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The Return

The land beacons

with fruit and wheatand wildlife abundant,so I crawl from the sea,seaweed draped and brinepermeated to the shoreline.

And I am one now,my mother and familyare close by laughingand the waves beattheir eternal rhythmsoftly,faintly familiar but forgottenbecause there is so muchbetween now and the return.

The football flies high abovethe waves, drops back,drops to a friend now laughingby the waves until it landsby a girl Ive been watchingfor hours who reciprocateswith a hair toss and shy smile,and the din of the oceanis silent for some years.For a time, there is so much

to be done on dry land.

One day my own babyis on my shouldersfrightened by the wavesand their ultimate calling.I laugh at him, of course,confident after so many yearswith the sea and its waves

that Ive mastered them,felt their power and captured it,taken it on and rechannelled itto a life beyond these shores.

The land that beaconedso many years agokept its promise.It gave me the meansto support a growing family.Good and sweet

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foodstuffs abundant.Clean, clear water,(even in cities) and shelterfrom all but the fiercest stormsthat claimed many far awaybut left us safe and dry

at higher land elevations.

Now...this wheel chairand these grandchildrenand great grandchildren.If I could only tell themof that journey from the seaand all the lands between,the seascape and landscapeand each is so dependenton the other for life.Of how the shorelineis the alter upon whichthe inner life should knowhow tenacious and beautifuland brief this life on dry landlooks when the sea beaconslike the oceans waves, at this end.

They show me the babyand I hope I can recognize him.I wish my body still answeredmy thoughts, but we both knowit can never be so again.

I hear the waves clearly, though.Through it all, the years and cities,wars and the news media drumbeatinto my head, all spread before meas on a screen, I still hear the waves.My family looks at me with suchconcern and pity, but it is not the timeor place for pity. I hear the waveson the shore...WWOOOOOSHSHSH...WWOOOOOOSHSH...WOOSHSH...

I hear their tenderand light-filled call,and I surrender...I surrender.From the timeI crawled from the seatheyve been callingme to them again.And the voicethat has always spokeninside me even when

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I failed to listen, saysto me so clearly,No more crawling inland......it is time to answerthe seas call..it is time to return

and I listen.

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The Splendid Routine

It is in the routines life is mastered,not the spectacular or heady.It is the sandwich made againand again to the same perfection,that feeds the millions;The 2 x 4 placed in the same positionas a thousand times beforethat builds the house for millions;the prayer prayed with humble precisionthat reaches the ear of God.So, despite the media feeding frenzy,the 15 minutes of fame, the opening nightglory, the awarders giving each other awardsin Hollywoods special desperation,or the worship of the crowd in the standsat the sports cathedrals ritual of disciplineand moxy granting blessing and benediction,Remember this:the same crowd that worshipsin the stands has a cadre nearby

fashioning the crown of thorns,.and preparing the cross and nailsIt is in the routine task done wellfamily life rewards and the world ignoresthat generations continue; leave themere heady moments to the world.

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St. Francis Bedside Lament

But Francis looked on with increasing anguishat what he saw as a harsh and legalistic

metamorphosis of his lifes dream.In his Testament, written shortlybefore his death in 1226, heuttered a wistful protest and triedto call the order back to his lovely Lady Poverty.

A Concise History of the Catholic ChurchThomas Bokenkotter, 1979, p. 160

I lifted swords with these hands once,fought worldly military campaigns and rebuilt churchesstone by stone when God called me to His sideby speaking my name so many timesit drove me insane with flight until I returned,returned to His breath of life and His watersatiated my thirst, his bread fed my spiritual hunger,and my stomach, contracted from fast, could not hold downHis holy and precious wine. I took his strength, sowed itin fields and towns and villages and cities all over Italy.He gave me miracles when I did not ask for them,spoke to me through birds and animals as clearlyas you would hear the voice of your own father.But now the wily Pope Honorius and his enforcer,Cardinal Ugolini, take it all from me on my deathbed.I, who know well the mind of God in a way thatdrives one crazy or drives one to his lovely wounds,

Am baffled, continuously and to my very deathbed,by the mind of man and its perpetual machinations.They invalidate this very Testament by desecrating my temple,Lady Poverty, my only comfort, as I see my Creators faceeven more lovely than I have known it in this life,in this stigmatas joy, this poverty that now allowsme to so easily leave this metaphysical worldfor the Spirit Who now whispers such sweet love,such sweet love. ---- Honorius, Ugolino,you can ignore me and make my order worldly,but not this sweet, sweet Love....this sweet, sweet Love....this sweet....this....

