Had a couple of poems published recently In Constellations, a Journal of Poetry and Fiction
Here they are just in case you don’t want to buy the magazine to have your own personal copy,
Old Friends, Parting
Once before, as young men,
we two old friends parted —him
stuck with truck stop coffee and donuts—
me saying, ”I’ll go on, you follow.”
we’d learned the hard way
two thumbin’s harder
We made plans exactly where we’d meet
on the Cape after the sun went down,
planned to maybe make a drift wood fire,
drink rum, celebrate, dance and sing.
“Meantime,” I said, “take care, friend .
see you soon, hopefully, down the road.”
I pointed my thumb, back then,
towards the far galaxies
shining bright and beautiful
under the distant overpass.
And now we’re old men together.
We did meet up at the shore. We did laugh,
sing, celebrate. Since then, lots of tides
have come and gone.
“You go on,” I tell him now.
I reach for his hand, his big thumb
caresses mine. He’s the one
going ahead, hooked to the monitors
in this god forsaken distant place.
“We’ll meet again, bro, we’ll celebrate,”
I tell him, “laugh, sing, drink rum,
if they have it there on the distant shore.”
“If they don’t,” he says. “I’m not going.”
I walk from his hospital room,
The weak light
of his heart monitor flashing
the distant galaxies.
After my tears,
in the basement cafeteria
I wait, speak softly with his sister
over coffee and donuts.
Faces of Fast Friends
As a kid I observed a space—two, three,
inches at most, between my outer face
and the inner me. I asked my buddy
Glenn, “you feel that space, too—outside to in,
two, three inches?” He said no, he didn’t,
didn’t know what inner gap I was pointing to.
The space narrowed, grew less as I became
more accustomed to my body. Friend Glenn,
a fast learner, was undoubtedly stuck
identity-wise, into his body
at the time I asked about the face gap.
Then I learned about girls, started feeling
my own magnificent juices rising,
so the gap between inner and outer
thinned and soon, me and my raging hormones
were one. I was my physical body,
like everybody else was their body
and it was body to body contact,
excitements that kept my attention locked
(in the body) decade after decade.
Now as a mature guy with silver hair,
having had lots of fun with this body
(and hers!) I find the childhood space again
appearing… a point, here inside my skull,
two, three inches behind my wrinkled face,
where I AM—where attention, awareness
reality is. This body’s movement
is incidental, not necessary,
secondary to the real me who’s here.
Here in my maturity, however,
this “I am” that I am, two, three inches
inside the frail skull bone, is infinite—
more than infinite: it’s wordless, space-less,
timeless, formless—this face can come and go,
be first young, then grow old— it has nothing
whatsoever to do with the timeless
attention, awareness, being I am,
space-like, in which all things, the galaxies,
the universes, all forms rise and fall.
“You feel what’s just inside, behind your face?”
I’d ask Glenn again, if he were here.
He’s a fast learner. Probably by now
he’d reply, “Oh sure. The face I’m wearing
now is the face I was wearing before
my parents were born.” I’d nod my old head.
“I can dig it,” I’d agree. Being fast
friends since childhood, we’re able to talk
about almost anything in the world.