GOLDEN NUGGET, 2024
Sitting in a Margaritaville restaurant
with my daughter
in Atlantic City
on the boardwalk,
listening to Tom Petty
and the Heartbreakers,
looking at some girl wearing
a Haring graffiti design on her shirt.
I know how the story ends,
the song ends,
the art ends,
but not today it doesn’t,
not today.
Maybe tomorrow it will be
no salt water,
no hot tub,
no walking in the sand,
no Golden Nugget,
no Blackjack,
no harbor view,
no sunning myself,
no hair dryer,
no 23rd floor.
Today there is
Sunshine,
Eliza Jo,
$7 coffee,
breakfast by the boats,
sand in my shoe,
the Sugar Factory,
a Ferris wheel on the dock,
a woman taking our photo,
chicken Caesar salad.
I FORGOT WHO I WAS
For a while I forgot who I am.
I allowed old tapes to wind and rewind in my head,
after someone else pressed the play button.
I became convinced I was less than, unable, unworthy.
It took my child to point out my degradation of myself.
She reminded me just who I am,
and from how far away I have come.
I failed to remember the grace and power I possess,
the struggles I have overcome,
the accomplishments I have achieved.
I surrounded myself with those that pecked
at me like crows feasting on my riches,
didn’t say thank you, only demanded more.
For a while I forgot who I am.
The dread of loneliness outweighed my self-preservation,
I walked into the bear trap unthinkingly,
clamped the jaws down onto my own leg.
I smiled with my sweat-soaked face,
while oozing blood filled my shoe,
and thanked them for being my friends.
For a while I forgot who I am.
WAR, WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR? ~Temptations
Mothers Mary, Teresa, and Cabrini were spotted on the # 17 bus, headed to the city to go shoe shopping.
Buddha sat cross-legged, waiting for his plane, while Jonathan Edwards read a magazine.
John Wesley, Bodhidharma, and Mary Baker Eddy contemplated the meaning of one and two and three.
Krishna looked at his reflection and saw Vishnu looking back at him chewing bubble gum.
The Dalai Lama and L Ron Hubbard argued politics, music, and art while sipping French wine.
Martin Luther marched at the protest, shouting how change is needed, and Zoroaster banged his drum.
Mohammed and Moses were searching land surveys as to where they should build their houses.
Confucius was heard reading from The Analects, as Lao Tsu was seen in Central Park writing a poem.
Jesus was whispering to his cousin, John the Baptist, about today’s newspaper headlines.
Pythagoras put down the math problem to play a game of chess with St Francis of Assisi.
Ramachandra was seen talking to the incarnation of Mahavira, each texting with someone else.
Mani and Guru Nanak wore sunglasses and laughed while crowning each other in checkers.
George Fox, John Wycliffe, and Joseph Smith debated the alignment of the stars in Tuyuca.
Adi Shankara and Emanuel Swedenborg played double Dutch with Baal Shem Tov and Brigham Young.
Helena Blavatsky, Aurobindo, Zarathustra, and Thich Nhat Hanh practiced downward dog.
Saint Teresa of Ávila listened while William Booth asked Ramana-Maharshi “Who are you?”
And all the while, all the gods that have ever been, are, and will be, were busy eating McDonald’s.
THE ADIRONDACK
for Michael
I must wait, like the coming of spring
to be with you again. I straddle two worlds,
the breathing and the still,
I fear will be torn apart
from the yearning to be in both.
I cannot fill my emptiness,
which is rooted to your absence.
What do the turning seasons
know of love, loss, and longing?
Where the advancing of time thunders
the obedient passing of years,
like a division of armed warriors
marching into oblivion.
You, who crafted this chair
for the summers of my life,
were cut down in your 17th summer.
This reality has left me with
the labor of examining the whys
and finding no answers.
I will not have your children
nor theirs to sit upon my lap,
in my gardened yard.
I am denied the vision
of their eyes and smile
that would remind me
so much of your handsome face.
I call imagination my companion
when I think of the many
might-have-beens of you.
I find solace in memories,
photos, and dreams of the carpenter
I called my son, Michael.
