We cannot fix the past, although we know
That art is sometimes little more than that;
With colors, words or music, try we will
To reconstruct the pattern of our days,
The sorrows and the loss – the twisted maze –
Of which, most days, we’ve had more than our fill,
And which has left us dazed and rather fat
With all that weight, and still so far to go.

And yet, there is a kiss that comes at dawn,
That warms the body through, and calms the mind;
It can be fleeting, yet it’s always there,
The someones who for some strange cause still care,
And whose pure warmth upon our lives have shined,
And in whose eyes we’ll stay when we are gone.

Untidy as a traveler, he wakes:
His spine bound up like broken mattress coils,
And starts to stretch for health and pity’s sakes
An aging non-athlete who early toils

He focuses on breathing, pure and slow,
To breathe some space into what’s feeling crushed
And twists himself as far as that will go
Not pushing too hard, never being rushed

So much there is beyond his poor control.
Why he was placed on earth to try to save,
He’ll never understand. A poet’s soul
Not made for great heroics, to be brave —

But yet, he’ll try today, and overmuch,
To heal and help whomever he might touch.

The bits of ugliness that dot our ways
Sometimes connect us to the ones we love;
Through each new clime and season, every phase,
They’re there nearby: around, along, above —

Unsightliness is something we accept
To know we’ll be connected, in the end,
For love’s the thing. The rest is simply kept
Because it joins us to our kin, or friend.

And soon, we do not even see the poles
Or lines that crisscross everyplace we go;
But hold connections to our very souls
The voices of the ones we love, and know —

  But though all this connecting is ad rem,
  It can’t bring them to us, or us to them.

(“Poles” – 3-26-2017)

I wish these words could take me to the stars
And chase away the emptiness inside;
I’m all fluorescent lights and grids and bars,
A warehouse, fully lit, unoccupied —

I wish that poetry was rocket fuel,
And I, a rocket ship that ready stood:
So much of space, unknown to any school,
That I would love to see now, if I could —

I do not want to feel this hollowness;
For I am blinded by the vacant space
That fills up all I am with blank distress,
And leaves me yearning, standing here in place —

Near Rigel or Antares I should be:
Except this desuetude is really me