500 CDs

Reluctantly occupying the basement shelf

Thousands of songs

From groups re-grouped

And bands disbanded

Each, once the love child of the poet

And his muse

Orphaned

Pushed into obscurity like

A Wall post

Or a Christmas card

Christmas

Candle flames dance to the music of

The Nutcracker

As I stare at the tree with its

Steady white backlight for

Antique Santas and

Glass bulbs

Colors slowly swirl

Like the spoon in my cocoa

I can sense the snow hesitating

Outside the window

And I think about how it

Came upon the midnight clear

Stars illuminating sheep-dotted hills

“O little town of Bethlehem, how still

We see thee lie”

Silent night

Holy night

And in the shadows

The violent birth of God

Bubble

Gliding from the wand

Full of breath

You are too fragile

Seeking equilibrium

In your short lifespan

The boundaries will pierce you

Breath will return to breath

The world is much too small

Remembering Eden

It's been too many years now

And I can't remember your face

But every once in awhile

Familiarity taps me on the shoulder

And there's a song

A laugh

That gently rustles these mental leaves

I don't know if it was spring or fall

But when I am barefoot

I feel like that's the way it was

With you

In the coolness

And all I know

Is that you can take the man out of the garden

But you can't take the garden

Out of the man

Flea Market

So this is where my childhood ran and hid

Among the tables and tents and stalls

Our Tip-It game, my View Masters

My sister's Little Kittles

Each lunch box and baseball yearbook comes wrapped

with a memory

Like the stick of pink brittle bubble gum

In a pack of collectible cards

Looked good

Smelled good

But didn't last nearly long enough

The Oak

Old and tired, he has refused to change color this year

He will not compete with the younger trees for

Attention

While they don their red and yellow sport jackets

He sheds his tattered, pale-green robe

And stands

Bare and wrinkled

Waiting for winter to dress him

In seamless white

If I Were A Poet

I would live in Vermont

I would wake early and gather my muse

Like the mist over the green hills

I would learn to like strong coffee

And turtle-necked sweaters

I would have an old Basset hound

That would lay next to the porch swing

Where I would write something melancholy

And profound

That would allow me to do it all again

Tomorrow