Poems

The cat drapes one clawed arm onto my shoulder
From his perch on the back of the couch.
He sleeps better knowing I'm not going anywhere.

You used to keep one tiny hand
Resting on mine as I kneeled by your crib
Even then I wasn't going anywhere

You never liked the crib, opting to be held
in my arms or even lying on a blanket on the floor
Rather than caged in that jail.

You knew if you had a hand on mine, I would
Always be there. You thought it was
Your hand on mine that kept me there.

It's your heart on mine, your eyes reflecting mine
It's your slow ambling voice of reason
The reason I'm not going anywhere.

If, this year, I resolve instead
Not to write a poem every day,
How long will it be until I crack
Under the self-imposed pressure
And, with deep shame and regret,
Start jotting down stanzas?

Excessive sanctimonious righteousness
Frays the world’s despairing patience
In this season of political shenanigans
Where every misleading speech
Abounds in effortless rationalizations
With greed perceived as a social good
Ill gotten treasure turns on itself
A need forever unfulfilled
In endless irreducible paranoia
Like Anthony’s ironic furor
Against gifts rendered to Caesar
Where murder turns on itself
Through a door that never closes

You mocked me last night
Smirking from above her house
As I retreated toward my own.

But hear me, moon,
I will return tonight
And you will not see me leave.

Ask the sun, tomorrow,
What time it was
When he first saw my face.

Ask him what she whispered
While I held her on the porch.
Ask him how long we lingered.

Moon, you of all people
Should know better than to laugh
At the rhythm of the tides.

These hands of mine.
Well, they say they're mine;
they're attached, after all--
though I can shake them,
still I can't shake 'em.
They do my bidding,
more or less--
these days it seems less than more
or perhaps I've become jaded
expect too much,
and though they have in fact
become fantastically well-tuned
over the years,
I'm always greedy for more,
never satisfied.
They seem at times such clumsy things,
blunt unfeeling terminal stumps
on larger unfeeling limbs.
There, see? A word for trees!
I've often wished for fingers
on the ends of my fingers
to do the fine work
mind envisions.
O, for hands like a jeweler's!
Elegant and tapered,
capable of such finesse!
I'm told I must make do
with these.
We get along well enough
I suppose they'll do.