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Backyard Quiet Salvation

This is the quiet of the backyard:The roses roots dormant in winter,

The split oak logs ready to providecomfort and warmth promise of lifethrough the next and the next deep freeze;

The fence high enough to deter intruders,but low enough to allow the seamless bondsof the domestic nature inside the gardento commune with the wild nature outside;

The gate double latched and lockedagainst criminals bent on violatingthis homes domestic tranquillity;

The birds abundant at feeding timetribute to my mothers admonition:"Feed the birds and you never go hungry"the reason the bird feeder is always fulleven in the worst weather,the birds that force us to leave the mundaneto consider the heavensalways to be treated with extra care and time.

And this baby in my armswho startles me everyday day with the thought:"Where did he come from?!"

Oh, I know the biological explanations,but they are never sufficientto answer such a mysterious question.

This baby,whose everyday existenceis poetry and the core reason for poetry;who supersedes all the academicand ego reasons, this life,this beautiful head and soft new hair,these eyes that can make me cry outfrom depths that are subterranean cavitiesthat lay fallow until he was bornbut which now produce love enoughfor him and some extra for street orphansand incompetents, this small bodywhose strength is already more potentthan my once formidable athletic prowess,this form in my armsthat sleeps in backyard quiet,

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isolated from the worlds crime and crueltywho reminds me so discretelythat backyard quiet makes the poetryof the front yard performancepossible and necessary and good:

this life in my armsis proof of the unbroken chainof life that leads us back to Adamand the Original Sin and the promiseof eventual quiet backyard salvation.

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Old American Ways(A Valentine)

"Wheres the gravy!?"she said in a voicethat let me knowit was no metaphor.

"I threw it outwhen I did the dishes!"I shot back,confident my helparound the kitchenwould cover for anysmall mistakes.

"You threw it out!?"she answered as quickly."But that was Eamons food!The gravy is the mostnourishing part!"

"So make him other food.I dont think at 9-months oldwere particularly discriminating."

She was not to be mollified.

"LOOK! Dont everthrow out the gravy again! NEVER!And dont ever do the dishesif youre going to throwout the gravy! I thrownothing out, NOTHING!I use everything. GOT IT!"

This was from the womanwhos mother, I noticedwhen I had just taken Eamonto the doctor, had sewnhis shirt with thick, shiny dental floss.The very reflection from the brightlights in the doctors office assuredthat the doctor noticed it, too.In the area we live, such signscan be read as child neglect

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and, given the right bureaucrator judge, outright child abuse.

"Dont you EVERthrow the gravy out again!Do you understand me?!

Its the most nourishing part."

Properly chastised,I remembered againwhy I had wanted to marrya woman from an orchard familyso many years and children ago,and why I still loved this one so.

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The Need for Saturday Poetry

There are those who write Friday night poems,manic, frantic poems of word grenadesthat are thrown in your face

fiercely and emotionallywith no thought to consequence,restraint, or the future."It is here, man,it is in your face and your mamma's faceand dig it, I don't give a[choose your favorite curse word]see, man, it is MY poem,MY poem that matters,and only I matterin this world's creation, man,understan' what I'm sayin..."and the poet leaves the stage and spotlightto screams and high fivesand another shot and beeras institutional as the poem was not.

There are those who write Sunday afternoon poetry,wonders of iambic pentameter and tetrarchand word constructions so dense and thickthat the early settlers to America,had they faced the same forest of words,never would have made it pastthe white sands of the Eastern Seaboard;great pedantic wonders of words on page

and now on the Internet's wall beckoningbut leaving and soul as cheated and emptyas stomachs fed on grass in a famine;these poetry Pharisees and Seducesleave the lectern and seminarto the abject loneliness of he deskwith no window and soldier on,cursing their superior's orderswhile religiously obeying them.

Others write Saturday poetry,work and art poetry,poetry that takesthe everyday and routineand knows that, yet,the baby must be fed,but the baby has always to be fednot only the sweetand nutritious mothers milk,but the poetry and songand gentle mental caress

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of the word will turned,so that generations hence,poetry is still sung to the babywhose eyes dart back and forthin half sleep and is touchedin the deepest corners of their minds

by words that connect them againto the peace of the womband the ultimate peace of Heaven:Like Emily Dickinson,they scrub the floorsof the Halls of Poetryjust to raise their headsoccasionally to hear the angels sing.

