it doesn’t matter anymore

 

it was a watercolor morning

the sky tangerine, punched with boysenberry

and yet you wept

your tears delicious were it not for unbearable pain

 

i look back now at countless years

wondering ten thousand times over

if perhaps storm clouds had cast shadows

where rain refused to fall

 

then perhaps i would still reach out

and feel your hand, warm and inviting

rather than the emptiness i felt when you left

and took your name with you

 

rarely now do i search my memory

wondering if it was tuesday in the rain

or if tangerines and boysenberries would fill my need

without their juices on your delicious lips

 

i suppose it never matters when looking back

that clouds linger overhead as clouds will do

as i wonder what you sounded like

what you felt like, and of your fragrance

 

it doesn’t matter anymore

deep secrets have all been whispered

bitter tears cried, and words spoken

to line heavens darkest clouds

 

it only matters that this is loneliness defined

and i have lived there

 

 

clara

 

down at the fourth street pub and grill

most folks sat around the bar

while one played to her hearts content

wishing to someday become a star

 

clara tinkered on her beat-up steinway

with whiskey glasses neatly stacked

as her fingers found the waiting keys

she poured out her soul where talent lacked

 

alternating softly between sharps and flats

ebony and ivory and nothing between

tears steadily fell into her latest glass

dreams and visions not as they seemed

 

stains of soured whiskey touched the rim

where red lipstick dried like her empty kiss

she tickled the keys with a sad love song

but the smooth ivory bars were much too stiff

 

numb fingers stopped her cold on one song

she knew there was nothing more to say

so clara stood and quietly bowed to none

for to no one in particular she refused to play

 

clara left dejected and alone that night

whiskey glasses still stacked high

and no one missed her when she was gone

though she had really wanted to say goodbye

 

now only one respectful gentleman visits her

placing twelve white roses on her grave

as he recalls the girl who played the steinway

and the joyous moments of music she gave

 

 

encounter on pier 39

 

 she sat inaudibly alone on pier thirty-nine

 watching colorful sail boats go lazily by

 i didn’t know her name but she was a friend of mine

 and it hurt so badly to see her cry

 

 with my guitar in my left hand and wishes in my right

 i approached her quietly, careful not to intrude

 the waters were darker than the moonless night

 and i spoke softly to avoid being abruptly rude

 

“may I play a simple song for you?”

 i asked, carefully watching her beautiful blue eyes

 “i haven’t written it yet so we’ll see how i do.”

 and with that she started to softly cry.

 

“i wanted to jump into the water tonight.”

 she confessed when i started to strum

 i said, “i could tell your darkness had swallowed the light

 i suppose your desperation told me to come.”

 

 i laid my pride down and strummed out a song

 a simple story just to say i understood

 and that however she felt things had gone so wrong

 somehow she could still find some good

 

 my soul has throbbed like fire in the dark of night

 crunched and crushed like flattened trash in the street

 like a thin shelter from wind, covering my fright

 while tearing up pieces to cover my feet

 

 so i know your broken heart, my friend

 i’ve seen you through the eyes of a broken old man

 so please walk away ‘cause I know you can.”

 and with those words i took her outstretched hand.

 

 i never saw her again after that memorable night

 but the song was etched forever in my heart

 and somehow it seemed we soared to new heights

 and with the freedom of our song found a new start

 

 i still avoid the choppy waters of pier thirty-nine

 and find I must avoid the beautiful golden gate

 yet i wonder what became of this lonely friend

 who sat alone one night quietly tempting fate

 

 

 

i watched her…she was a jewish girl dancing in a meadow of daisies.  i admired her

as if i was boaz watching ruth gleaning in the fields.  i wished to redeem her and yet

i knew redemption was not mine to offer.  i wished to plant words in the fertile soil

where daisies grew in abundance.  words i planted and this is what was harvested in due time…

 

liana’s song

 

with cotton clouds above her

and yellow daisies at her feet

she danced to a silent song

of freedom

 

hands outstretched

and palms to the heavens

her black hair flowed

like summer showers

as she watched the waving daisies

swaying to the same song

while sheets of music poured

from the purple mountains

 

words of praise filled her heart

in her own presence she moved

a fluid dancer in the field of daisies

singing

‘you have turned my mourning into dancing

you have shown me the beauty of daisies…’

