black angel

He emerged alone from
hung heavy air
alone, skin, bones and
dark as sin
with broken-gate teeth
searching to light the dead
torch he clutched in wrinkled hand.
He sang jazzy blues as payment
for something he'd never get
but as for me,
I followed the direction of his
outstretched arm,
pointing towards the darkness,
and there found the light.

crooked

"You want to stop seeing me? But why?"
"If I must be honest with you, it's your teeth."
"What about them?"
"They're horribly crooked, and I just can't stand looking at them anymore."

He had inherited the crooked teeth
from his grandmother
on his mother's side.
In fact, the teeth could be traced back
to his ancestors riding over the
Atlantic Ocean, steerage, 3rd class,
in a ship called "The Hornblower,"
all the way from Ireland,
via Scotland, via a train.
The documents at Ellis Island say:
"Man, 32. Woman, 19.
Contents: One bag.
Noticeable feature: Man has horribly crooked teeth."

"Damn those teeth," he said.

the best part of the day

She was a nice looking granola, whatever that means. Not full-blown attractive. Just comfortable with all the trimmings. The canvas bag with journal in tow. The beads on her right wrist. The leather sandals covering modestly painted nails. The cargo pants that didn't quite cover the butterfly tattoo above the waistline. A sublte mistake. Or not so subtle. She spent much of the morning drawing a pen sketch of a tree. I don't know if it was unearthed from memory or if it was born out of boredom. But three days into this conference, it was exactly what I needed. It was a beautiful tree, drawn with easy but purposeful strokes. At lunch break, I left an anonymous note asking for it when it was done. She smiled when she read it. And when the day was over, she left the drawing behind for her secret admirer.

she

She bites on my pride,
she nibbles at my confidence,
she has a field day with my ego.

And all the while I am
listening,
nodding,
beating my head harder
against the wall.

freewrite on the bottle

The bottle is green, slighty transparent, and it holds nothing.
The label boasts of a time when the contents were once moonshine
made in the basement of my grandfather's house.
The steep stairs which lead to the linoleum floor, checkered green.
In the back room, behind the green door with the round brass knob
stood an army of empty green bottles, all empty,
drained over midnight games of poker and quarrels over baseball games broadcast through the radio with the broken dial that still rests over the kitchen sink.
The bottles are green, empty with memories of a time when life
was important, connected to something. They hold a story, a promise of a refilling once more. To let the flow of life begin again.

great uncle vic

The barn stands in the distance
once proud and mighty
a tall figure sillhouetted on the horizon
now heartbroken and torn
hanging onto a thread of existence
it's major blow the tornado of 1990.

The small acreage also houses a two-room
shed that has been abandoned for next to
twenty years. Crossing the threshold
reveals treasures of a time now forgotten:
the anvil on the cracked, weathered stump
rusty saw blades lying exposed in the rafters
chains and cobwebs blended together
one discarded thigh-high rubber boot
wrenches that fit long dead tractors
vices of all sizes with empty mouths.

The old farmer looks out on his life
rubbing the burn the sun delivered to his scalp
mumbling about the weather and lack of rain
the complaints about soft oak trees that provide wind barriers
the wish for stronger trees like elm or pine
as the fifteen remaining cows stare from a huddle
waiting for lunch from a bucket carried by
hands that know the blessing and curse that is the earth.