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Beating the Black Plague

It is this that can make

the black syrup cover my brainat such odd moments:

the knowledge that thoughI know now the reasonfor your current sleepinessand lethargy is the baby,your womb that providesthe miracles and the reasonmen like me get an extra fifty yearsto figure out the reason we are here

still, I see the end in this, too,the corpses piled high in the plaguethat will hit as certainly from our ignoranceas those in the middle ages who builtroofs of straw that provided fine habitatsfor the rats who in turn suppliedsuch fine habitat for the flees.

I want you to love,as I want to live,in health and happiness and peacebut the bargain we struck on the altersaid, "in sickness and in health"

with the sickness part first.

So I contemplate this only rarelyand have decided to say it once:I love you so that the thought of youreventual death is the realizationof the temporariness of all this;thereby, my temporary life and lovehas on earth, been granted eternal worth.

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Gene Kelly

Gene Kelly

skipsand leaps

and twirls

through airthat is his alone

to know

and feeland play with

untilout there

he goes andout there

he flies andout there

he landson a screen

and there

and there

and there

his upper bodybobs and weavesinto the fifteenth roundwhile his legsand feetspin in stage-choreographedprecision

to universal rhythmsof timing and movementthat strike hardinto his dancers souland his bodyspeaks of its painwhile his smilereflects onlythe pure joy

of a body disciplined,trained and hardened

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by thousands of hoursat the ballet barand thousands morebefore the unforgiving mirror

and he leaps

from the sound stageto the movie stageto the next stage

and all that is leftafter the dancer exitsis the Gene Kelly smilenow frozen in celluloidand real heavens.

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Dried Flowers

Thats right, I threw them out.Your dried flowers, those olddried up withered dead petals and stemsyouve kept around for years.

Like remnants of a fallow forest,they speak of death and argumentsand nights spent staring at the ceilingafter cold November stares and silences,after deep, deep and awful Winter silences.

Thats right. I threw them out.But I also put the large pink, red and yellowroses that flare in still waters in their place.

The choice is yours.Your beloved if sterile dried flowers,or my fresh-cut roses that even nowbeckon from bedroom night stand.

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Larry Joe Bird

Where others see only obstacles,Larry Bird sees from mid-court

an opening as wide as the Red Sea

beneath the basket calling him.He breaks to the middle,pain stabbing his backlike a bayonet slicing

through muscle stabbedthousands of times before

like a repeat offender criminaldemanding the immediate

attention of his brain,more pain screaming

from his swollen anklesinsisting like a wife

taken for granted and ignoredtoo many years that,

"Yes, you will notice me now!I'll make sure of that

There will be no more abuse!"Pain shouting from elbows

angry like abandonedchildren from too many years

of abuse and neglect,all shouting in unison,

"Feel the pain now!

Feel the pain now!"but like a soldierwounded in too many battles

to know how to answer the painall Larry Bird's

brain will allow attentionis the call of the open spacecalling like spiritual salvationfrom a mere 15 feet away.

He instantly checks one last timefor an open teammate in the wilderness,

but there is no one to be found.

Larry Bird's mind goesinto overtime

and his photographic memorysees the moves he masteredas a child on a lonesome court

in West Baden come on his screenand a countermove from when he was

only ten and basketball was pureforces its way into his consciousness

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so that before his opponentseven realize he is onhis way to the basket

to bring faith and beliefto the masses in the stands.He tips his hand to the right

slams the ball to his leftand then twists his bodyinto a pretzel-like pattern

and now the pain is purification,the pain is release from sin,

the pain is fire and icestabbing only numb muscle

because he has mastered its forceand he leaves it behind him now

to leap from the confinesof the earth

to defy what laws of gravitythat still claim some

physical control of his body massand leaps into the Heavens

into the spacewhere there is no pain,

where there is no sufferingbut only the pure white lightfrom the gyms stratosphere

to light the way until"WHOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSHHHH"

and the gym explodes

like a holyroller tent revivaland the Celtics fans high fiveeach other in physical celebration

like the ancient Celtsembraced Brian Boru anew

each time he defeatedthe vicious marauding Viking hordes

to preserve Ireland for theChristian faith and the believersand Larry Bird lands on the earthfully aware, also like Brian Boru,

that the celebration

only lasts until the demandsof the next skirmish or battle,

until the final basket's call.

