

I migrated across a continent whilst.
You welded in your shop…
The years together, the endless,
Rails for a train I’ll never hop.

The ship you silently constructed,
To facilitate my grand return
Past the burnt out bridges
Stopped short of what I yearn.

All the tools that you employed,
The blue prints up on your shelf,
Designed a useless vehicle,
Transporting your unchanged self.

Your highways of reconciliation;
Pass over bridges, smoldering still,
Failing to make me reverse paths
Or deconstruct my headstrong will.

No Limitations

Image: a stranger from Google Images

The Pacific Ocean is limited,
You can only see so far…
Australia, Tonga, the Philippines;
I cannot travel there by car.

This year I found the ticket:
Unbuttoned coat, full baggy sleeves,
A long scarf travels first class,
When I turn and face the breeze.

All currents run against me,
The sea mist in my face…
I soar to distant horizons,
Views are brilliant from space.

Empathy with weathered nature,
Feeling the soul of a rock or tree…
Unlocks the undisclosed world,
Along with myself; I’m me and free.

Night Walk

I traversed the cove with Otis,
Bush to bush, along the cliff tonight,
I am guided by stars, Otis by scent;
No leash and no flashlight.

Coupeville doubles in reflection,
Smoke mirrored from a winter stove…
Sixteen years, four times a day,
I have walked dogs around Penn Cove.

Tonight the stars seem brighter,
The fireplace smoke smells extra sweet,
So difficult leaving the all familiar;
My for sale sign is on the street.

Metamorphosis

Am I the rain drop falling
Upon the autumn leaf,
Balancing a life time
Until the breath of winter
Shakes me loose to fall beneath?

Am I the log or grain of sand
Upon the tides pulled out to the sea,
Floating for a lifetime
Until a full moon calls me home,
To drift to land, set free?

Am I the frozen flower bud
Upon frost bitten twigs so dry
Waiting out the season
Until the spring refills my veins
To blossom once, then die?

Am I the piece of iron,
Upon which nothing grows but rust
Coal decaying for eternities
Succumbing under pressure
Becoming a diamond in the dust?

Fizzled Out

We rocked out to the Summer of Love,
To forget the assassinations,
Expressing in words and music,
The birth of our imaginations.

We were zero population,
Our idols died on a monthly basis,
Pro-choice but we kept our secrets,
Created the Afro and Chicano races.

We were determined to create a change,
All society, not just one thing.
Changed our minds, gave birth in our forties,
And we in the end, changed nothing.

Poker Face in the Rearview Mirror

It doesn’t matter at all what I think
Even less, in my heart what I feel…
I love from a far and get hurt,
Knowing in upcoming months, I’ll heal.

I appear aloof for survival,
We both know you caught my eye,
I saw you in the rear view mirror,
Moving forward, I see goodbye.

Hermit crabs find their shelter,
In any abandoned old shells…
I wait for you to make the move,
You don’t, life runs on, never tells.

Another day, another place,
Again I catch your sly glance.
Your life and mine remain the same
A lost, untaken, remote chance.

In time my dreams are no more real,
“Caution”, says the rearview mirror,
Than the time diminished realities;
“Objects smaller than they appear”…

Spats

On a night with pitch-perfect moonlight,
The dark contrasts a rain-bright street,
Walking Otis is like a Beale Street sight,
A jazz man, spat’s flash white on dancing feet.

As musicians age through out the years,
Otis’s nose, like his spats, turn white…
Moving from Jazz to the blues; to the tears,
Disappearing into history’s silent night.

I Am A Phoenix

I remember my life as a child,
One never cried within our house…
Suffering in silence, safer;
My dad the cat, myself the mouse.

Complained once I was bullied,
My school a dangerous place…
My father’s advice was beat them up.
Or he himself, would break my face.

Hiding safely under blankets,
Escaping sounds of breaking wood.
Fantasies of calmer families
And…flying if I could.

My mother sat upon my bed,
“Your father’s sorry for your pain”,
I said he could not be pardoned,
I’d never live like that again.

I grabbed an onyx donkey,
To throw in anger at the wall,
Only to remember my father…
I did not toss it after all.

Don Conti

Don Conti, Aug. 1948- July, 2009

July 22, 2009

Growing up in Colonial Heights, we all aspired to be like Don but he set the standard way too high for most of us. My thoughts are with the family and their monumental loss.
~

New American Muscle

I was raised in the new America,
Our suburb named “ Colonial Heights”.
A smorgasbord of cultures dreaming;
New Pontiacs, to cruise summer nights.

The post war soldier’s sons
Were entitled, neighborhood football gods…
Conti’s, Cohelo’s, Grilli’s, Dias!
Looks destined to hedge their odds.

Some of us stayed close to home,
Others settled in locales afar…
Some obtained the muscle men,
Others found both. Some, just the car.

One by one our fathers died,
While these sons rebuilt the town.
Now one by one, they disappear.
Their passage makes no sound.

In time we lost our lives and muscle.
Cars rusted with no emotion.
Obituaries dropped like stones
Barely a ripple, in life’s ocean.

Still the Conti’s, Cohelo’s, Dias, Grilli’s
Remain threads so integral,
To my tapestry of verse.
Don’s death, the thread now pulled
Unraveling a universe.

Hunter Moon

Tonight the darkness, thwarted,
Forest trails fade to white…
A Hunter’s Moon silently whispers
In my ear, “I’m the sky tonight”.

Chanterelle mushrooms, glowing
Harvested, cut, so easily found…
No pig here to find truffles,
Just the moon and my pug-nosed hound.

One very curious elk stag,
Observed us while guarding his home…
Raising antlers in submission,
Still declaring the forest his own.

He knew I was not a hunter,
With the mushrooms in my sack…
No matter what the moon was named,
He was safe; both tail and rack.

Grandfather's Car

I never rode in my grandfather’s car,
Both victims of old age and weather.
Yet I remember him pushing roller skates,
And pulling our wagons forever.

His decades as a minister,
Were defused with humorous rhyme.
Mocking his youth to infirmary days,
He laughed in the face of time.

I never rode in my grandfather’s car,
Still I was with him, stroke after stroke…
Reading his truth-in-jest poems,
He still wrote when he no longer spoke.

I never rode in my grandfather’s car,
But I clearly remember his face…
I still hear his laughter and poetry
As I have genetically, taken his place.