Carry On

No comment
this year
thank you.

Black and White at The Fall of Night

It's all shades of black and white out there
snowing diagonally at dusk, and
the people from the church stand on the
sidewalk where they always do weekends
dishing out warm food and hot soup
to anyone who steps up - the poor -
you might call them.

This scene never seems to change, but the givers seem
warm and joyful, and their church is down the street
so they don't look like they're out doing good works,
they look just like everyone else here doing what they do,
wearing hoods, waiting for buses, walking on slippery sidewalks,
some  of them with such quick and searching eyes.

A few blocks later, it's coming down at a greater rate
in bigger flakes and everything is now white
except the cars and the buildings and the people under hoods.

A car goes by on the left headed in the other direction
and I glimpse a broken bicycle somehow attached to its back door,
while to my right a black hooded form lies in the snow white street
on its side, small hands pressed together in between its knees.

Someone on a cell phone stands over the form
from under his hood a human face shows
an earnest plea for emergency services, 
and on the sidewalk stand small children, also hooded,
watching, not knowing where to look, trying not to be
swallowed up by the snow coming now horizontally.

I want to say - I love you, but it's really turning to
New England's winter version of shit out here fast,
maybe the best thing to do for all concerned is
watch where I'm going and get the hell off the streets.

Jaques Brel - Ne Me Quitte Pas

Possible

He sings of the possibility of two hearts
twice igniting which seems, from here,
as difficult as running one hundred miles
which my feet know for a fact can be done.

Far From Me

First Things First

I've been thinking lately
that I need a writing table
which is a real crock-of-shit thought,
don't think I don't see the game
you're trying to run on me
because I do, demons, I do.

I don't need a writing table,
I need to sit down and write.

I don't need props, I need an idea.
And some human feeling, I mean something
other than contempt, and just a small spark of energy,
a little discipline, and an internal iron fist.

I sure could use those manic wings
which flew away and left some time ago -
please write me if you see them.

I probably do need to shake this
lavender and white polka-dotted
plastic table cloth though.

Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be

It's one of those cold clear nights
good and holy, quiet and still
featuring plenty of moonlight and stars
walking under it for a moment
after the trials and festivities of the day
I remember her asking me
if I even like Christmas
because after fifteen or more spent
together, she never thought I did.

The moon is silent, cold and beautiful
and this moment here, stopping now,
has something to do with what your heart is
and why no one else can see what you mean.