First entry for this blog...
Mood:  bright
Topic: Hello world!
This is the initial entry for my blog. I hope to share poetry, song lyrics, sayings or aphorisms, political commentary on this blog.

Below, you will find a comprehensive selection of my poetic work...Patrick'



Things That Matter
A Selection of Free Verse, Haiku, and Prose-Poetry
by Patrick Frank


“The truth is such a rare thing. It is delightful to tell it.”
Emily Dickinson








Table of Contents


Introduction, 3

Three nontraditional haiku sequences, 1992-2004, 4-42

A selection of free verse, 2004-2007, 43-87

Acknowledgments, 88-89



























Introduction
I am a poet-songwriter and essayist from Middletown, CT, USA. I have served as a counselor and advocate for the poor in New England, the South, and on the Zuni Indian reservation in New Mexico. I am now working with mental health clients in Connecticut. I have been influenced by international poetry, Taoism, and Zen Buddhism. I published a periodical of Eastern forms of poetry, and aesthetic philosophy, Point Judith Light, during the 1990’s.

In my work, I strive for clarity, depth, a microcosmic aspect, and a kaleidoscopic effect. I focus on the sense of mystery that is embodied in ordinary experience and reality. I would like my poetry to be accessible, while avoiding superficiality. My creativity is stimulated by dream material, music, great cinema, physical activity, and exposure to nature. I express myself poetically through nontraditional haiku sequencing, free verse, and country-folk lyrics, frequently touching upon social justice themes, the personal experience of poverty, homelessness, and emotional trauma, sport, and my work with the disabled. Poetry-writing has, I believe, has had a therapeutic impact on my psyche.

I hope that my work may stimulate the reader’s own creative reflection and growth-process.










Your Hard Life…Shadows of Green
Excerpt from a nontraditional, narrative sequence of haiku, depicting the struggle to preserve love, hope, and personal integrity in a tough urban environment, 1992-1997

A note regarding aesthetic considerations in this work:
Experimentation is common in modern haiku published in English. My haiku fall between 10 and 17 syllables, and do not adhere to the 5-7-5 syllable, three line tradition. Further, in these narrative sequences I interweave perceptions of nature with aspects of human reality. In Touched by Zuni, I have included some examples of the form known as tanka, which comprises about 31 syllables and allows for greater lyrical expression; again, I am working from a nontraditional perspective.

back to the ghetto the old court is littered with glass

behind the school, a tattered tennis shoe tattered dreams

behind the tenement, unseen, the river flowing
basketball game by moonlight and starlight