THE WAY OF THE DODO BIRD
for Vincent
As you grunt and groan, shake your disapproving head,
suck your teeth at what I say or do, smirk and roll your eyes,
and forget who I used to be,
I must try to understand that how it once was
has gone the way of the Dodo bird.
I am no longer the sun, the moon, or the stars.
I do not lullaby you to sleep anymore,
rap music now pounds into your head phoned ears.
The posters that covered your walls of Bruce Lee,
wrestlers, and dinosaurs have become extinct, and
have been replaced by those of shapely young women.
My arms can no longer enfold you within a universe,
your world has grown along with your shoe size.
I no longer carry the book of knowledge,
I must have forgotten it on the park bench.
I have been officially stripped of my superpowers,
and alas cannot see through walls or
even behind my back anymore.
I misplaced my magical wand that made the sun set.
I wonder if you even stop and watch sunsets anymore.
My kisses have lost that special ability to heal all your wounds.
I have become a mortal, and an embarrassing one at that.
While we perform this ageless dance of mothers and sons,
I remember, dear one,
even if you must forget.
A WINDOW OF HER OWN
for Eliza Jo
She has windows of her own to look out of at rain gathering on the
lawn, watch the grass grow on a Sunday afternoon, sit in front of
and daydream about anything she wishes.
She has floors of her own to walk on in bare feet, or slippered, or socked,
or on her hands (if she wishes to), she has time to learn every creak at
night, in the morning sun, in blackout, in dream state.
She has walls of her own to hang whatever she wants, wherever she wants,
to watch sunlight play patterns on when she doesn’t want to do anything else.
She has a ceiling of her own to stare at when sleep won’t come because life is
too exciting and think about who else may have stared at this ceiling when
they too could not find sleep.
She has a kitchen of her own to cook in, or not, to place her pots, pans, dishes,
glasses, cups, silverware, and any other thing she desires, because it is hers to
fill, or not, as she sees fit.
She has a bathroom of her own to decorate, to shower in, to contemplate God,
to wash her beautiful face, to brush out her long chestnut hair, to brush her
teeth, to flush the toilet whenever she needs.
She has a front porch of her own to sit on, to place a bird feeder, to set up
windchimes, to put up an umbrella, to bbq on, to talk to whomever she wants
whenever she wants.
I BELIEVE
for Joey
When your strong hands encircle my back, my thigh
I believe
When your voice speaks my name with the rumblings of earth
I believe
When your breath flitters on my neck like a summer breeze
I believe
When chest is upon chest and heartbeats mesh
I believe
When thought is taken over by dream And we part in Neveruary
I believe
I believe
I believe
I believe
THIS TOO IS LOVE
for Mr. & Mrs. Carbone
June 3rd, 2023
We walk the beach, the shoreline,
in search of that one grain of sand.
That perfect piece of some long-ago rock
formed inside mother earth.
We search among the grains
where we might scoop out a nest.
We are all sea creatures returning
to the shore; seeking our beginnings.
Within the multitudes of those we encounter,
we search for that one in which
we can create a lifelong connect.
A task, seemingly insurmountable,
and yet we, sometimes, find our gem.
We are all travelers, journeying through years,
hoping to reach our destination leaving behind
tokens of our being here. We entwine our days with
someone else’s, forming the fabric we weave
into the tapestry of our story.
The thread of love unravels,
sometimes forms knots,
sometimes broken, and mended,
sometimes within days, sometimes within twelve years.
We reconnect to a love that took
our breathe away,
and now gifts us endless possibilities of happiness.
We desire, hope, we have found our partner,
our witness, our tale teller.
Once red and brown, then gray,
and all the memories tucked away waiting
to be told to those who would listen.
A tale of college, of jobs, of riots, of pandemics,
of photographs, of ghosts, of a soul’s branding,
of love lost, then found again.
A tale as old as time itself, as new as this day’s morning.
Build your home with the
foundation of rich soil.
Be the tree that taking root.
Be the sun sharing light,
Be the rain offering showers.
Be the wind calling your baby birds
to rest within your branches.
Adorn your nest with rings, and flowers,
and new ways of doing things.
Put the past into a photo album,
view it from time to time.
Frame the moments you cherish,
so you might not forget.
When you have disagreements, fight nice.
