McClinchy's

(First draft of new lyrics)

He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine

Tuesday night at McClinchy's
She just wandered in
dazed from the cold and the pain
McClinchy's looked warn
in bar light glow
a haven from the cold bitter rain
If she'd known that he'd be there
she'd have just kept walking
He was cold in her heart
that was true
but she was sitting
and waiting for a glass of cheap red
before she knew he was sitting there too
He raised a glass, an old gesture
she stared straight ahead
but in the bar's mirror he was looking at her too
so she stared into the wine
like a prayer an incantation
He said
"If you're here, it can't be good news."

He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine

One glass of red was enough to warm her
two could ease her pain
and three made him warmer in her heart
by closing, she had missed the late train

They stumbled together through the
late night mist
to his walk-up down by the tracks
In the grey light of morning
she knew she was going
to leave him again
as always, for the last time

He believed in his whisky
like a cure for his ills
as if he was snake-bit all the time
whisky was the slow soft death
it suited him just fine

McClinchy's on Main Street
is down by the tracks
where the trains from the city roll in
The whisky is cheap
and it's dark and it's quiet
if you stop there
you'll be back again

Fibonacci MTA

The
train
wheels us.
Wheels us to
the big dream city.
We spend the day imagining.
Lost in life just beyond the limits of what might be.

August Rain

Quiet
but not silent.
Birds sing.
Tires spray.
Drops bounce up
from
leaves grass windows.
Waterfall dwelling,
this morning
this moment.
The rain brings itself to me.

Blood Scales

Blind old men send blood to be measured.
Blind old men sow to the wind.

Blood calculated
on rotten scales
won’t balance heaven or hell.

We reap the whirlwind.

News Budget

1
Every afternoon we met to rank the stories of the day.

2
I decided the story about the bicycle crash wasn’t interesting enough for page 1.

3
You were late getting back with the photo we needed for the sports page.

4
You were in an office romance with a reporter.

5
Is what actually happens more important that what we imagine?

6
The reporter who covered the cops called in to tell us they didn’t have an I.D. on the cyclist who died.

7
It was April.

8
You still hadn’t checked in.

9
Everyone in the newsroom believed you were falling in love.

10
The police reporter came back to the newsroom with a written description of the cyclist who had died.

11
Watching you fall in love gave us all a kind of thrill.

12
The cop reporter read us the description of the body in the morgue.

13
Did I mention that your girlfriend was working in the newsroom that night?

14
We moved the story about the accident to page 1

15
It took us a long time to find your picture in the files.

16
The presses started at 1 a.m.

Dishes in the Cupboard

I wipe the dish gently,
place it carefully
in the cupboard,
on the top shelf,
in the back,
where it won’t be seen,
and won’t be used.

Flyin' Geese Blues

I’m watching out my window as the geese go flying by
I’m watching out my window as the geese go flying by
I’m looking at the door and wondering why I try

Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
Oh the geese are heading south, where there ain’t no cold or snow
And if you loved me baby, I would never go

But your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
Oh your heart’s grown cold as winter and I never see the spring
There’s nothing left to warm me but this tiny little ring

Did you ever love me?
Did you ever care?
What makes you think
I’ll stick around
When winter’s in the air?

The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
The geese are calling lonely as they fly to find the sun
I think the geese are saying that they know our love is done

No Bravery

We need to pay attention.
This will break your heart.
No Bravery

Department of Peace

No poetry today.
Here is my new goal - to do one thing everyday for peace.
And here is my action today.
Go here, and think about what it might mean if we did have a Department of Peace.
thepeacealliance.org

A Bluegrass Festival on the Hillside

Midnight campfires
twinkle under the summer stars.
Someone tunes a mandolin
in the warm July darkness. Then
a harmony of voices begins.
Further up the hill
a battle of banjo and fiddle
under a canopy near the trees.
The sound of your guitar
draws me to our campsite.
The propane lantern on the table hisses.
You stand in a tight circle
of friends, following the thread
of the song. Without a pause,
you smile as I move
into the circle of light.
The musicians are fired up -
you will play until sunrise.
I slip out of the lamplight.
In our little tent
I listen as the shifting breeze
takes the songs drifting up the hill
and composes its own music.

Published in the Spring / Summer 2004 Issue of Pine Island Journal of New England Poetry.

These Are Just Words

You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist is pleased.
Not about the writing (I didn’t tell him),
but about the strength of my grip
on reality, now.
“You were living in a fantasy, as I recall,”
he said.
Thinking of course that I
agreed agreed agreed.
I was yes probably.
But you aren’t my muse anymore.
(I haven’t written a poem in months.)
And I’m happy, of course.
Peaceful. Sort of.
Not ecstatic or passionate or out of control.
You aren’t my muse anymore.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
My therapist wants to make me
a poster child for the talking cure.
I haven’t written a poem in months.
You aren’t my muse anymore.

Today's revision

I just added an earlier version of night ride mountain to that post. I wanted to see what they looked like together.

Bull Riders

The bull always wins.
The bull will throw you.
Do bulls want riders?
Or are they just straining for the long grass?
Would cowboys still ride, if they could choose?

In the ring,
wearing fancy chaps and bravado,
what’s in the heart
that needs this ride
and not another?
Do you love the bulls?

You take the horns - no metaphor.
You hurt no one but yourself.
Not even the bull,
who leaps
when you hit the dirt fast and hard
when you come up bruised, scrambling for the fence.
The bull owns the ring,
for a moment.

You were strong
you fought hard
you took the fall
you will ride again
once that arm heals.

This will never heal.
There are too many fences.
You and that bull
push those fences down.
The bull knows it. You know it.
The fences come down a little
every time you ride.
You and the bull.
No fences.
No struggle.
You ride toward that.
The bull and you.
Riding hard
real hard.

September to October

Blue
Beckons
And beckons.

Geese fly to blueness
Blackness
Nightness
On wings of blue wind.
On wings of black wind.

Call back to the blueblack wind,
sky lover sighs.

Just beyond the horizon
the body of my lover,
Calls
And calls.
I walk. I run. I fly.
Blue cuts my heart
out. Almost out.

Star of my navigation.
Horizon.
Edge.
Bleed me
blueblack
in the sky.

night ride mountain

    I

The Night We Rode Through the Green Mountains

  “Boys and girls, come out to play,
  The moon is shining bright as day.”
      Mother Goose

Past midnight
You drove
Up
Toward the high bright moon
Through rising mist

  You drove
  I practiced ignoring ghosts
  You drove
  Everything in your hands now
  You drove
  I anticipated endings

 Can we outrun ghosts?
 Can we run them down?

You flicked the headlights OFF
Sent us flying up the dark
You drew the moonlight in
Dared me

You asked
Was I frightened? Was I thrilled?
Both, I said.
Can’t it be both?

    II


night ride mountain

furnace       heart
not       light
moon       highbeam
off       up
ghost no ghost
   dare.
After -
   inquire
answer
   inquire
answer.
      Equal.