was i good or was i bad
as a son or as a dad
as a friend or as a boss
was it win or was it loss

8 poems for the dead

it is far too early
in the cycle of the year
for the sunny air to carry
the scent of basil

and yet it does

the garden beds and boxes need
a healthy dose of water
every other day
when rain should be performing
the routine of our work

i am not ready
for the fullness of the orchard

for the ripeness

the overcoats and sweaters
have just been stored
and the rugs still need to be rolled

yes there is much to do

before the greens are gathered

before the fruit is picked

and i am alone

but who can control the weather?

it is far too early in the cycle of the year
for the starry air to carry
the scent of jasmine
and yet it does

and i am unprepared
so unprepared

for the harvest

if the figs ripen early
they will finish early

and the winter will be long

we were friends on the bus

before bodies were a thought

just the cuddling smoke of two spirits

and we will be again

so if today

you in your painted shoes

and i in my tattered shirt

do not sit together on the bench

the bus will make another stop

and another

until we finish our homework

and pull the cord

exiting like lovers

hand in wispy hand

to the grand street park

to play

in the opinion of others

you were the bad boy

i was the good boy

but we knew better

unlikely friends

the scrappy athlete

the bookish outsider

bound by the fierceness

of truth

uncommon

in high school

or life

i did mental work for you

you did physical work for me

if i say more

we could both be

suspended

even now

i hold stories

of loyalties

the thirtyfifth year

cannot loose

yet still i fumble

with the memories

old school lockers

require

a secret combination

to gain entrance

from the public corridor

but a note

scrawled

on a torn corner of paper

without regard

for ruled lines

can be slipped

through a chink

in the locked door

and nobody

would be the wiser

especially me

brian

do you know

i wrote a book

i traveled

to new york and paris

i grew up

?

for brian st hilare

st augustine beach florida

the first day of sagitarius 2014

i did not share a story

the day

the stories were shared

i did not offer a memory

from the vault

of my heart

the day

the ceremony of memories

was offered

it was me who was silent

as a box

silent as a hole

in the ground

silent as a stone

marking the site

singing the praises

of god

some stories are written

solely

for the characters

some memories are wordless

cannot be spoken

some events

transpire

only in shadow

only in moonlight

only in the quiet hours

before dawn

and lose their life

in the light

of day

if i do not speak

of sharing

a brown bag of cherries

in the field

behind the birch trees

i will share

those cherries

with you

long beyond the sunrise

the hippo ballet begins at seven

house guests foraging breakfast
long before i would consider rising

yes i need to be tempted
to roll back the stone of sleep
and leave the linens piled

but coffee and bacon
will not suffice

and today
there was no election of kindness

some mornings come earlier than others

some evenings too

nightfall dropping suddenly
in the street
at the hand of local sheriffs

with schoolchildren to witness

my own nightfall approaches slowly

teasing
and i have time to prepare my bed

i think

but how much of morning and evening
can be controlled?

for the moment
i cherish the disturbance
of my little sleep

and am grateful to be boiling oatmeal

so early

for oscar ramirez

paramount california

election day, 2014

in reality
it is sand
coarse white sand
like common seashells
ground down
by the ocean of time

we take this sand
you and i
the shell of him
as we walk
along the rim of the sea

and broadcast shards
like stars across the sky

a last gesture
at the wet edge
of this world

that ocean reaches
each of us
in time
erases the distinct sparkle
from the beige and the gray

as it always will

the waves reach and recede
and repeat
with a tremulous music
beneath the constant sky

where the fire of the sun
even covered
by cloud or shroud
or the body
of the sullen moon

still burns

for steve sanford
summer solstice 2014

aptos california

i thought it  would be

like white feathers

floating on a stilled breath

of air

but it is not

is not light

the weight of the world

is real

ly all that remains

when the light leaves

the lightness leaves

and the weight

waits

here

yes it is sand really

sand to scatter

on sand

shell

to scatter among shells

shards of him

spread far and wide

by the shards of us

it is what remains

broadcasting

what remains

yes you know this

from another

poem

but saying it again

is medicine

to a point

and walking on the beach

can teach

what books cannot

because walking is all that is left

o dear

do not let this become

another poem

about footprints in the sand

will you write
a poem for me?

will you stay
the rainclouds on the hill
stay the rain itself
and write a poem
for me?

will you hold
the door
hold the home
open
where humble afternoons
reside
where quick hello-goodbyes
have time
and write a poem for me?

i will linger on
the front porch
or the back porch
a breath of
jasmine or basil
betraying my secret
self

the rocked becomes
the rocker
the rocker
becomes the rocked

and when the day is done
with just a sweater
lightly slung across your shoulders

when the circle of
the year
finally finds an end

will you find a song
among the silly and the wrong

and write
a poem for me?