 

she stood,

tears welling in her eyes

a field of daisies, her blanket of comfort

she whispered,

‘in the midst of daisies i hold  sunflowers in my heart

      

 

looking back on mendocino

 

i remember mendocino, with

old farm houses and barns

 

harbored in the belly of the bay

where the little town swallowed fog and fishing boats

 

and in san francisco when i was younger

i saw blue and red and purple houses on stanyan street

 

i slowly strolled

through the time-stilled shops on fisherman’s wharf

 

then gulped laughter

when laughter was part of my life

 

i followed it with ghiradelli chocolate

and wisps of the wayward wind

 

when i was younger

i walked along the pacific shores

 

crying easily because i was alone

and streetlights at midnight never reveal secrets

 

i found sand dollars and a special starfish

 

when i was younger i had hope

and believed that there really was a tomorrow

 

now i am old

i have lost my sand dollars and my special starfish

 

now i am old

i have lost hope

 

i have only a tiny bowl of yesterday

 from which to pull memories

 

wishing to never lose them

knowing someday i will

 

for now i am old

and all my smiles have been swallowed

 

and yesterday’s memories

so long ago forgotten.

 

i still see the fishing boats

off the shores of mendocino

 

i still hear the fog horns

and bellyaching sea lions

 

i still see the waving wildflowers

and gray-wood weather-beaten barns

 

mendocino was old when i first saw her

and now we have aged together

 

watched over by the light of point cabrillo

turning throughout the night

 

watching for jesus to walk on the water

to heal the sick and give sight to the blind

 

when the waters calmed, i heard peace

i looked and it was jesus, looking into my eyes

 

what were you doing on stanyan street? he asked.

i don’t go down there on friday nights

 

morning was sadder than april

 

he looked at his clock and calendar at the same time

then glanced back at march before it ended

and ahead to april before it had begun.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance…

no breeze to push the clouds along

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

 

it was morning and morning was sadder than all of april

 —nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide—

just time—minutes really—before he had to go.

 

there were no birds in the sky on a day such as this…

third monday—march too far gone—

yet april too far away.

 

morning was sadder than all of april

and he had chosen to watch as march surrendered it’s place

to the delegation of memories.

 

morning pushed hard on the clouds,

moving quieter than the silence of daybreak,

waiting like a vagrant at a bus depot and with less hope for kindness.

 

there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance across the countryside…

and no promise of hope beyond the horizon.

morning was sadder than all of april and only fragments of march remaine

 

nightlight

 

an amber colored nightlight casts a glow

from behind the wicker clothes basket

like a miniature sunrise

born behind an imposing mountain

 

it doesn’t illuminate much

just a little piece of an off-white wall

—spackled like tiny crevices on a stone cold moon—  

and the backside of the clothes hamper

which nobody sees anyway

 

tangerine shadows crawl slowly

like an old plymouth choking on it’s last vapors

bleeding into the wall with the introduction of light

until the faded color wilts toward extinction

much like an endangered species

 

when morning’s light finally arrives

as it has always done—so far—

the nightlight will no longer be indispensable

…a small switch flipped

…the radiance swallowed

 

while the sun peeks over the mountaintop

casting an amber glow on the garden

like a tiny nightlight

hiding behind a wicker clothes hamper

painting the wall orange juice with pulp

 

full circle…no beginning, no end

the color of morning is a celebration

that another day has arrived

and a tiny nightlight waits

for the moment it will blush again

 

no coins

 

no coins left in his pocket

 nickels had come and gone

even pennies were gone

     and wishes were still free

rain left him soaked to the bone

 

he wanted to love her

but the song was no longer playin

her words were mumbled truths

and god only knew she was prayin

 

his fingertips dug for breadcrumbs

his heart searched for words

he’s sold his soul for he quiet of silence

and traded his mind for

 

november doesn’t hurt anymore

 

i used to wind back winter memories

as hurriedly as i would turn back the hands

on some cheap throw-away alarm clock.

