Candles

Flame to wick, flame to wick,

from hand to hand

until the circle in the church

was a flickering ring,

a delicate thing,

and we began to softly sing

silent night, holy night.

And half a world away

in manger square

the pilgrims cradled

their candles and rejoiced.

In other homes that night

the candles in menorahs

were lit and songs

were sung as well.

I've lit yellow candles

in buddha caves and temples

to honor that other man

of peace and wisdom.

This is what candles are for,

birthday parties, romantic dinners,

worshipful ceremony, and maybe

the occasional power outage.

But have we not seen

enough candles, flowers

and teddy bears

on sidewalks?

If wishes are granted

when we blow them out,

my wishes now will always be:

No more cold wax congealed

beside wilted blooms

and smiling snapshots

marooned on sidewalks.

Inventory

thirty-six by twenty-nine

three windows, gold curtains

four doors, one fireplace

two brocade-upholstered sofas

faux Louis XIV chairs

one coffee table

grandfather clock

desk telephone

six flags

oval rug with sunburst center

and presidential seal

large thousand-pound oak desk

made from a failed Arctic expedition

small Remington bronze

portrait and equestrian statue

of the Indian killer, Jackson

letter from Nixon

custom black Sharpie markers

zero scruples or compassion

The gutter

I heard the gutter roar,

the torrent in the street

rushing to join

the ever swelling sea.

And the arenas thrilled

when the smirking fake

who spilled and spewed his hate

was echoed in the halls of state.

So now I must give a measure

of grudging thanks

that the mask is dropped,

their leering lust made plain.

Before I closed my eyes

to sleep last night,

I let the pages of my Bible

open to where they would

And read the psalmist’s plea:

Lord, how long shall the wicked,

How long shall the wicked triumph?

How long shall they utter and speak hard things?

And all the workers of iniquity

boast themselves?

They break in pieces your people,

and afflict your heritage.

They slay the widow and the stranger

and murder the fatherless.

Yet they say the Lord shall not see,

neither shall the God of Jacob regard it.

Understand you brutish among the people,

and you fools, when will you be wise?

He that planted the ear, shall he not hear?

He that formed the eye, shall he not see?

The gutter still roars this morning,

this dark season has not ceased,

The fever in this diseased republic

has yet to break and the question hangs

like the fog clinging to the mountain.

How long shall the wicked triumph?

Will the throne of iniquity have fellowship

with You and frame mischief by a law?

Fate

Is this to be a frogless,

scorched scrub state?

Meadows choked

with broom and thistle,

a thirsty fate

that waits for

the inevitable flame

to climb the ladder.

The bridge

I kind of thought I’d just ease

into the evening of my life.

No drama, no trauma

no surprises or trapezes.

Familiar places, familiar faces.

Sprawled out and dozing 

in the same spot on the couch.

You might say it was the epitome

of everything Is just fine.

If anyone asked,

I could nod my head

And say, yeah, it’s all okay.

And it was.

Life’s warm evening,

not a sunrise or a noon.

That all evaporated

like a summer pond.

All those assumptions

-gone.

And suddenly

I was surrounded

by all the memorial objects

of another person’s life.

The scarves and scars,

hotel soaps

and refrigerator magnets.

Shoes.

Where were mine?

Gathering dust

on the bookshelves

in the closet.

And my island home

was being gutted

day by day,

week by week.

I might have thought

that God forgot.

But it was me who had forgotten

that there was a warm hand

If I would just reach out

to take it. There always is

if our hearts are open.

To joy as well as sorrow.

There was a bridge

to leave that island

and I’ve crossed it.

City of Angels

He didn't speak a word.

His ragged breath just slowed.

Then stopped.

What did he see

as gazed up at the sky?

The gray Los Angeles haze?

Or an angel's welcoming arms.

As his heart tried to beat

just a few more times,

already fading in defeat

by the gangbanger's knife,

was he thinking about

the revolution or his

toddling son?

Then he was gone.

I saw the life pass

from his eyes

and felt the warmth

and wetness where

I knelt in his blood.

Already in the moment

that I rose wobbly to my feet,

it grew cold and sticky

on my hands and jeans.

The Party had a martyr

but the angels know the truth.

Goodbye, Treasure Island

Another day, another void,

another structure gone.

the mound replaced

by the pit.

And i'll be gone

before the toads

resume their songs

from the toxic pond.

No more Christmas trees

or turkey feasts,

all the children's toys

and games abandoned,

the children left last year.

The thousand pounds

of books i'll keep

are piling high

in neatly sorted boxes.

I’ll surround myself

in my new home

with walls of words

on paper. I can see it.

I found an empty

snail inside a snail.

The husk of the island

hollows out each day.

Like a hermit crab

my own new shell

will fit me better.

A hermit’s home no more.