In therapist’s office,
you talk through bad times;
on found scraps of paper
I scribble poor rhymes.
6 September 2011
Downtown 1 Train
Category Archives: Poem
Processing
Filed under Poem
Finally back to the gym
The past
can haunt us,
inspire us,
live within us,
shape us,
guide us,
influence us,
come out in our lives at times
and in ways that we never expect.
The past
may not even exist,
at least at times,
according to Faulkner; “the past is never dead;
it’s not even past.”
The past:
remember – never forget?
let bygones be bygones?
The past:
repress,
confess,
address,
suppress,
profess,
possess,
regress,
express,
invest,
protest,
digest?
The past
has seen me try
and come up short; and yet,
despite the past,
in spite of the past,
because of the past
I try again.
I try again.
5 September 2011
on the way to the gym
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
A start
Step by step
One day at a time
I know the platitudes.
I have said them.
I have tried to live them.
Again and again and again
I have tried.
Several times
I have made a step or two
and stopped.
Several times
I have succeed for a day or so
and then fallen short.
The words sound almost hollow.
Yet they contain great truth,
and so today I note:
one.
A start.
Again.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Poem
I see the moon
I see the moon.
The moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody
I want to see.
The moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody
I want to see.
On a cold night in January,
the moon
patiently works its way
through tree branches
above the fields near Stones River
to see
to remember
to remember
to honor
to grieve
those who forever lie there and
each night receive
each night receive
the lunar visitor.
Photo
29 January 2010
Stones River National Battlefield
Text
2 September 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under National Park, Poem
Encounter at 72nd
The train jerked to as stop as it
entered the 72nd Street station.
He prepared to stand,
our eyes met for a New York instant.
I smiled reflexively,
he looked back perplexedly.
Averting his eyes,
he gripped the pole,
pulled himself to his feet,
and left the car.
31 August 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Privileged waiting
Irene approaches.
Hurricane?
Tropical storm?
Whatever.
Irene approaches.
I prepare.
Purchase supplies
Straighten the apartment.
Move and position items.
I prepare.
I wait.
Contacting family and friends.
Tweeting, posting.
Pacing, writing.
I wait.
And the waiting reminds
of the privileges that are mine.
I could have left,
friends would host me,
I chose to stay.
Unlike some whose circumstances
limit their choices,
options were mine.
Unlike some whose choice
was taken away:
New York has not
abandoned me,
devalued me
left me behind
on a landfill-created island
because of what I have done,
what I have been accused of doing,
or where I work,
options were mine.
I chose to stay.
I have a place, a solid place,
a roof above,
walls around;
I have funds to buy supplies;
water, flashlights, candles,
food that needs no cooking.
I have so much,
and others have but little,
still others none at all.
I wait.
And the waiting reminds me
of the privileges that are mine.
I wait.
And I wonder,
after the waiting,
what I will do differently
with the privileges that are mine?
27 August 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Waiting for Irene
I wait.
I wonder.
I wonder what I should wonder.
August 26, 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Patience
It has taken a long time
to reach this point.
It will take a long time,
it will take hard work,
it will take faith and change,
it will take patience
to reach another, better point.
22 August 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Inertia or love?
Never did he leave,
steadfast he remained;
question haunts her still:
inertia or love?
16 August 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Making my way home
Water squishes from my socks
with each step I take through the station,
my pants restrict my movements,
clinging to my shins and thighs,
I trudge down the stairs and onto
the street; I walk through the rain
as though seeking a
wet Oxford shirt contest.
A white flash illuminates the sky,
glowing blue off the top of the subway car;
the sky rasps out
a deep, low rumble.
The storm exhausts its fury
while I make my way home
where I realize
how blessed I am.
19 August 2011
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Along the Graybeard Trail 