 

pending holidays marched in cadence through my mind

like burdensome social events,

catered, crowded, and distant.

 

rain tempted me.

snow teased me.

i tasted both and each left me cold and thirsty.

 

i hitchhiked through childhood

when i should have walked.

 

i cried through terror-filled nights

and hid in the shadows of day.

 

then you touched me

and folded your words over me warmly

like a soft down-filled blanket.

 

you spoke kindly

through the love-filled months of summer

and when the doors of october closed

you set back the clock for an hour,

turned, and taught me about love

…in november.

 

now, because of your love

november doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

october brushed by

 

 in the midst of an october sunrise

 bearing splashes of colors beyond description

 like a thick acrylic paint mixture

 crimson with cadmium yellow

 thrown…scattered like seed…by the hand of god

 morning unfolds like a delicate rose

 

 light crawls like aching fingers

 touching soft lips that moisten the sands,

 retreating, sliding like two bodies too close

 to be parted, moving slowly, one advancing-

 retreating, wave at a time.

 

 the water returns—

 –to the water

 the sand to the sand

 and yet the light to darkness

 

 i’m sinking beneath the surface of my soul

 void of color, gray on gray on gray

 as a jacket of black smothers me

 suffocating me

 gripping my heart

 until i see evil being squeezed out

 jealousy is green, greed is yellow

 hatred is black and deceit is red

 until at last

 god has taken the ugliness of my heart

 squeezed my evil

 and fashioned a brand new color

 for tomorrow’s rainbow

 

 all get one

 just one

 and you will remember yours

 

he can’t let go

 

the wooden rail

that leads from up to down

has led him to this place

his final journey into the basement of his life

 

no turning around

no climbing back to the top

 

there’s no one home

but he knew that before making his way down

one step at a time

and now, he can’t let go

 

life gripped him as tightly as he gripped the rail

 

he would sit now until he died

watching his fingers turn darker

than the wood he gripped

he can’t let go

 

omelette

 

i wanted to make an omelette, denver,

with colors that would make morning weep

like breakfast kicking from inside

the belly of an impoverished child

 

green and red peppers

alternating stop and go on a busy boulevard

or roses with plush leaves

watered by tears and let dry by memories

of parched land and dusty dirt roads

 

poetry doesn't matter much anymore

when words don't save a thirsty child

and graves are dug to apease the living

while the heart of man is darkened

and colors are left to bleed

like cloth from madras

 

ethiopia is hungry, somalia thirsty

india feeds and weeps

while the rains fall and hold buckets of hope

within the grasp of children who die

waiting

wishing for an egg more scrambled

than those cracked in denver

 

photographic suicide

 

 it was black and white in a world void of color

 —yet the story it told was endless—

 all he owned to prove he really lived.

 

 it didn’t matter to anyone else

 that gray trees stood against a gray sky

 a shade lighter than the gray grass.

 

 the photograph was paper, easily torn,

 like his darkened heart,

 discarded, once used.

 

 he could hear his mother cry out

 —and the sobbing of his sister—

 in the simple scene of emptiness and pain.

 

 it didn’t rain,

 yet the clouds that danced in stillness

 were pallid gray.

 

 it doesn’t matter anymore that he ripped his life in half

 when he destroyed his only boyhood photograph.

 

 it was black and white in a world void of color.

 

reality of tuesday

 

i sat alone on tuesday

looking out  at the leaning fence posts

wishing for rain

to bring a melody of songs that died years ago

 

i watched my own reflection

in decaying wood and twisted bale wire

searching for a smile through my tears

yet feeling only the empty in my belly

 

weeds wrapped around the thirsty posts

strangling only lifelessness

born on a desolate country road

where night slipped to the ground like a heavy shadow

 

i prayed to have a mind with the power

the freedom and jubilation of a smile

and eyes to see beyond the horizon

and not only the twisted wire and strangling weeds

 

as i sat alone on tuesday i knew the heartbreak of emptiness

the loneliness of morning

as it peeled away the black darkness of midnight

leaving only the pain of knowing 

 

this time, tuesday would not pass

 

removal of the tree

 