before dawn, I listen to a love song

before me, the expressway behind me, the great trees

behind the church, wedding announcements litter the ground

behind the curtain, the Wizard of Oz a good man

burying the past in her womb, new life

candle flickering on the alter my spirit waits

car broken down heavily in debt escape

caught in a lie evil walks in

childhood night baseball insects attracted to light

Christmas driving through the long night forgiveness

city dusk boys chase a screaming girl on her bike

crimson sky the skeleton of a tree an eagle’s feast

dark circle within gray circle lost child

dark before dawn a quiet snowfall evenly spaced

dawn blizzard three crows in the road your tears

dad’s army boots deserted stretch of track

derelict’s face a vulnerable child

diner, two AM must I abandon this woman

dishes piled up in the sink rejected again

dogwood petals burnt at each tip the imperfect self

driving home the twilight lasts forever

dream of evil in the form of a voracious child

each time I say goodbye I love you more

desert storm cap Tennessee drawl

distant city silence from the woman in my life

discarded plaque Civil War on the bridge, I pause

dogs calling, each to each, before dawn white bones

dream a college mall overcome with street people

end of child-bearing years you feel old

every door closes I turn and simply walk away

exposing the hermit crab’s shell to light

everywhere I look, birds fleeing city dusk

facing a tyrant stating the whole truth

faintly from the dorm window, blues

failing to meet company demands

eyes hurry over the haiku late to church

far from home prison of my own making

feel the shadow of a dove, flicker of a darker wing, descend

flying back to you tears at the airport

glow of dawn penetrates the black forest

going through the pain, the writer continues to write

growing closer, mystery vanishes, re-appears

graffiti scrawled on a broken green fence

first sign of geese rising into the air Northern life

gradually, my wife has become my friend

flat tire, no spare in the boonies with my girl stars

flock of crows resettle waving branches

forsythia blooms just as my life turns chaotic

from the balcony of my son’s dorm, stars

from the upstairs tenement, frightened voice of a boy

geese on the wing, high above, their alien cries

free of pills, I wake up. my body cool, relaxed

gathering of ghetto kids, in the last ray of light

gentle, crazy Robert returns my forty cents

Georgia bus of the past flicker of light flickers on and on

ghetto Burger King desperate man brandishes a chair

haiku friends I have never met, galaxies apart

halfway ‘cross the bridge, thousands of strangers pause tonight

hanging in the air, an orange wasp hanging, my hopes

haphazard beating white wings storm-tossed gull

heading out for work gray dawn my tie, half-buried in mud

head gasket blown we nurse the car to the bazaar

hiding from bikers in the graveyard bad trip

his anger rises the unceasing rain

home from work late at night I curl up to your body

homeless man sitting on his cot with no privacy

I am addicted to caffeine I need you to come

hospital-bound child watches a skyscraper go up

I am sorry you married a wanderer like me

I drive you out of the city stars blazing above

if you consider me an enemy, we are lost

I give her my last forty cents her kiss on my mouth

I love you too much to leave you hug my neck

I call the cops drunks wake everybody up

in debt up to my eyeballs, my head still in the clouds

I mistake rats for squirrels the ghetto scene

in the ‘hood, snowfall cars move slow no danger

in the dark sky a mysterious blue flash of light

inn the twilight, basketball with ex-cons

in deep snow my first poetry lecture

in the dusk, a woman’s upturned face, near the fountain

in the night, reading Basho winter again

in the lot, wind whipping cold plastic flags

in the rust belt cafe, country music is playing

in the uncut yellow grass, discarded coffee cup

is there a scientist-Nazi in me?

JFK shot some people cheered

just sitting, waiting for you to heal

it is sometimes wise to flee in the face of evil

I watch three birds, in formation, slowly disappear

jukebox in a Northern diner cold rain

late fall voice of a multitude invisible geese

I walk into a quiet snowfall evenly spaced

late night, my son and I have a good talk

lights blaze across the river working-class town

laid off suddenly fighting for our lives

life at work threatening memos tossed in the ash can

like a mountain before me, a wall of blue-black cloud

leaves, pieces of scrap paper, spin together

loose forgiving rim shots sucked up into the black hole

lichen on the trunk of a fallen tree life goes on

letting you see my blackened hands closer

man searching for cans in the parking lot

love song over the intercom static the grocery aisle

lying in bed boxcars banging somewhere in the night

making love I look into your childlike face

man in a Red Sox cap, comfortable

men in ties stream from offices at noon early spring

middle class family encounters Bigfoot

mismatched clothes at dawn preparing to greet the homeless

MIT students gathered for Star Trek

March day starlings dive-bomb a mud-puddle

my boss was kind and cruel without warning

moth returns, transfixed by my light soft wings

my guitar one string missing trunk of the car

my life changed by a careless accident

my mother accused of begging for food, door-to-door

my perfectly round basketball my imperfect self

my wife and I fighting poetry and survival

my wish to dig ditches in winter

naked branches reach for the sky

a withered hand near the railroad tracks drunks lie in the weeds

Nazi ovens the Jew in me, transfixed

near homelessness, I become a shelter counselor

my need to extinguish all forty-seven candles

no organ music of simple voices

no screens on windows of the tenement

not fearing aloneness immersed in haiku

nothing left but to smile in poverty

not wanting to bruise a vulnerable heart

old red jacket with deep pockets winter again

now that we are home, you see your faults and I see mine

old school yard leaves fall slowly one-by-one

on a clear day, absence of the warning bell at dusk

one crumpled dollar bill for collection

on the court, turning-shooting, one motion

on the face of the mountain, distant lights

on the monastery grounds, a basketball, no basket

on the ridge, tracks of a deer jet sound above

on the other side of the glass partition, her eyes

on the road back with my poetry and basketball

on the wild side of town, searching for your friend elevator shaft

one cricket, unseen, in the unkempt garden

our mill town flat neon flowing through the tubes

outdoor basketball in the dusk the slant of pure light









Well Past Midnight (Depicting the poet’s gradual side into homelessness, 1988-1997)


1
birds suddenly take flight spirit of a man lifted
calm spirit in the shelter ripples of peace expand
feeling my love fade away fade away
hard to face the truth I really am sick
head down standing in line a homeless man
heart empty no quarter to call my girl
homeless, alone but the snow falls gently
homeless man scared by his mirror image
homeless shelter my head is in my hands
soup kitchen homeless woman feeds pigeons
the planets shining brighter, closer, closer
this time really locked in, really homeless
walking on the shoulder of the road, lost
walking, walking, walking alone, alone

