Poem of the Day 10/15/21

If I linger in the doorway,

Will you awake?

Will you call out my name,

Call me back to you?

Will you turn me back from the day,

Back to the dim light of our quiet home?

Or will I simply linger a moment

In the silence, alone

Hoping for some force to forestall my parting,

A call that does not come?

Ahead, the road is grey and shrouded in mist

And this car is devoid of warmth.

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Poem of the Day 10/12/21

Another grey day,

Under the thick autumn clouds,

Searching for the words

Poem of the Day 10/11/21

Through the morning mist

The headlights shine, lighting up

the dull grey highway

Poem of the Day 3/3/21

I want to be-

As Ginsberg described Dylan-

Transformed into a column of air,

No longer substantial, but only movement.

Then I could rage down 9th Street,

The way the winds once did on cold winter mornings,

Forcing us to pull up our coats up against that fury

And roll our cigarettes inside sheltered pockets.

I could sweep coolly over Cooper Square,

Tumbling, the way we once did,

Drunk with youth and whisky,

Racing to wherever it is that spring breezes go.

I could be some weary sailor’s salvation then.

I could be the song not the singer then.

I could be only the whisper, soft against your ear.

If I were transformed to a column of air.

Poem of the Day 2/22/21

Tired, heavy eyes

Watching the sunrise breaking

Over the highway

Poem of the Day 2/17/21

A red-tailed hawk circles

Over the empty highway

That snakes through the mountains

Poem of the Day 2/12/21

Beneath heavy clouds,

The grey buildings of the city

Play at being mountains

Poem of the Day 2/5/21

Black ink on paper,

Small scratches, grouped together-

The image of a tree.

Poem of the Day 2/2/21

The snow’s blinding white

Is muted by morning’s dull grey-

The wail of the wind

Poem of the Day 1/28/21

Sitting, like Rodgers Hornsby, looking

Out the window at the bleak winter day

Waiting- yes, for Spring- for the green grass

And the heralding crack of bats,

For Trout and Mookie and Thor, X-man and Judge, the Polar Bear,

For days less full of nights, certainly

But waiting, also for you and me,

For that version of you and me,

Wandering in lone back fields

And riding rough pine beams

Or watching quietly at night

For sometime we have not seen

Yet in the old ballgame,

Quiet, with sweet anticipation,

Waiting, once again,

For the smallest shred of magic to be reborn,

In a Spring night’s journey home.

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