A FARMHOUSE

The farmhouse
stands alone
proud and scarred

A hundred summers
and a hundred winters
testing its resolve

One stalwart maple
hovering over the house
like a protective mother

And as storm clouds
roil the western sky,
foretelling yet one more crisis

the heart of that farmhouse
beats raw and warm
like the soil beneath it.

The floors creak, windows rattle
like the tired bones
of an old farmer

but the roof is intact,
the walls are solid
and the heart strong.

From the back porch
you can see the crops sway
like languid ballerinas

as the elderly couple
settle into their rockers
in the nurturing lap of the farmhouse.

BUTTERFLY WINGS

You are like a butterfly
in the palm of my hand

I purse my lips to blow,
not like a violent gust,
but with a soft sigh,
like a gossamer breeze
scampering over a Tahitian beach

It lifts your wings with a feathery touch
that enables you to alight from my palm
and flutter away to your destiny
as I cheer your graceful liberation

JUST FRIENDS?

JUST FRIENDS?

An hour ago
we were just friends

more like acquaintances,
a curtain of propriety
partitioning our impulses

Our mutual attraction as yet unnamed
but undeniably real,
like an expletive we dare not utter

We move with a stiffness
borne out of precaution,
like negotiating a strange room in the dark

Her smile is welcoming, like warm pastry,
my voice as smooth as Italian marble.
Our eyes lock, elude, and lock again,

wanting to speak with our eyes
what our voices hesitate to say
what both of our hearts are feeling

I reach across the table to touch her hand.
It is soft and warm as cotton.
There is a barely perceptible flinch,

yet she does not withdraw--
rather, she glances down at our hands,
then draws a short breath

before her lips betray an emerging smile
as I grope for the appropriate words
that will calm my roiling heart

and forever “end” our  “friendship.”

ENDGAME

ENDGAME

I want to die under the Gulf  sun
         saltwater seducing
         my feet and ankles,
                                        while overhead
seagulls and herons squawk
as they fly in ever-widening loops
against a bleached summer sky
                                        cloudless
and blue as my first love’s eyes

MALL WALKERS

MALL WALKERS

They walk the mall
on legs as spindly
as late autumn branches,
arms swinging like broken gates,
some with strides as timid
as grazing deer; others walk
with the aggression of rutting bulls,
arthritic knees and strained backs
be damned.

Theirs is an unstoppable armada
of grandparents and retirees,
the gaze fixed and determined
as worker ants, oblivious to Sears,
Macy’s, Hickory Farms.

They are not there to shop,
but to outpace senility, to distance
themselves from debilitation.
To hell with elevators and escalators,
 for just around the corner, past
the Yankee Candle shop, lies
the parking lot, where the aroma  of
freshly baked Cinnabon muffins
follows them to their cars as they
rush to stay one step ahead
of a senior moment.

SCAPE

The sun coiled ‘round the Hancock Building
and flashed in Fat Tony’s eyes
as he gazed out the window of the observation deck
little did he realize

Some young kid ridin’ the elevator
his head wired on meth,
was wanting to stick it to somebody.
All he could think of was death

He walked up behind Fat Tony
with the silent feet of a cat.
The kid was getting’ real anxious
to fill the silence with a splat.

He pulled a knife from his winter jacket
sunlight flashin’ off the blade.
Paybacks are a bitch, he’s thinkin’
and someone’s about to get paid.

With moves as slick as graphite
he stuck Fat Tony’s side.
The fat man fell in a bloody heap
the same way his ole man died.

The kid ran to the elevator
on his face was a satisfied smile
his body and mind were tingling.
He’d be a hero on the streets awhile.

Then “L” took him back to the hood
and maybe a hit of crack.
It’s the reward for stickin’ somebody.
Don’t matter if you’re white, brown or black.

He never knew his father.
His mother was burned out on coke.
Life and death add up to nothin’
just a street kid’s dirty joke.

SUNNIER DAZE

SUNNIER DAZE

Was it always sunnier back then?

Days as long, sweet and lanquid
as a strawberry Twizzler

Coaster wagons as red and gleaming
as a crate of Macintosh apples

In the background, the barking
of unseen mutts

The staccato hammering of roof repairs,
distant and  intense, like the stuttering reports
from a firing range

Lawn sprinklers twirling like ballerinas,
inviting us to rush headlong
into their cooling waters

Streets churning with baseball games
and shiny Schwinns, their spokes
chattering from baseball cards
swatting their spokes

Sidewalk lemonade stands
in daily duels with roller skaters
who whirr past hop-scotchers,
like wheeled angels

The universal law of summer
declared the harder we played,
the less it rained

The more we perspired,
 the more intense the fun

and maybe the memories slowly fade,
like old photos in the family album

But one thing never fades:
the realization that it was always sunnier
back then