2
at dusk riding the bus back to nowhere.
at the diner I mingle with truckers
I find baseball cards on the shoulder of the highway
my tie is askew and my shoes are covered in mud
my woman is far away dimly in mind
state police search the bags of this vagrant
when will he find a way to settle down
3
a big semi rushes past, blinding me
calming his spirit, the dark trees at dusk
cradling a wounded bird in his shirt
dawn walking downtown homeless, but at peace
eagle’s silent flight, on a distant shore
father long gone he loved the sea like me
finally, I used my one-way ticket back to the South
flashing in winter light, unseen below, silent wings
ghetto dog weakly rises when I pass
greeting other homeless and travelers
head down, standing in line, a homeless man
homeless, alone, but the snow falls gently
in a storage bin, sorting through my life
in Motel 6, a woman parts much too soon
in spite of debt, there must be an answer
in the shelter, Ken plays his Irish music for me
I walk miles down the highway, my bag stuffed with poems
jailed kid alone his grandfather dies
late winter snow an old man’s shot true in sunlight
making a space in my single room, and in my heart
light slowly fades at dusk strumming guitar
man punished for admitting he needs help
miles distant woman in my life let her be free
my body releasing last night, alone
my companion, a parolee, handcuffed
my old friend George Fair goat behind his shack
no word from my girl and no job today
on the street, faint fluttering of a bird
parking on the street, I face the unknown
planet closer to a sliver of the moon
poet and dishwasher cross the railroad tracks at dawn
razor wire all over town In prison and out
romantic song lifts the spirit of a rootless man
some part of me has the desire to disappear
spring dawn bird’s cry unceasing
standing in the mist, beside the empty road, a train







Excerpt from The Spirit of Zuni (Depicting the poet’s two-year experience living and working on the Zuni Indian
reservation), 2002-2004


1
a boy strikes out at me and stops one inch from my face

a broken down shack is part of the earth

a couple of toddlers playing in the bone-dry gulch

a couple passes the man cries out leave me alone

a crowd of people walk one way I walk the other

afraid at night with no lock on my door

after many years a candle burning in my room

a nice dog mingles with the kids at school

an old woman waves from her pick-up truck

a simple man on the bus says hi to everyone

a small herd of goats a family and some dogs

a song bird, finally in yellow spring dawn

a strange Zuni man hangs out near a stack of tires

a village elder tells me about Coronado

a young man forgives me silently through his presence

a Zuni artist offers to teach the kids patience

a Zuni boy obsessed with the lyrics by Slipknot

a Zuni woman says the word Zuni with real warmth

bingo hall a child calls me grandfather in Zuni

broken-down dwelling on the lot touched by pure white snow

cow in the yard near the sacred mountain

dawn light through black limbs and birds cry for spring

distant cry of a dog in the pueblo

doing laundry all night long everyone else asleep

faint country music on the radio

flaming sky at dusk on the Zuni bus

forgetting all the pain of yesterday

fourteen Zuni kids zooms by in a pickup

green, green sweet crabgrass finally in Zuni

guitar silent propped up against the wall

happy to watch a little basketball on TV

I buy another gold watch maybe I’ll keep this one

I close my eyes and revolve in bed without moving

I don’t approach the Zuni drum sound at 2 AM

I dream I tow a junk car across the USA

I feel out of place in the Social Service meeting

if you climb the old mesa watch for snakes

if you kill a spider in Zuni the world will end

I head down the road with no need to shave

I learn a Zuni concept the light just before dawn

in the Mustang a wall of second-class videos

in the ruins of the pueblo a half-wolf at dawn

one night I could not sleep I stayed awake in my office

only songbirds break the stillness at dawn

outside the bingo hall a child screams

placing ice cream on the window ledge

smiling kids pretend to beg for a dollar

still with no idea what the future holds

the dogs bark forever at the edge of the pueblo

the kids say a medicine man can heal your spirit

the moon sets in an unexpected place

the priest in his robe just listens to me

the roosters cry when I awake and head for Mustang

three separate games flow and crisscross in the Zuni gym

the small purple flowers low to the ground have survived

the voice of a crow at daybreak beckons

the wind has finally eased off in Zuni

thoughts of traveling back to nowhere

to understand conflict you must understand the clan

upstairs alone someone parties downstairs

wishing for a woman I can share everyone with and she loves me

Zuni kids play in the old gym surrounded by stars

last night three AM still alone but not afraid

alone poetry and music for twenty-four hours

an eternity passes and I drift off to sleep

a wild spring storm in Gallup alone

a woman drunk asks if I am God

cows in the yard near the sacred mountain

discarding the past on Sunday in the last pew

forgetting all the pain of yesterday

I begin to fast and embrace silence

I walk down a mystery road and get lost

I will photograph the Zuni ruins in pure light

my new watch shines like silver it feels right

no longer afraid of the Zuni dogs

I want to bring all the Zunis back to Tennessee

I want to walk alone this day to the red mesa

my body feels clean and my soul feels clean

my room gradually transformed into me

my son calls asks me to be his best man

not too disturbed by a rumor I may be fired

the priest says to just do my best right now

the voice of a crow at daybreak beckons

the wind blows through my eyes and lips and hair someone new

telling you exactly what’s on my mind

the way I like to play country music is real low

Zuni child plays with my eagle puppet

Zuni child tracing Chinese symbols

Zuni four-year-old draws a flower and a butterfly

a dream of fire and redemption recalled in prayer

everything slows down in spring twilight I walk back home

in the dream my car caught fire I walk back home

the birds’ beautiful song again at dusk

the sound of a Zuni man chopping wood as I pass

2

a great storm behind D-Y Mountain

open faces friendly faces and yes everywhere Zuni dogs

a poster for another Christian church arrives in town

as soon as I get back to Zuni my heart at rest

the Zunis win another battle for their Salt Lake

I walk with my mug again dodging dogs

a Zuni lady talks about the nice rain last night

a new Abductor Invasion talking video game at Mustang

another midnight before dawn lights appear outside my window

baking in the sun the Zuni parade

bright parade smiling faces of the Zuni people

endless field of sunflowers on the edge of Zuni

drum beats sounding at the Zuni parade

from the field of sunflowers you can see the mystic Zuni mesa

proud smiling faces of the Zuni people their Labor Day parade

slowly, slowly the Zuni parade wends its way around the pueblo

Zuni child whispers in my ear I will bring flowers to hota (grandmother)

