When night is at the threshold
and through the short hours 'till dawn
we put aside our cares and separate struggles
hang them with the shirts, or lay them with the socks
worn and in need of darning
and in embraces passionate and tender we become as one
drifting into together slumber
until with the cold dawn we redress the cares
and try to close the holes in yesterday's sorrow

We enter the room,
her hand clasps mine
and we share our viewing
images of buildings
framed and hung
Hopper's attempt to capture
light and shadow

some show snippets
of stories implied
like the image of
the rail road car
or the summer interior
other paintings
suggest Joni Mitchel songs
solidarity with loneliness
from light's dialog with shadow
and choice of subject

but we are not isolated
and the light he paints
reminds me of Cape May
and warm afternoon walks
also holding each other's hands

the days have casually slipped together beyond

memory to recall more than instants

the time has faded from our view

me lost in the moonlight

some how, I've enraptured you

where to moments not begin and end

we no longer seem to say goodbye

we seem somehow have become apart

of the other, not from

though days may separate or miles

we seem to have a constant togetherness

beyond the physical missing of each other

time ends and begins with you

moments between are only a sideline

what must be done to return to where my heart

never have I left you

I'm just never there always the same way

the train wanted to bring me to boston as much as I wanted to be brought
as we crept along with all signals broken safety only line of sight
late in coming late in arriving the nearsighted serpent slithered
along the double steel ribbon caressing the landscape
under bridges carrying speeding soloists, under buildings of corporate imperial might
to follow the switches meandering to rest next to well walked concrete
whereupon we all disembarked, late, scattering like fall leaves to winter's winds

Some Silly Haikus

many empty chairs
jokes about traffic delays
empty marketing

he reads from paper
voice is a smile, pleasant
but his eyes worry filled

to manage identity
know yourself and your avatars
then manage avatars

how often confused
how we represent ourselves
with the self we are

how cruel the terms
"delete the orphan accounts"
a sad twist of words

I've decided to attack the form of the sonnet again, workman like. Why wait for a muse?

It is not the sonnet that defeats me
though the form of the poem is daunting
it is the need to find an old photograph
to inspire words to rise, some old haunting
memories or joy once lived and again in remembrance

I look to the now
the past is not worth my time
bitter or sweet the moments that were
I live in the moment

what shall be an anxiety hope
what was but a foundation
only now is real, and my poetry must be real