Poem #4

It’s late in the day and
no words have lined up in a way that pleases me.
Nothing created
to speak of.
But I judge myself by my intentions.
and I’ve done no damage
to speak of.

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Poem #3

Notice. Your past comes back to you now
on a warm, moist breeze
cloaked in the smell of clematis
illuminated by the noon day sun.
Your past that you shared
with strangers who have forgotten your name.
Memory is like breath:
I can’t live without it.

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Poem #2

When memories are as transparent as dreams
and intentions as flimsy as those memories
and emotions dart here and there like spoiled children
and the right words never come,
I still begin to write without knowing
where the words will lead me
and when the words will stop
forever.

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Poem #1

20130401-114533April. Again.
Outside my window a gum ball tree
Seed of Aprils past
Reminder of brown army blankets
Flawed fathers.
Bare earth.

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Sadness

Now is not forever.
Young dogs become old dogs.
Rain falls on parades.
Lies catch up with us
Memories fade
Memory fades
and the best intentions go where algebra went

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Ode to Her Nose

Ah! That pigment that blossomed even  as she followed her sister down the birth canal.

A 5 o’clock shadow darkened her blood smeared face

before Irish cleaned it with a mother’s tongue

gently with an instinct that eclipsed learning.

The nose grew. The color darkened.

Now a lump of coal.

The black so black

I fancy  I can see my face reflected there.

But it is only a nose.

A nose to point her way  from whelping to weaning.

A nose that sneaks beneath the bed skirt to worry the dust bunnies.

A nose that pushes sand before it as it tunnels past the tideline to the Bay.

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Goodbye Discovery

I didn’t see it, but all day I clicked on pictures and videos posted by my Twitter and Facebook friends. I have been fascinated by the space program since Alan Shepard became the first American in space in 1961. Ten years later I watched him hit golf balls on the moon. I must have consumed gallons of Tang after NASA used it on John Glenn’s Mercury flight. I was home sick that January day in 1986 when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded 73 seconds into its flight. I watched the explosion over and over and wept. Listening to WTOP on the drive home from work today I heard several eyewitnesses to today’s flyover talk about how they wept as they watched the Discovery make this last flight. I feel a sense of loss – not only for the shuttle program but for the national optimism that made it possible.

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