Found Poem

The parties further

acknowledge and declare

that this Agreement

contains the entire

agreement

between
the parties

hereto and that there are no

agreements,

promises,

terms,

conditions

or understandings

and no representations
or inducements

leading to
the execution

hereof,

expressed

or implied,
other than those herein

set forth and that

no oral

statement

or prior written
matter extrinsic to this

agreement shall
have any
force

or effect.  

The Nasty Colleague

She sits in her cube

Like some fat tiger

Waiting to pounce

On the most inane

Things that would

Pop like a bubble

If anything of  

Importance came along.

She possesses that

Undeniable need

To be right, and

When she is wrong

Downplays it and smiles.

She must have crapped

Her diapers one too many times

As a toddler and been scolded

By a domineering mother.

Now the crap just oozes out

Of her soul in the form of ego.

Late Coffee and Oranges in a Sunny Chair

There is a beam we can follow, a ray of light. We can cultivate it, add spiritual wattage to it, by being grateful for what we have — air, fresh water, sunshine, the use of our limbs, a child’s smile, iced coffee, a pen and paper. In his poem, “Sunday Morning,” the poet Wallace Stevens speaks of “Late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair.” These are simple things that bring simple pleasures. Our human minds tend to add complexity to our existence, and in that complexity there is suffering. Joy is simple. Joy is freedom. We do not need much. We think we need more, even when we have more. More necessitates the need for more. It is in human nature to seek out these excesses. Everyone, pauper or billionaire, desires one thing that has no price tag: peace of mind. This is outside of the material world. It is only to be found in the spiritual life. Spirituality must be cultivated the way a garden is weeded, watered, and fed. Growth comes with effort, time, and enduring the inevitable droughts and pestilence. The idea is to remain working in the garden, season after season, dusting yourself off and bringing it into blossom. Move forward, further along the way. Even when we do not feel it, we must believe it. 

The Outlaws

Your own flesh and blood

Told you long ago

Something seemed “off”

About them.

They lacked some ineffable

Soul-stitch or hook

In their DNA, a calculating insincerity

At the heart of their actions.

Signals arose along the way,

Papered over with dollar bills, 

And trips to the south of France,

Mexico, and Montana. 

You lapped it up,

Smiling, tasting it,

Even if you detected something foul.

You just didn’t trust their trust.

They lacked soul in that Midwestern way,

Something to do with wagon trains

Headed west and Indians

Coming in for raids at night, taking scalps. 

Everything is hunky-dory and “great.”

They will praise you and piss on you 

At the same time and tell you it's raining.

When the morning comes, the wagons are gone.

Thank God you stick to the rugged granite outcrops

Of New England, the old town centers, the tradition,

Where we developed bullshit detectors over the centuries.

We know where we stand, particularly when we are knee-deep in it.

She Swims (for Nina)

When He made the world,
God had Monday, August 27, 2012,
In mind as His ideal.
I know this much, because I lived it.

Late summer, the day before middle school starts,
And she swims with a friend at the quarry:
Warm water, bright sunshine, wrapped in a
Shawl of dry caressing breezes.

How fortunate am I, having the dumb luck
To take this Monday off from work,
Present and relaxed,
Feeling the essential goodness of things,

Gazing at her 11-year-old self moving through the water,
Full of grace and delight, all mine by not
Being mine at all. All her, in her elegant creation
And glory. Daughter, sweet daughter: She swims.