Rocky Neck

art plied honestly

in sweat and heat

hard wrought

beside the sun-kissed lobstermen

waving gracefully

to rough locals

and soft tourists

where joyous newlyweds

sketch their own future

panel by panel

muck deep

in tiny horseshoe crabs

scrambling in low tide pools

away from baby girls

where dogs swim

beside the private beaches

and the rich sands

are slick

with stubborn seaweed carpets

let’s be worthy of this place,

may we have the good sense

to live lives

as beautiful as this

At Forest Hills

feel the ghost rain

on the early evening

carried

on the bleacher seat breeze

secret smokes

—a one-hitter pulled from a bra

private celebrations

thousands of times over

as each chord

strikes its own symphony

May we age gracefully

with fire and noise.

May we all breathe in

the blue sultry night

and feast on May twilight

until we die. 

Breeze Damage

much more trouble

than tussled hair

or the dust void

on the floor

from what’s missing there

an uprooted mudline

is this purgatory’s border

a ruined life’s chaos

keeps its own

kind of order

there’s no engineer

to blame,

no liable claim

moneyed salvation

is the flip side of nature,

and a zero-sum game

those forces that

greened the grass

and churned the sea

gladly unglued it all

for you and me

we’ll watch it

powerlessly

and let it be

Nightburst

a random burst

like a powder cloud

ignited mid air

flowers its fire

in the Queens night

people file out

onto the heated summer streets

among the blazing

night lights

and screaming sirens

silhouettes hum

in their beautiful New York Babel

among the firemen

laden with gear

and bored police

not happy to be here

under watch

of darkened windows

we soak in

the rain-touched

New York night

Memories of Beer

a hot numbness

of happiness, wet

and sends us

to that sweet deadly zone

            that craves the next

            and the next again

release that makes carefree

but wary the supply may dry

living for the comfort cocoon,

for the lullaby music

of the crack of can

or the vacuum kiss

of the frost-smoke bottle

remembering to be slave

to that cold kiss,

gateway 

to an uncertain heaven

On the Peter Pan Bus

Peter Pan tosses us,

an early Friday escape

from the choking rush hour

Peter Pan implores, begs us

to claw our current selves

away

and be children again

but we decline,

eyeing sideways

the awkward smattering

of humanity

slicing down the American highway

in these two, too-slow hours.

Bring us, save us

oh Tower of Babel on wheels!

Somewhere among our cramped ranks

is a warrior poet

hurtling head-first

into glory.

Winter in Queens

in warren dens

of clutter

dust mist

swirls a dance

as needle winds

scream past

draughty windows

burrowed

above the hard streets

where America gets molded

one rough day at a time

the rough clay

drawn from hard lots

crafted

over patched blacktop

and spotted sidewalks

scramble down

teeming streets

stop-go, packed-hell

commute

lets us daydream

our way

to destiny

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

Blizzard

the joy of snow

is to burrow deep

hearth fire blaze

inviting sleep

layer up

burst out

get bitten by the cold

freeze out cabin fever

with the ways of old

a heist of snow

frost-kissed faces

to blaze new memories

in familiar places

Double Winter Anger Freeze

an angry glaze

on the outside world:

frost under foot,

hard ice hiding slickly,

snow air punches faces

crooked footprints

steals and preserves

our vulnerable moments

we can enjoy this

only when locked inside

our lives endlessly

tear and churn

the real world

will watch us

freeze and burn

Call of the Woods

leaf-lush primal joy,

a magnet,

drawing woodmen

from their galley desks

step

by wide-eyed

step

forest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but natural

in tree cloak

all still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant

to see it—

waking, alive,

and ripe

for the taking

At the Convention Center

At the convention center

people wait

to start their day

smile and shake hands

and things are all O.K.

echoes in the large, cool rooms

as people mouth the lines

they need to speak

the trip justified

an expense account,

a line checked off

A life of unpacking

and catching the next plane:

awake, realize what you have

and dissipate this pain

Back Roads

the ways we go

will jumble and make no sense

and we’ll yearn

for smooth boulevards

to preen the dream engines

we don’t have time to shine

some of us

can’t avoid back roads

walled with trees

and spiked with odd life

our destination is always

out there, somewhere

just one more turn away

Rattlesnake Mountain

Carved

Like paradise

From alabaster glaciers

Birth trees like

Like stubborn soldiers

Raising the bright fall canopy

            To heroic skies

Hunting for moose tracks

Among the pine needle carpets

Climb and sweat

In the fall breeze

Slough up rocky slopes

Jagged hills with slip-leaves

Just for us tourists

Serene clearing

To spy Crescent Lake

And miles of trees and skies

Not another soul around to share

The treasured stones, the good musty Earth

The dreamy majesty of land

Of the America that still is, at least here.