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When Fish Cry

Who hears the fish when they cry?Henry David Thoreau

This stream,which space families will needas they populate galaxies past our knowing,feeds a river with hundreds of thousandsof its brothers and sistersand an oceanthat is so vastwe will know galaxiesbefore we will know its mysteriesis home, to fish,so many fishas there may be starsin not just our galaxy,but all the galaxies we will know.

When fish cry,we should weep

for the galaxiesand the childrenwell never know.

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F. Scotts Gal Friday

She came all the way from California...to visit F. ScottFitzgeralds gravesite in Rockville [MD] for the very first time.

Frances Kroll King ...was his secretary during the last 20 months ofhis life. She was with him the morning of his death. She was the woman

who made the funeral arrangements, closed up his Hollywood apartment,tidied up his affairs and is in part responsible for making sure his legacylives on.

Gazette Regional NewsA Respectful VisitJudy Hruz Staff WriterWednesday, October 1, 1997, p. A42

I was his Gal Fridaywho answered an adfor a secretaryand ended up beinga nurse, literary estate executor,a friend, confidant, and literary agentand just between you and me -----his muse.

When his bodyconvulsed from dry heavesI cradled his head in between lettersto publishing houses demandingpayment for short stories delivered.

When his faceshowed signs of the strain

of too many years without good foodand too many nights with good drinkI made nourishing chicken noodle soupfor his tortured soul.

If you look hard enough,youll find me in his writing,words that sing an operato the human gift of language;which passages are our secret.

When he died, I cried for a year.The world forgot he was ever hereby 1940...but not me; I loved himin a way even my husbandcan never know -----I entered his heart

When I became a writer, too,I wrote a memoir of our life,Against the Current

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to honor him and to move on...

But when I saw his nameand the same line on his gravehalf a century later,I was 20 again, Scott was....

...oh, well...all was possible.

Even nowthat my hair grows gray,I look in a mirrorand see a shyyoung girls reflectionin the mirrorof an older writer...

and smile deeplywith love of spiritlove of nourishingspirit with good soupthe loveof an accidental joband a determinedGal Friday.

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Cream Donut

Yeah, yeah, I know...Its filled with enoughmilk and butter and sugarto meet the needsof a small country for a year.

And I knowits loaded with enoughcholesterolto kill eight ratsin a drug company lab.

And I know its sugar doseis large enoughto meet any alcoholicsweekly sugar addiction.

But...if youre ever suicidaltry a cream donut.Treat yourself to its buddydonut shop sugar coffee, too.

As sugar endorphines

careen through your gray matterand thoughts of suicide

wither on the brain vineyour newly functioningand recently appreciatedbrain will remind you:

a cigarmay be just a cigarbut a cream donutand sugar coffeecan save your life.

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Your Letter to the Editor

...The whole complex of technology that is e-mail, and theparallel complex that gives us the fax, costs, whether you send fromhome, a cyber cafe, or a copy place. People keep telling me that itis only a few dollars a month, but for me, who in my 40s am living onstudent loans and a pitiful little work-study job, and who alreadyendure too many demands for only a few dollars, it is too much. Iam just happy to have a safe place to live. Nor am I alone; there areplenty of other writers who live on part-time jobs in bookstores andsuch...

...Am I suddenly too poor to be a real (i.e. published)writer, even in my nice garret?

Elizabeth KoopmanKeene, New HampshirePoets & Writers MagazineLetters, Page 7November/December 1997

Dear Elizabeth,

I had to send you this $100,000. Dont look shocked. There is no way you can find me togive it back so just enjoy it as a gift from a friend.

It was the comment about living in the garret above the bookstore in New Hampshire thatgot to me. (It made me think of Emily Dickinson and I cried.) This money is my attempt at penancefor what the world did to her...and still does to poets and writers like you.

Find a nice place to live or stay where you are in your safe place if you wish. Now, atleast, you have a choice. You have more than only a few dollars to pursue your writing life. GodBless you and good writing.

Anonymous

P.S. Hope to see your published work soon!!!

