Poems

Mourning Morning

It was a bedraggled morning
With no particular purpose
Hidden behind the curtains
Expectantly waiting outside
The yet to be opened door
Perhaps purpose lurked
Beneath the sink’s dishes
Waited patiently in the
Yet to be opened fridge
With its diminutive contents

Our rag-tag rituals,
We gather in bars,
Listening to songs,
Stagger home to sleep it off,
Creating community,
With wisecracks and hugs,
Plenty of hugs.

Our need to touch each other,
Embrace the bones and hair
Skin and muscle,
These containers of our souls
Warm touchstones, allaying our fear
That we will die alone.

I want to die surrounded
By my drunken comrades,
Singing off-key choruses.
Let them pass my body around the room
Until the last bearhug finds me
limp and unresponsive.

A surreptitious sunrise
Splotchy Bellingham Bay’s
Dissolute island mists set
An indifferent canopy
A contemplative time
Fall nudges summer
With sheets and quilts
For as long as needed

When Shakespeare
Met Melville they
Laughed together
Talked and laughed
Laughed and talked
God chuckled quietly

Do you have questions for the stones
Some Hasidim believe they have souls
Quiet souls whose voices require
You to listen attentively carefully
To their barely whispered wisdom
I heard the wind speak to the stones
I haven’t heard the stones response
Now and again I sense a duet but
Nothing that I could turn into poetry
Words on a page are inadequate
To convey a sense of stones
The page must be satisfied
With the sound of the wind