Zuni lady brings me roasted corn from her oven

a Gallup Indian leads me to the tower the road to Zuni

gradually bringing everything to light

learning too much about the drugs and gangs

my car radiator finally boils over on the desert road

outside my window Zuni children chant I have stepped into their world

playing radical music for a bunch of cowboys in the cold rain

strangely the video game at Mustang comforts me

threatened privately by a bureaucrat

west of Zuni the sunflowers have faded and died

winter closes in now I feel cold rain

a young man cuts me off and will not speak

I test the alarm at school on purpose

I know without love there is no purpose

over and over one night I dream of a child alone and weep

I walk out of my trailer and two birds fly into the blue-red dawn

intricate passage to the sacred Zuni plaza

I share a laugh with the workers at the Zuni dump

the Zunis’ deep laugh as they share food with the poor

I ignore a strange intrusion good senses evil

shamed in public like I was as a child

3

attacked and threatened by a bureaucrat who wields power

I care for a boy I gave him a ride back to Black Rock he has no dad

in Mustang I read the Dalai Lama

in yesterday’s dawn my spirit opened

the cold wind blows hard outside my trailer

I think I see a hint of light over the mesa

this night and every night in New Mexico has lasted forever

winter light reveals a pinion tree on the mesa

alone on Turkey Day I drive away from Zuni to Santa Fe

far from Tennessee far from Springfield far from Boca Raton
far from everyplace I ever called home

behind my trailer twilight is falling everything is dark green
and a pickup truck is part of the mesa I play music

on the way from Mustang at twilight children stand close together
with their dog in a small yard they are crying out to friends across the road

I call my shelter back in New England from five years ago to talk about my problems and share a song

a Zuni woman’s foot is run over by a trailer she is hopping around and the tourists think she is dancing

a Zuni girl who wants to be a poet slowly reads my book of haiku
all the way through she likes it she will show it to her mother

a Zuni lady hitchhiking on the Gallup Road her face is weathered but she smiles she is beautiful with ten years sober

I watch Hurricane Carter with an Indian girl and I cry in front of her and her distrust melts away with those tears shed

there will be no sleep tonight my life is changing again I think about packing alone and driving away the song inside me

I think about a kid who tried to warn me before three gang kids lure me outside I will find a way to thank him soon

I play Santa Claus again at St. Anthony School the kids secretly wave to me they know the real me under my suit












A Selection of Prose-poems and Free Verse, 2004-2007
(Written after recovery from homelessness, in Seneca, South Carolina and Middletown, Connecticut.




A Call from the Atlanta Airport
My son calls from the Atlanta airport while passing through but Linda and I are in bed and it is late and he hangs up fast. I think he called just to hear my voice or maybe he is feeling alone because his marriage is falling apart. He probably needs to talk to me about being afraid. Though he is thirty-two his voice still sounds like my child’s

Now it’s early dawn and there’s a train blast far away and I’m the one alone. I won’t be here forever. Still, there are the ones who need me and there is this life in the darkness before dawn. There are things to consider and Celtic music and cricket sounds in my head and poems to write

There is a call from the Atlanta airport. Now I am awake
Acceptance of Change


We throw the I Ching and come up with “traveling.” All day I feel tense

Now, at dusk, as darkness falls, I let go, welcome the new. There is a clatter in the kitchen of dishes, music, and talking in the bedroom. Now, the sound of the cicada, healing













Across the Sky

in the coffee shop in spring dawn seeking a new path wishing to

never raise my voice again you are in my mind back in the motel

now I see gulls outside i want to return to the ocean with you


back in a place i call home in new life now i see clouds moving

across the sky














A Dark Sign
Each freight train passing
through our small town, in the mist
scrawled with gang graffiti
















Aftermath of a Car Wreck in Zuni

1
The night before my accident, I play Santa Claus again at St. Anthony School. The kids secretly wave to me. They know the real me under my suit

The next day, I do not see anything but the blinding
sun, and I feel a great crunch. Then a man runs up. I almost die. Everything changes

Another hospital. Staring up at the hospital lights, Unable to move, I struggle for breath and a nurse holds my hand. Snow falls outside in Zuni. I am trapped inside with my broken vertebrae, trapped at the Indian Health Service. My friend is gone and the bus is shut down. The lady at the desk does not seem to care. I explode in anger