When you laugh, laugh deeply.
When you tire of the day-to-day,
remember today, and why you are here.
I COULDN’T WRITE THE POEM BECAUSE
The birds are flocking in oranging trees
It is Friday
I am fifty-seven years old
My phone keeps ringing
The midterms are over
It isn’t my birthday
My daughter just got a great job
My neighbor is building an addition
Regular gas is $2.85 a gallon
I live on Long Island
My son lives in Harlem
My cat is mean
I ran out of coffee creamer
Rich Hoffman says it won’t rain today
My husband just kissed me
I’m working on my dissertation
My friend came over for lunch
I teach Freshman English Composition
I cannot win spider solitaire
You aren’t here
HOW TO WRITE A POEM
Begin with the lump in your throat,
the anguish in your heart,
let it simmer, swell, seep into your bones.
Set it aside and look for the proper container:
form, lyrical, free verse. Make sure you wash the
remnants of other poems cleanly away.
Use adjectives, adverbs, prepositions and
articles sparingly; these are useless and signal
you do not trust your guest’s discerning taste.
Open your salty rivers, let just enough to
flow into your mixture, allow verbs and
nouns to bring forth clear images.
Stir imagination into the mix deftly until thickened
into a poem which can stand on its own,
and the guest can savor the pain.
Put your creation out to cool on the windowsill.
Be sure to watch out for pecking birds that would
delight in devouring your creation.
After the heat has dissipated give your prize a second look
for any imperfections, dust off, place into a tidy title box,
finally, wrap your name around in the shape of a bow.
WHY I WRITE POETRY
I write to make words dance across the page
To make music, that is in your head, play
To make the electrical connection between us
I write to make you understand
To make me understand
To make syllables make sense
To make the light shine
To make it fade away
I write to not lose my mind
To make you shiver
To make you wonder why
I write to touch the stars
To make the water still
To make blue taste like honey
To wash away my sins
I write to stand still
To make you move in ways only the gods know
To make your heart skip a beat
To shine on like a crazy diamond
I write because I have no choice
To make a line in the sand
To touch you here, now.
THE POEM
I wish I could write the poem that tells the world how the feel
of your calloused hand sends pulses of life into mine.
How the very hair on your arm moves me to sigh,
and how when you smile you tilt your face a bit downward.
The words won’t come, and my pen won’t move.
I am at a loss to convey what happens to my belly when I hear
your voice; reminiscence of lying back on a swing in full glide.
How I wish I could construct the lines that shows the greens
and yellows of our tree-fort love.
But I am Keller, seeking the sight of words.
NEWS FOR TODAY
The reporter announced on this morning’s news how a 35-year-old
woman was not murdered by her husband, boyfriend, lover, date.
She was not stabbed or shot. She did not suffer any broken bones
or black eyes, nor was she raped, or threatened.
The reporter announced on this afternoon’s news how a 17-year-old girl
was not slipped a date-rape drug, was not photographed or
videotaped, her ordeal was not broadcasted out over the Internet,
she was not lured by some boy in some chat room, nor has she
gone missing from her home.
The reporter announced on this evening’s news how a 77-year-old
woman, was not molested by the man who robbed her purse as she
waited for the elevator, she wasn’t robbed either, she got to do
her shopping and then went home and took a nap.
I HAVE COLLECTED THE MEN I HAVE KNOWN LIKE POEMS
the bikers & the businessmen
the tradesmen & the it's-all-about-me
the ones with green eyes &
the ones with tanned arms
the ones with long legs &
the ones with loud voices
the ones with no idea &
the ones with some kind of clue
the ones with red hair &
the ones with no money in their pockets
the ones that refused to dance with me &
the ones that dug that I dug sports
the ones that could hold a tune &
the ones that thought I love you meant walk on me
the ones that snored at night &
the ones that did not steal all the covers
the ones that knew how to kiss &
the ones that thought they could rock any girl's world
the ones I left & still remember their scent &
the ones I wish I never met but remember their names just the same
I have kept them all with me
all the men I have known
kept them all like poems in my pocket
kept them as close as if the passing years were just days
and the days were drops of water I gathered to brew this cup of tea
I sip on my porch while I smile to myself & so many ghosts.