not quite abandoned

 "Somewhere, deep down, they're a junk drawer."

-- Hank Green

minor skills,

stashed in the clutter

like matchbooks

(why do I still have matchbooks)

take on the

vague odor

of disuse

as they mingle

with paper, slowly breaking down,

and oil (I wonder what this small

bag of parts belongs to),

not quite abandoned,

waiting

for that moment

you need

a match.

tickled

 these shades of green

confuse me

as they attack.

a narrow band,

sure,

but these crests

and troughs

bring

a forgotten intensity

of electromagnetic

radiation

that enters

through my cornea

and startles

me down to 

my toes --

bare,

in the sunshine,

tickled

by these colors

that must,

I guess,

be mowed.

current

 in my mind,

it's always

Spiderman,

this webbing

hanging  from 

the tops 

of the buildings,

the iconic

red and blue,

this idea

that some of the time

people do the right thing

because it's the 

right thing

that this city

can be better

because we are

different,

because we don't 

always 

understand 

each other

because we can try

and ride

this current

and lift those

that find themselves

beneath the wave

Contained

because I am contained,

for the moment,

at the intersection

of cinder block walls

and LED lights,

I push my vision

into the middle distance

where lack of focus

allows me to see

puddles and sunshine

competing for dominance

in a November world.

I replace the electric hums

of this inside world

with fooling winds,

which come in slowly

but still sting with cold.

my dry, warm, feet

feel the shifting

layers of sodden leaves

and I slip

and find myself

with pencil in hand,

and coffee that has cooled

and time

has passed.

again.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

waiting on the rain,

dreaming that it shall begin

as a mist

sent to muddy my thoughts

before strengthening slightly

to a drizzle,

just enough to wet my hair

and alter the hue

of my shirt from ocean

to peacock,

cold enough

to have my breath

form

before my eyes

and shiver my bones,

releasing

the aches of years

before I trundle

back to warmth and light,

renewed.

(If you could be any Animal) The First thing I can remember writing was about squirrels

We shared the trees.
Climbing,
always to greater hights,
and I would watch
and wish
I could make those
graceful
(sometimes graceless)
leaps
from tree to tree,
traversing the canopy,
this boundry between
earth and space.
Always a child
with one foot
not firmly
planted.

Gravity

Catching a toe
on uneven pavement,
I stumble.
And this small event
recalibrates my gyroscope,
changing my focus
from what is ahead
to what is up.
So I greet the maple leaves
which rush down to offer
their comfort,
then stand again,
sore but grateful
to be reminded
that gravity
is here for all of us.

in the morning

 "And, but, and or get you pretty far!"

                -- Conjunction Junction

and there is the Sun,
mellow this morning
as if wondering
if this world
is worth shining on.
but, seeing the dew,
playing in the fallen
maple leaves
she rises for a peek
and refracts,
slow-
ing
ever
so
slight-
ly
as she passes through
the droplets,
exciting some electrons
who are happy to see her
or maybe
have been awakened too soon
and dread leaving the comfort
of home.

puddle break

"funny but it seems I always wind up here with you"
--The Carpenters

burnt orange
and sienna
take me places
where words fail
as leaves fall,
where I pray for rain
to gather
in puddles
suitable for stomping,
and gray skies
to dampen me,
until I wind up here,
chilled
and wet
with eyes open.
and ready

Speaking Fluent Mushroom

 “There is also another option – they are saying nothing.” --Andrew Adamatzky on Mushroom Communication

we like to see parallels.
human connections
between living things.

electrical impulses
in the mycelium
become words
and sentences.

sending warnings.
expanding access to food
and water.

but no word
on messages being sent
designed only
to hurt
and hate.

so the parallel
falls apart

Does This Time-Frame Suit Me

breaking time,
again,
pumping seconds
until they burst
leaving shard like
milliseconds
on the ground.
double-step
around the mess
(never step on a shard of time)
content to 
let someone else 
(you may meet yourself)
repair
the damage.
but sunlight
refracts
through the pieces
kaleidoscoping
my vision
guiding me back
(maybe not back)
(maybe not forward)
stuck
again.

It's a paper airplane kind of day

 It's a paper airplane kind of day.

The words won't stick
so I fold them
and sail them,

across the room at first,
then up the stairs
and out the door
into forgotten sunshine

(my mind is still
cloudy and gray)

until this minor wonder of aviation
comes to rest
in what remains of the rain,
taking on too much water to fly,

but now
my spirit
can take flight.

Hydrogen

at a distance                 at a distance
uncomprehendable       of six city blocks
in this silly                     is a person
human mind,                so decidedly
lies                                different
another sun                  from me
made of                        I cannot hope
the same stuff              to understand
as me                            them

Don't Doubt the Science

Photons give
bound electrons
energy to jump
(and dance)
and lower resistance
allowing this switch
to switch
and so the streetlamp
clicks off
announcing the coming
of morning
no matter how gray

of Spring

I send fleeting, desperate thoughts
out through my morning window,
hoping to connect
with something beyond this cup of coffee
which warms my fingers,
but they cannot compete
against the hush of tires
on wet pavement
and instead
die
slowly,
hidden deep
in the beautiful
emergent
green
of Spring.

What I think in the moment between breaths

I have spent my life
cataloguing
the hues in a gray sky
and the diameter of raindrops
as they fall.
I have stood, arms outstretched,
measuring the time it takes
to achieve maximum saturation.
I have used calipers
to measure the wrinkles
on my toes caused by standing
in puddles for days.
And I have wondered,
if each drop could carry
a small bit of me,
how long would it take
for a Spring shower
to carry me
to Summer.

What is this settled you speak of?

Sunshine runs barefoot
through my back yard,
dancing through the too long grass.
Bliss encapsulated
in the glass jar of a moment.
Though moments pass
and children age
life, seen from a distance,
moves like the Earth
through the cosmos--
always in a different spot
but, somehow, seen
as the same.

The super secret location of happiness

The morning Sun is playing with illusions.
Dappling my wall
with louvered windows,
disjointed as they fall
across my desk before breaking
onto the wall.

As a child
I would seek these projections,
angled and shifted,
on the floor
and lie down in their warmth
hoping to fall through
to a land
of light and happiness.

Today
I find myself wondering
if all it took was time
to make it to the other side.
So I wave to the little boy
to let him know
we're here.
We made it.

The seven year old workout

Ignoring this idea
that I am an adult,
I obey my daughter's command
and follow:
Up the stairs,
hand over hand across the bars,
then up the rock wall
to the platform
where we slide back down
while static electricity
builds and releases.
Before I can comment,
we are off again,
repeating variations
on the pattern
until we collapse
on the ground,
face up,
taking in the simple wonder
of a cloudless spring sky.
And Time,
radiating like energy from a child,
stops
and allows me to gape in wonder
at her magnificence
before winding her arms
and starting again.

The stories come out on wet city streets

I imagine
that red brick
absorbs memories
which cause it to darken
with age.
Porous outer layers
stripped of their potash
provide shelter
for the secrets and fears
of the ages
until rain,
kicked up by
those moving too fast
to listen
splashes against the grain
and the brick
sighs out a
long forgotten story.
If only
you will listen.