No matter what, I will walk soon through the snow to the coffee shop. The fasting priest with children trailing behind him passes by Mustang. He seems to know that I need healing. Later, I watch a snowy pro game on TV. I am alone on Christmas Day. I feel indifference around me. This is me. I let my anger out

I dream of an older man I know. I always wished he were my father. I will call him, far away. The wind blows hard around my trailer. Other than that, I am alone with silence, the ones I love precious

As I walk through the snowstorm in Zuni, ravens are above, and huge dogs on the ground encircle me, but I come to no harm. Suddenly, I stop fighting the only thing that can heal me, this hateful brace. Finally, a Sioux man down at Mustang stops hating me just when I find out about the suffering that still exists at Pine Ridge

It is the end of the Zuni New Year and I walk into a changed pueblo with bonfires glowing at dawn, explosions and the pure joy of a peaceful greeting. My son and family finally call from Florida. Someone says “I love you” in the background. I tell them about the Zuni bonfires


On New Year¹s morn I greet my Zuni friends at Mustang. Everyone laughs at my encounter with the big dogs. I feel peace. There is pure yellow light at the top of the red mesa. I am very tired. I don¹t care what happens to me now. I am free

2
Awakened by Zuni fireworks at two AM. They make a quiet sound for what seems like forever. I see their glow. There is only light at the top of the red mesa. I am very tired and don’t care what happens to me now. I am free

A teacher’s aide comes by. I give her a book “Radiance Descending” for her daughter and feel everything is changing. Sister Claire will help me with the laundry. The sun is glowing off the mesa and the birds cry calling me. Now the sun’s glow at dawn shows me the mesa’s many contours. Clouds come now. The mesa appears smooth and dark


Down at Mustang, a Zuni girl asks for a loan. She is trying to raise three kids. I know very well I am not her savior. Then a kid shows me all of his gang signs and tattoos. We are friends but he stays quiet while the other gang-bangers make fun of me

The other night a Zuni woman snuck into my trailer with fry bread because I was not afraid and did not lock my door












A Man Named Ken
I wish Ken were here and I could talk with him about everything. I met him while standing in line waiting in the dusk at the temporary shelter in Northampton back in 1998. He gave me an idea what to expect in homelessness and later taught me how to keep my feet dry so they would not freeze, in the depth of winter. I was a novice homeless person. He was a veteran, in more ways than one

Ken was tall and rangy on the thin side with a moustache and in his fifties like me. I remember seeing track marks on his arm

His girlfriend, Elizabeth, lived in a tent beside the railroad tracks. She looked like Madonna, was religious and a little crazy but had a gentle voice. She never would stay inside the shelter

Ken hung out with me in coffee shops, the library at Kinko’s and at the soup kitchen. He told me how Celtic music calmed his spirit when he listened to it on his portable radio every Sunday night. He told me some things about ‘Nam like how he was forced to shoot through a baby to kill a Viet Cong lady who was about to detonate a bomb. He told me about his adult son who lived in Worcester, the one he not seen in years

We transferred over to the rehab shelter about the same time in the spring. One day I found him dead in the upstairs bathroom during a community meeting sitting on the toilet. In his hand was a needle, poised in the air. I remember his eyes were blank and he seemed to be staring into space. He wanted to talk with me before the meeting about something but I said “later.” I still feel bad about putting him off

Many years have passed. I am no longer am homeless I have a job but need more hours at work. I listen to Celtic music with my wife and do peace work and stay close with my son. Yesterday I remembered to wear socks to ward off the advancing cold






A Man with the Virus
A man with the virus gets in my car. He needs a ride to his momma’s. He’s been awake for three days. He weaves in my direction at the black convenience store. I throw my junk in the back so he can sit down

I head down a country road that runs past the high school. He directs me to stop in the middle of the road in front of a farm house and opens the passenger door. A car slows and folks watch what is going on. He asks for my number and I write it on a slip of paper. He says he may need someday to talk with me again

His face is blotchy and his eyes look bloodshot and I can barely understand his speech. But I am not afraid










Awakening

i think of my enemy

walk out into the night


the sound of a warplane

gradually fades i have awakened

from a dream




of one star wavering












Bad Day for a Sub
The teacher comes back way too soon and makes me turn down my Celtic CD. The kids are spread out on the floor playing. I have been debating the merits of black music with a girl from India. I joked with her, “That hip-hop will make your brains fall out.” She smiled back and said “I like what I like,” then tossed her head

Half the kids are out of the room, at the library or gym. The teacher averts her eyes as she counts the ones who don’t have a pass. The kids now walk around like robots, pick up paper and discard it in the trash. Then I tell the teacher I froze her computer by mistake
