the tree is gone

today they took it away to die alone in a deserted orchard

lemon trees once produced yellow balls there

until one day the land was crushed

 

by a big yellow machine not related to the lemons

it’s heavy blade raped the soil with each full scoop

like a fat man turned loose at a free banquet

 

the coyotes cried before leaving, they never liked lemons anyway

but home was home and they wanted to stay amid the lemon trees

until the yellow machine came and took the last tree away

 

then they shook their heads in sorrow

and wept with howling, crying from their near-empty bellies for the loss

knowing their young would never see the home they left

 

the tree is gone

with one last painful look back the coyotes know it is true

heavy black smoke rose from the big yellow machine

as it burped and bellowed a baritone song

 

and the land they always wanted to keep soft was transformed

to a hard smooth floor more bitter than lemons

 

purple bowl in the window

 

he didn’t like city buses spouting black smoke,

park benches overtaken by pigeons, 

or towns with straight, one-way streets.

 

he didn’t care for department stores featuring girls

with plastic smiles

or big-nosed politicians smoking short, fat cigars.

 

he was raised in the south

and chewed words longer than originally intended.

 

he didn’t like lemons

or the purple bowl in the window of the hardware store.

 

monday through friday was sufficient

—and then the weekend came—

complete with the quiet of silence.

 

he could hear the void in his heart 

like a glass of undisturbed water…

or the sound of the sun rising in the east.

 

barren and hushed—

the purple bowl in the window reminded him of his life—

yet he could not hear the melody of the carnival.

 

sometimes he dreamed of squeezing yellow lemons

into the purple bowl but that would be fruitless;

the bowl was hollow, the lemons bitter…just like tomorrow.

 

paranoia in the purple dress

 

This started out as a short poem but evolved into

a short story. 

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on sunday,

and florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

knee socks kept her legs warm.

 

‘most everybody called her mary

but she knew she was evelyn.

 

the preacher smiled

when she walked by him

 

but never until his sermon was over,

then he smiled at everyone.

 

her bible was thick and black

but folks only saw a silver and red box

with bold white words, ‘holy bible’

written across the lid bigger than a dollar bill.

 

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian,

they knew because her bible told them so.

 

she rarely took her bible from the box,

the pages were crisp, new and unturned.

 

today evelyn wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes, except for the mud.

 

part ii

 

in the cold morning air

evelyn clutched her boxed bible tightly

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel world,

where everyone called her mary—

except the preacher, when he walked by—

and he never spoke, only nodded…

but in an approving way

that made her feel more like evelyn than mary.

 

she always sat in the same place at church,

third pew from the back,

left hand side of the sanctuary.

(when facing the pulpit)

the preacher saw her on his right

 

there were always whispers

when evelyn walked into the big room, the sanctuary,

the place of refuge…

 

she had heard the secrets for most of her seventy-five years.

 

now the whispers were from the grandchildren

of the girls-now old women-

who, as children, stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

 

 

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she was a third generation harassee

or would have been if that was a word… maybe next year.

 

mary carried a tiny coin purse

with glittering sequins and a metal clasp.

no one had ever seen her open it,

still wrapped in plastic and as clean as the day she bought it.

the sequins were shiny and new

 

her fingers were bent like an illegal u-turn

and only the tiny coin purse and bible

kept her fingers from collapsing into her palm in full surrender.

she called it a miracle-that she could unfurl her fingers-

the preacher said it was nothing more than exercise.

 

part iii

 

evelyn lost the one she loved in a time of war

-america is always fighting with someone-

she found him hanging in their garage,

grinding wheel still turning and drills to be sharpened.

his battle was over, his war ceased.

she was twenty-three when herbert quit.

 

people stared when evelyn walked by.

everybody knew about herbert

and how he chose absolution from the war

in a rather awkward way on that monday in his garage.

he left a three-letter one-word note:

 

bye.

 

in her closet were four purple dresses,

three pairs of florescent yellow tennis shoes,

and six pairs of pink knee socks,

one pair for every day of the week.

 

and of course, ‘unmentionables’ which shall remain unmentionable

 

she always stayed home on one unselected day

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on monday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman;

when w earing knee socks she felt special.

