Rockville, Maryland

This night

is too still

even for a corporate park,

squat hotel

among slapped-together homes

The ground

holds secrets

of times past,

musket balls and tomahawks,

relics

of pioneers and war.

Brick facsimile

stands sentry now,

faux elegance

tacked on to a green Earth

screaming to be free.

The Sinequa ghosts

shake their bloody heads

at our lives,

ticked away in board rooms

with catered lunches

eyes glazed

simple slaves

to numbers on a screen.

  

Regal powers of the living room floor

my throne

is cereal-strewn carpet

my subjects

are building blocks

for a supersandwich

piled giggling

upon one another

after saving our world

I reign

in final judgement

of sharing

while minding the choking hazards

I am Dragon King

and riding workhorse

conquering fear,

hauling my sacred blood kin

for tickles and napping

this brood makes me stronger

though I drag my feet

and fall asleep

before my appointed hour

WFH

grabbing

every stolen moment

back

from the jaws of work

forcing making memories

rescuing pearls of time

thrown before swine

the must feed

that money beast;

world rolls on

cold to our plight

but for these days

we will be part-time pirates

heisting

the laugher of our children

we will be outlaw poets

breaking free

from the grindstone

Couch Song Armory

We have our own song

for when the whole family

fits on the couch

a glad song

carves memory

forges mental ammunition

and bulletproof souls

to last

in the savage lands

beyond our living room

so here

among our cluttered life

we run a musical boot camp

for the woman soldiers

of tomorrow

A Climbing Rock

A father’s job

is a climbing rock

to be that rough path

that winds to the top

to rule with love 

to tempt the fates

to put muscle on bones

and food on plates

hewn from

ancient tectonic madness

to guide through scrapes

and be a salve for sadness

unending

unbending and deep

to protect, defend

and lull to sleep

The Truth of First Light

the pull of sleep

loses its hold

when the dawn

first light offers

to burn off the cold

the sweet dew chill

little sought

but for the take

a just reward

for being awake

catching the sky

blue for the right eyes

to set our hopeful gaze

and have adventure

before the heated haze

like the hunter

who sacrificed the night

this is the moment

arrived with first light

For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

Father’s Day at the Carnival

a tinkering sun glints sharply

from spinning rides,

small feet scamper

on dry grass

through laughter and chaos

to an unhinged carousel

with a wink

from the leathered carney

clasping sweaty little hands

to thunder past

the shady barkers,

hurtling headlong

into years

of everyday madness

and new adventure

of whatever comes next 

Mud Soup

churning churlish

under canopy of trees

at the quiet park

summer streets simmer

while temptint rain

the only Dad here

hiding under a sweaty hat

trying not to gawk

at the fit mom

breastfeeding

and the cool dirt

speaks to me

when the girls pile it

to build their castle

we endure all shapes

of absurdities

to give our blood kin

an edge,

grateful we no longer

have to kill for it

the girls

make their quiet father

mud soup

I pretend to sip it

—delicious—

as I wait

to unleash their ambition

upon the world

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

News of the World

Fireworks crack wise

over Southern skies

the Georgia pine stay silent

as the New Year

promises to conquer fear

with a birth

in a burst of violence.

The chill night sky

makes us sweet promises

of dark ventures

if we only take them.

The blue night commands

that we not follow legends

but make them.

Spread the news:

We’re barreling through,

upsetting pretenders

and electrifying

you. 

Willis Cemetery

The cemetery

carved out of the White Mountains

has room for more

who are strong enough

to stay

Hopeful sightings of youth

among the hard old timers:

rays of light

between the shuttered homes.

Here our nation

still lives.

Here the spirits

of old settlers

make our sleek city lives

look small.

Camden, Maine

quilted sky

glittering silently,

winking a thousand times

to the iron visitors

constellation

of houses

are sentries

to the cooing loons

and grunting bullfrogs

by day

the sun-kissed bodies

drift by

in casual boats,

soaking in the trees

and the sea-salt air

harbor chatter

in vacation tongue,

tolerant locals

measure patience

one tourist at a time

Long Beach Island

sun-brown men

jest from baking rooftops,

women with salt-touched caves

wander the sweaty streets

houses larger than dreams

reach soft powder beaches

and ocean, infinite ocean

—in a straight line,

you’ll reach Portugal

tanned sentries

guard the sands,

eye dolphins in the distance

from the crossed hustle

to the mocking ghost town

after season

the waves roar

their clarion call

to giant dreams

and stars make new friends

with a knowing wink