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Girl at the Deli

You walk into this friggin deli where youvenever been before all summer hot and friggin angryand there, behind the counter, she stands,lips big enough for a zip code,hair as fine as spun satin and silkand skin that breaks your heart in two...

you look right at her and stammer, c..c...c...coffeeand she says back, two or three sugars?and you stumble again uh...two...uh...threeand cotton wads grow in your mouth,you smile wanly and she smiles backso unspoiled and athletic and youngand that chemical reaction startsin your brain and WHAAAAAAAMMM!!!once again life has possibilities and hope.

She brings you a cup of coffeeand you sip it and want to spit it outbecause it tastes like its been there since World War IIbut you smile instead because you noticehow fine and bright and clean her eyes speak to you nowand although you want to say Dear God!How can you sell this turpentine as coffee?!you smile again and gulp it down quickly

and say, Just what I needed! Hits the spot real well!And she smiles and says, Best for miles around!How long have you been in these parts?!and now you know the chemical explosionsare going off in her brain, too,so you drink some more coffeethat is so toxic and strong and fiercethat your taste buds have all mutiniedbut even it cannot kill the wonderful chemicalsthat now grant you the absolution, benediction,and grace of love and suddenly you knowRobert Graves knew what he was talking about:for here, between the provolone cheese and the Zinfandel wine,is clear and living proof of the unbroken chainbetween the ancient Celts and the current White Goddess.

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Mid-Life Crisis

Sugar and saltmake it taste the best!she said, and I waspulled from the tailwindof the marital argumentwith my current wifeand, startled, turnedto see her by the sideof the Starbuckscoffee condiments standwhile I poured whole milkinto my coffee.

I looked at her and smiled.She repeated, Sugar and salt.If it has sugar and saltit always tastes better.Her face lit up againand I noticed ringletsof auburn hairbeside her expanding smile.

How much sugar does

he like in his coffee?Lots! her friend answered.Yeah. My old manused to sit at the dinner tableand pour sugar into his coffeeuntil half of it spilled out on his plate.Maybe he likes it like that. I said.She laughed.

As she laughed,the claddagh ringon my marriage fingercame into full viewand the sugar and salttaste in my mouthsuddenly turnedto garlic and vinegar.

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Before I could getthat sugar and salt taste back,I fled into the coolnessof the night airand the anonymityof the food shoppers outside,

remembering that I had a fanto buy for the house,children to raiseand a wife who wanted me homeso she could see her brother-in-lawperform in a bar somewhere.

It would be a Walter Mitty,not a James Bond, night.

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Coffee Money

Despite the pre-Cana classes,Despite the best advise of friends,Despite an industry devoted to it,Let me tell you friend, this basic truth:Coffee money will save a marriage every time.

Every Friday I take the hundred dollar billsAnd place them under the coffee canWhere my wife takes them and spends themOn all the bills that accumulate in this family:Coffee money will save a marriage every time.

So no matterwhat poetry may tell you of love,And no matterthose fancy $1,000 relationship classes,

If you really want the marriageto last more than the wedding day,

Go to the store and buy a tin of coffeeeven if you dont drink it,Coffee money will save your marriage every time.

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Coyotes Lament

Honey...this woman

had her tonguein his ear,

one hand in his hair,another God knows where,

and they were speeding downI-270 in a massive Jeep

going 80 miles an hour!

For shame.For shame.

Why doesnt thathappen to me

anymore?

Oh, theyreprobably

not married.she replied,

as if that answered it?

Who knowsif they were

married!Point is,

think aboutwhat I said!Her tongue

was in his ear,her one hand

was in his hair,the other hand

was...well...it could have been

anywhere,and they were

speedingdown the highway!Now thats living!

I said, turning over sideways,dreaming of highways

and freedomand excitement

and loveout of whack

with all sense of propriety.

Like I said,they probably

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werent married?she said again,

as if that answeredanything.

Outside,

a coyotecalled to a jackal

loudly,while the jackal

ignored the coyotes call.

But, AHHHHthat moons bright tonight.

Just the kind of moona coyote might use

to guide him to the highway.

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Mid-Night Milk Run

Ladies,Bewareof men

too willingto go

for a gallonof milk at night.

Such timeallows

copiousamounts of time

to hand the bookieor the dope dealer

or the other womanor any numberof temptationsfamily money

or the pathto your

mans heart.

So when he returnswith that gallon of milkalways check it twice:

Once to make sureall the cream

hasnt been skimmedfrom the top;

And once to makeabsolutely sure

both he and the milkare still pure and white.