Blazing Stars

at the agency
I do not belong

I want to hang out
with my crazy friends

and there is no deceit
behind their eyes

at the rec center
basketballs are flat

in the bitter cold
we play “21”


my friends are addicted
to coffee and cigarettes

my friends do not covet
money, power and control

they do not pretend
to be cold or warm

my friends are haunted by voices
but do not complain

I now understand
they are not robots

they need love
but have no husbands or wives

they may or may not
remember my name
but they greet me
like a friend

they cherish simple things
their guitar does not possess
a standard tune

I share with them a corny joke
and am not ashamed

I am only good at being a friend

I am no good at making treatment plans

I wish I could escape with them
on a Greyhound bus

I wish we could discard all medicine


most of them do not have families
And I wish they did

I want to go outside with them at dusk

I want to feel with them the slanted light

I want to hang out
with my crazy friends

I want to hear with them the voice of a frog,
walk with them, discover a pond, share with them
an echoed sound, and in the end, blazing stars



















Breaking the Silence
A preacher who is also janitor for the school firmly clasps my hand. I feel that he is searching my eyes for a flash of recognition: Am I born-again and saved? Will I respond in code? We are deep in the Bible Belt

Do I belong to Jesus? Am I one of them? Silence grows between us. I am not even tempted to mislead this man now in this age of torture, deceit, and rattling drums, the pyramid of bodies stacked, detainees confined to cages infested with insects and rats, baking in the sun, a terrorized Marine, elbowed by his DI, grabbed by the scruff of the neck, then drowned in a training pool

No, I will not play games…I am interfaith, not born-again. My “brother” at school is a gentle and good man but we never speak about the war and these atrocities. Our silence disturbs me




Bus Ride Through Time
A college kid waiting all night is in the Jacksonville bus station remembers the benches divided so no one can lie down, the “white” and “colored” water cooler signs and being prodded awake by the stick of a security guard (1962)

A VISTA Volunteer working in Mt. Carmel, Illinois is draped across the seat, deep in the night, riding a Greyhound and transfixed by the moaning sound of the bus and flickering light, returning to help his mom who is still drinking and depressed and about to be evicted from her single room (1968)

A man alone, sick, and divorced, now in Springfield, MA and working as a counselor but on the edge of homelessness himself (though he does not know it) rides the city bus up State Street all the way to K-Mart, then hides in the woods beside the parking lot (1988)

A homeless man living in a rehab shelter hitches a ride on a college bus across the Connecticut River to work with kindergarten kids (1998)


A counselor of Zuni kids in New Mexico rides to their game.
They cross the desert at dusk as the kids chatter. The driver plays black music as the red sun touches the edge of the mesa (2003)

A counselor and poet, back in New England, Bipolar and recovering, hanging out with new friends. Afraid of losing his job. In love again. Meditating on the sound of crickets, in pure light (2007)











Change
On a journey to stand up for myself in a meeting with my boss, my thoughts turn to the inevitability of nonexistence

And when I speak the truth spacetime expands to its true dimension

***

When I head out before dawn from the motel room where my wife is sleeping
invisible rain falls from the dark sky














Courage
The boy is trapped in a meeting. When the social
worker suggests church for him, he says, “I don’t
believe in God”

His mom works the night shift serving fast food and
his best friend is a gentle black man who rides his
bike around slowly until twilight comes to the
boy's neighborhood



















Deeper Hurt
I guard him too close, and then this kid is double-teamed. Anger rises in him. I reach out to touch his arm…too late. I sense, in him, a deeper hurt, from another place in time
















Down the Dark Road
Our power gone, we gather possessions, travel to Georgia. We are uprooted, but free, transformed by great trees, darkness, and wind, beneath the white moon. We jumble things together in the back seat of the car. We travel swiftly, down the dark road, through time





















Ghosts
In my dream, there is no past and future. I exist dimly, and no one knows me on the inside. I am like a ghost, nothing truly matters, and nothing exists anywhere in the beyond

In the dream, I both live and work at a residential school. Nothing I teach has any bearing on the outside world. In fact, nothing exists anywhere in the beyond

In my dream, no one is capable of conversing in any depth. Nothing ever changes in the world of this dream. No one ever questions why I have no home, beyond the residential school. We are all ghosts, I think

And nothing exists anywhere in the beyond







In the Dark Green of Dawn

Last night I awoke at four a.m. again thinking in the darkness beside Linda

She is invisible beside me. I take a closer look at the red hands of the digital clock then close my eyes. I try to recall my dream again. It slips away. I think of all who have transformed me in this life

Now I am adrift. An island rises out of the mist over and over again

I realize there is no way to turn back, and no continent exists in the beyond

Suddenly, I hear the faint cry of a bird and my eyes open to the dark green of dawn





In the Direction of Home
There is a boy at school who approaches me after class and tells me how kids push him around when no one is looking, throw paper at him and call him “queer” and “gay,” and this has been going on for a long time

This is second time he has confided in me though I am just a sub and not around very much

He says they call him gay because he is a dancer and has a high-pitched voice. He shows me some dance steps when everybody has gone to lunch

I talk with a teacher and she says he brings it on himself. I don’t give up until I find someone who will listen to him. It is the principal

