First cold night. 2025

When the air is chilled, sound
Travels more crisply; that guy
Behind, who would have been
Loud anyway, well tonight his
Voice carries brightly past my
Ear. It's that kind of cold night,
Early enough so those out in 
It are not carousers, too late
To be coming from the office 
Unless you're inclined to late
Hours. Maybe you're strolling
Home from a dinner, or out
With your dog. In the cold, it's
Hard but walking your dog is
A duty. He probably loves it
The bright clean air. Some of
You put coats on the critter
But I think he'd be happier if
You let him out au naturel.
This little guy swaggers out
And down the steps, his guy
A coupla steps behind him.
It's that kind of cold night.

Average

The river at its most placid
Is eerily glassy, a flat road,
Unbroken by the rapid whirls 
So familiar on normal days.
Are there normal days, are
The days where the eddies 
Appear normal, and in what
Way are they so? Is normal
The unquiet moving water, 
Running up and down, or so
It seems, or is normal a bar
Too high or too hidebound

Your picture

You were my favorite subject.
No one could be more delighted 
Or more honestly surprised 
When I snapped a picture of you
Sitting in the sun, smiling, or
Pensive, always beautiful, my
Handsome man, my lovely
Model, always enjoying the 
Attention, the adoration I knew
You felt pouring from me to
You. I will never take a new
Photo of your serious face. My
Favorite subject. I delight now
At how many photos, portraits
I have. I can study you for hours
My favorite model, patient 
And willing, your photo alone or
With me. In a park, by the river,
At a baseball game or just at
Peace in the comfort of your
Big brown chair. My favorite 
Subject, I have these pictures
As a memento, memories 
That keep me company now.
Now I take pictures of all 
The places we visited together.
More memories, pictures I
Had taken often before.
Repetition is also memory.

It’s a noise

There are frogs in the kitchen
As the percolator burps its brew
In the quiet of these rooms
It's a noise.
Out the window, cup in hand
I spy a flag unfurled in the breeze
Lightly waving in the glow of
Early morning sunlight
It's a symbol taking symbolic action
On a day we're remarking that
America is not for sale
Will we be heard in the quiet
Of these rooms,
Of these streets?

important notes

It is important to document my thoughts. My memories have an even more important place. It’s important to remember.

We drove over the roads
Winding through small towns
Named long ago but unknown
To me, conjuring recollections
But still unfamiliar. We drove
Through towns, Amy and I,
Where I had been years ago,
Familiar to her in their autumn
Splendor. These had been the
Byways I drove years ago, we
Drove, my mother and I, our
Girls' trips, years ago, those
Last six months. We drove 
Through trees emerging in the
Springtime, a farewell tour. 
Today, I remember, I celebrate
It will not be for the last time.
We'll drive here again, Amy 
And I, and remember.

Like Aeschylus

Shakespeare was clever, his
Language precise, but cheeky.
He was not a muse, he was a
Legend, an icon, one to envy,
One to emulate. To dream of
Emulating, a beacon and the
Star in a firmament of English
Poets, Marlowe, Jonson, Dunne
I am done and undone but I,
Like you, try, and want or wish
Or hope, to bend my English to
My thoughts, to trail in the vein
Of the Masters who have so
O'ermastered their English that
My trials are vain, and in vain,
Vainglorious, the Poet might
Say, but not to mock me as I
Try to follow a path that I am
Doomed to find harder than
The Bard's whose prose was 
Poetry and poetry unerringly
Human and complete. I aspire
Where inspiration will not go

Now that you’re gone

A lament, an apology, a resolution

I am sorry I could not
Sit with you after you
Passed. My vigil was
For your life, not your
Death. And, yes, I was 
Vigilant while you still
Drew breath, alert to
How precious a gift it
Was to watch over you 
Of how precious our 
Life together, our love
Was. I sit with you now
Still. I hold vigil in my
Heart's remembrances

How it unfolds

Me, but also all of us

The rest is just rearranging
The notes of our songs, or
The furniture in our rooms,
The clothes we wear or the
Jackets we discard. It's all
As expected, as it was set
Down, jotted once, so we
Can play upon a template
To make it our own, ours
To make it the music that  
Is the backdrop of our life

You

Rhythm runs your heart,
Beats out the time, taps
Down through your toes.
Its syncopation rides in
Every movement, you're
Smooth, gliding with a
Grace that's memorable
The counterpoint sweeps
Everyone off their feet

Us, you plus me

The rearrangement is the
Arrangement, the timing 
Is right on the beat, the
Counterpoint moves so
Effortlessly, melodiously
You feel each note move 
Through your heart, I can
Rewrite a chapter, change
A word or two so its all in
Rhythm, a drumbeat that
We recognize as ours alone

Ouriborus?

What's the word for that
That snake biting its tail
That perfect circle a self
Immolation, a destroying
Eating itself to what end
No pun there, move on to
The dictionary. What's the
Word for that symbol, an
Image hard to forget even
As the word is forgotten
Representing the forever
What's the word for that?