 

on monday she also wore a green hat

and watched the children go off to school

like she had done more than fifty-three years ago,

to the whispers of the girls who stalked her on the playground

just to sassily mumble mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

part iv

 

evelyn wondered what went wrong, each monday.

that’s when she found herbert hanging in the garage

when there was work to be done

and now she had to deal with his funeral on thursday.

she would have to wear her glasses.

 

evelyn wore a purple dress on tuesday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid the stubble on her legs.

 

on tuesday she wore her wedding ring

the grocers were flirtatious

and a girl has to be careful in the produce department

she heard the whispers of the grocers who stalked her in the aisles

just to sassily mumble, mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

she never let the boy carry out her groceries.

food is a very personal thing

and people could learn a lot by what she ate.

just more fodder for gossip.

it was nobody’s business.

 

part v

 

on wednesday evelyn wore a purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks hid her bruises.

 

she wore long white gloves on wednesday,

waiting for the day she could weed her garden.

the gardeners came on wednesday,

same men each week for twenty years.

someday she would help pull weeds

and spray tomatoes with deadly pesticides.

 

She thought about asking

How to use the hose nozzle but

the gardeners spoke no english

but it didn’t really matter

she never spoke to strangers anyway.

 

part vi

 

mary wore a wrinkled purple dress on thursday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks made her happy.

 

on thursday mary wore her glasses.

she could hardly see without them

but most days she chose near blindness

over watching the tv news on channel four.

 

the pretty blonde always whispered

as she read her cue card…mary, mary, quite contrary.

later magdeline, harlot and other words followed.

 

also, she knew from his look,

the weatherman despised her

 

she could see the world more clearly without her glasses.

she thought maybe they were too tight on her nose…

or maybe the ears.

her glasses were suffocating her

but she only wore them on thursday,

the day herbert was buried.

 

part vii

 

on friday, mary was naked

just like herbert when she found him,

hanging by the neck in their tidy garage.

she turned on the grinding wheel and made a pot of coffee

—black with two level spoons of sugar—

while she read the morning comics.

 

on friday there was no whispering, 

there was no laughter.

she sat alone in a world of her own

until the voice within her said,

“evelyn, tomorrow is saturday,”

so she put her coffee down and ironed her purple dress.

 

although mary hated to iron, it was necessary.

she hated wrinkles more than she hated to iron

and the world has enough wrinkles as it is.

 

Part viii

 

on saturday evelyn wore a perfect purple dress

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks smelled fresh from the clothesline.

 

she wore a gold chain necklace on saturday.

herbert’s ring was suspended around her neck;

her nimble fingers touched the shiny links

and she saw how pretty it looked with her purple dress.

the gold brought out the yellow in her tennis shoes

and the chain reinforced the bondage in her head.

 

evelyn looked forward to sunday

when she could wear her purple dress

and say hello to the preacher

when he walked by, after his sermon.

he would see her bible box and smile.

 

part Ix

 

mary wore a purple dress on sunday,

florescent yellow tennis shoes

with pink knee socks pulled up high.

pink always made her feel like a woman

and knee socks protected her modesty.

 

‘most everybody called her evelyn

but she knew she was mary.

the preacher never smiled when he walked by,

especially once his sermon was over.

he had better things to do.

 

she lifted the lid from the box that held her bible,

touched the leather cover with her palm,

remembered the day herbert bought it

and told her she might need it real soon.

she didn’t have a purple dress when she was twenty-three.

she didn’t have a gold chain for her neck,

a green hat, bright yellow sweater or glasses.

 

 

 

part x

 

mary closed the lid that covered her bible

and looked through the wire mesh thick glass window.

she could hear the whispers from no one who stood staring

some folks said she was crazy,

others said she was christian.

 

today mary wore a sweater, bright yellow,

over her sunday dress, purple.

it almost matched her tennis shoes—except for the mud—

and she clutched her boxed bible tightly,

protecting her heart from the cold, cruel people

who whispered rumors in the empty halls

rumors about mary evelyn

 

the crazy old woman in ward 23b.

.