After school I turn the wrong way in the parking lot with my old red car and some parent flashes me a dirty look. Then the school cop follows me for miles down, twisting and turning country roads. I stay below the speed limit and he finally gives up

I turn into a convenience store to get an orange slush and then just sit in the parking lot for a while till my heart stops beating fast

Then I turn my car in the direction of home















In the Last Period Class
A needle enters the back of the neck of a boy in the last period class. While I am reading to these veterans of lock-up subtle messages of torment and abuse are passed from hand to hand

A boy tells me he has no fear of adults. Every day a kid asks me if I want to fight but I know it’s a bluff

Another boy talks about throwing a chair at his step-dad, who was
beating his mom. And there is a boy who I wish had been a high school teammate of mine in my past

There are papers and books and other odds and ends strewn all around the classroom. And there is a girl who pretends to have “anger management” problems and shows me her tongue ring

I remember one boy from the projects. I told him about the Big Bang just before the final bell on the last day of school


In the Growing Darkness
Yesterday Linda and I found our favorite Goodwill again in a little town on Route 20 heading back through Georgia. It was just about when the sun was going down. When we pulled into the parking lot, the sky softened the edges of this small town on New Year’s Day. Our tiredness faded

I was still thinking about poetry and protest, poverty and the war, walking up and down the aisles, rubbing shoulders with other folks in mismatched clothes like me. Linda and I met in the knick-knack section. I found a sweater and she was excited about some blouses and a curved vase she wanted to transform. I also found a blank journal for writing and she discovered a silver picture frame that’s made of plastic but doesn’t look tacky at all. We drove back to South Carolina in the growing dark. But Linda pointed to a shimmering light, somewhere above, in the limitless sky





In the North End

at dusk on the steps

of the shelter my homeless

friends and me


close our eyes and breathe no longer

stalked by chaos in the North End

























I Wait for You

waking up in the middle

of the night you have not returned

from the late shift


headlights crisscrossing the sky

i wait for you





















Meditation on Two Sounds

He wishes to comfort a child he has come to know, in the gathering dusk

The sound of the cicada heals, transcending time. In the distance, there is the sound of thunder, but it does not disturb

He wishes to leave anger and control behind
















New Year

1
I am closer to you now, maybe because Toby is dying. We say your evening prayer, then throw the I Ching. Now there is a sound that does not end…of an invisible train…passing in the rain

Tomorrow is a new year
2
Toby never hurt anything. He always looked at us with Buddha eyes
3
Now you greet me in the hour before dawn light









Night Shift at the Group Home

Our shift is nearly to the end and we are giving out meds. A woman thanks us for just being human. We are all shifting slowly towards midnight. I must get back to my loved one. We are working in a group home and fear getting fired

There is deep darkness and I must leave. My friends are huddled together on the porch. They are together, sharing the sound of crickets. I wave goodbye











No longer Gripping the Wheel

I dreamed last night
about a fire out of control

Many houses
on the dark street
are burned

All these houses are ramshackle
and have the same shape

I call for help
but no one comes
many are homeless

I dreamed that everyone
on the street is a stranger

And today my brakes
suddenly failed

Wandering in and out
of strip malls

Creeping through the night
I barely survived

Now it is tomorrow
and I have made a new friend

It does not matter any more
if I fail at work

I no longer must conceal
who I am

I am now at home
and no longer gripping the wheel


One Day Teaching in a Tough Special Class
I am teaching life skills to kids in a tough special class. Chaos gradually builds. I doggedly read on, sentence by sentence a story about liberation from cages of the mind and heart

There is a new kid to quietly assault while my eyes are cast down. Gradually I move between him and the bullies

A football player joins me to help form a barrier. Some of these kids have a good heart and are my friends

Our special class is in one of the portables at the back of the school. The intercom is broken. There is no walkie-talkie to call for assistance

Paper wads fly across the room





On Main Street

On main street, where there is an empty church

On main street, where I have parked my old van, I greet Steve the unshaven mechanic

Homeless hang out on the sidewalk in front of the soup kitchen…no harm

There is a cop. I tell him the truth. On a side street, he seeks a crack dealer

To the café, the waitress calls me Hon

I can forget the pain of work. Someone I was close to ignores me now

In the café I read the I Ching and write this poem, go inside

I know beauty will come back, touch me with her eyes

















Reality and Dream
In so much pain
no energy to hate

In so much pain
no desire to put up my guard

In pain
but I have no desire
to lean on you

In pain
I am still trying
to create

In pain
no desire
to fabricate
***
I dreamed I made love
To a woman most familiar

I felt safe with her
and we shared pleasure and release

Still I desired
only the unknown

Though I felt safe with her
and we made love










Serenity
Let them do their background check. I will wait. Whatever they find, it is okay, because I will respond with only truth, whatever happens

I am free




















The Cry of a Bird in the Quiet Rain

A quiet spring rain in the trees. A multitude of leaves but each leaf is touched in turn by a drop of rain and it makes a curved motion down, then comes back up, but in slow motion. Yesterday, in the same tree, there was a small red bird with a black crest. I caught a glimpse of its wings fluttering deep in the branches

I think of prisoners of the mind or heart, or anyone bound by physical chains. Faintly, I hear the cry of a bird in the quiet rain












The Search for Someone Who Cares
Tonight I hope to wake up in my dream, where everyone moves like a ghost and the scene is impossibly vague

I am searching for a school in the city that I remember from sometime in the past but don’t know when. I am traveling through streets that are dark, though it is day

It is hazy and no sun appears ever in the dream

I am late always late and lost in the city where I am a stranger and no one remembers me

Everyone I used to know has died or moved away. I search in a phone book at a corner booth for the name of someone who I used to call my friend

Everyone in my family has left for somewhere down South

When I stumble on the school by chance the secretary is disturbed by my lateness and makes a note in her pad for the principal who is always attending a conference

When I enter my classroom the kids are in chaos and unsupervised. Their desks are falling apart and covered by graffiti. The bell rings suddenly, signaling something that I cannot understand

There is one child in the class whose eyes are clear, but that child is afraid. Her eyes are cast down and staring and blank. She has dark hair and a musician’s hands

I escort her to the hallway, kneel down and tell her that I will not abandon her till we come to truly exist in the reality of light






Someone Asking for a Light
Bitter fight on the road… consciousness fades. Graffiti in a rest room…“all coloreds sign below…” The car with blacked-out windows and a figure inside makes you afraid. Suddenly, the frame of this picture is broken and the world is softened in a gathering flame. You wish for anger to disappear. Now the man, a homeless alien, makes hand signals and asks for a light























The Party I Want

We were all friends, but we drifted away. One of us was fired. Another quit. Nothing more than temporary workers. More and more, we were staring at the computer screen. When the boss left, we spoke intimately…I mean intimate in spirit, and close to the heart

I want to plan a going away party that will last forever

After I left, I called back, but felt tongue-tied. I saw one of you in the medical clinic but you barely spoke. There has been so much drifting away in my life. I want it to stop

***

Last night I dreamed I revealed my clutter, the myriad contents of my junk drawer. It lay in the grass in front of a man I have not seen in thirty years


***
I want to ask my new friends to a party that will last forever. I want to stop moving, someday, away from myself

















Trilogy

1

In the check cashing and pay-day loan store, this is our last hope to get some money. We line up with

others who hide their desperation,
The clerk counts our money with a smile, the same clerk I remember

from years ago, behind a set of bars, We may still be forced to park on the street overnight

2

The old lady, smoking a cigarette on the stoop…She, the motel clerk, welcomes us to town

The owners are away, so her homeless friend comes by

When the owners return, they will watch us like hawks, and may fire her.

Just one look at our old van is enough.

3

Stranded again, running out of money. This time I am not alone,
but have you…And a mist of rain falls. Now we are in deep twilight.

We are strangers to the garage man, and we are broke. Our car has died and I must protect you.








Walking Up From the Worthington Street Shelter
I am walking up the hill from the shelter at 7 AM, headed to the donut shop where the locals hang out
I don’t remember what happened to my car I used to drive there. I have my gym bag, with stuff to read and write. The folks ignore me and talk about their own thing. I write in my journal, searching within for a vision of hope, Some semblance of a plan

I will walk to the bus station locker soon to check on my things









We Will Be Okay
We sat in the church parking lot and the minister never showed up. We drove to a pancake house and on the way I told a lot of jokes. Then we drove around Eastern Connecticut looking for yard sales. When I stood up for you at work, you said, a coldness disappeared inside

Soon I will play basketball at twilight. You will practice walking meditation. Whatever happens on the job, we will be okay









What Matters

I drive up and the kid I work with is in the yard, walking around aimlessly…speak to his dad as he leaves for first shift. Knock on the back door and mom appears. She is pale and weak. She passed out at the fast food joint when her bp went through the roof. She was the only one working again

I will come back later to play baseball with the kid. Walking back to the car, I am not afraid, because the one shaggy dog they have left is gentle

On the way home, my transmission begins to fail, but I don’t care







Acknowledgments

Your Hard Life…Shadows of Green (chapbook), Tiny Poems press, 1997

Well Past Midnight (excerpt), Eclectica, 2005

The Spirit of Zuni (excerpt), Haiku Reality, 2004

A Call from the Atlanta Airport, Dispatch, 2006

Acceptance of Change, Alba, 2006

A Dark Sign, Gray Borders, 2006

A Man with the Virus, Dispatch, 2006

Bad Day for a Sub, Subtletea, 2006

Down the Dark Road, Pens on Fire, 2006

In the Growing Darkness, Pegasus, 2005

Meditation on Two Sounds, Studio 1, 2006

The Cry of a Bird in the Quiet Rain, Light of Consciousness, pending, spring, 2007

The Search for Someone Who Cares, Dissident Editions, 2005

Someone Asking for a Light, Cerebration, 2006