Snowman

 

Stone cold proof
for the need of creation,
silent sentinel
of something sacred,
birthed by clumsy young hands.
 
Rising triumphant,
totem of the season’s mischief,
destined to melt
into the blooming Spring.
 
Made human
with patchwork features,
almonds and bruised carrot end face,
soggy stick limbs claim victory
over freeze anonymity.
 
Never again another snow pile
but a life,
fleeting like ours,
destined for the storm drain
or brown grass,
and leaving us with its joy.

December Night in New York

Still glows

with blue-black embers
smolders its whiplash twilight
 
sidewalks are a slush minefield
poorly navigated
in the chaos of the
unofficial winter night
 
the glow of joy is all around—
some plastic,
some triumphant hubris,
and we forge our own
North Stars
and assemble them
for decorations
 
we journey
through these throngs
like wise men
we will never be,
to welcome the birth
of unseen miracles
in our sparkling city

Invisible Flame of Misfit Workers

sublime

if we can creep

past the wear-down

rage

past thoughts

too hateful

to darken a page

past misery heedless

near needless

for pay

past the clock-worn

routines

we repeat every day

somewhere

some spark

flints away

in the dark

with plans

nearly hatched

for some progress

to mark

this waking dream

of guiding flame

powers us through

a poisoned mind frame

it is our own darkness

ourselves

that we fight

in the hellfire struggle

to create

our own light

Chicken Bucket Brigade

this rowdy assemblage

like bleacher creatures of old

serves to warm our hearts

out in the rain and cold

the chants, the jokes,

the joy of being here

our tribes trump cheap talk

fueled by beer

our colors are proud

and we know where we stand

singing our songs loud

across the fractured land

the chicken bucket

is a fairly good deal

amid this bogus playground

our spirits stay real

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.

Weeknight in Hell’s Kitchen

Down the dark avenues

where footsteps fall off of crowded curbs

to scuttle past the slow flesh night life,

the neon punctuates

roiling twighlight.

The pastel dusk

is our emperor,

ordering us to sweet sin

that tastes better

with the ghosts of old crimes.

Let us lapse

into madness

drunk on laughter

with old friends.

Let this all

fall out of favor

so these streets

will be our secret

again.

Kisses for the Whale

empty box rowboat

in the living room

sets sail

orders from the captains:

kisses for the whale

sharp-eyed daughter

in thrall with her game

a glimpse of immortality

on the strength of our name

jumping and playing

no riches can compete

blood of our blood

makes a life complete

the news comes down:

there’s trouble in the skies

no worries from the captains

the ship is doing fine

Quest for Cold

Bring us that air of steel,

the punching breeze

that makes us real.

Thrive in crystal bold

blankets of white

that let us draw from the cold

to give us might.

Let us have the joy

of breath like ice

a little longer.

Give us the season

that makes us stronger.

Seamless Cycle of Affirmative Madness

On track,

new life born

in rampant mind songs

mouthed out

like silent Rosary

at the chaotic streets

On point,

bringing new love

to lonely wanderers

who see beauty

in every calf and cobblestone

and weep

On time,

for all of time,

that light

that flash of knowledge

sending every sultry sinner

singing in crazed demonic joy

sparking new life

for those new needy souls

The Workday Stray Way

Some way

that always loves a walk;

that spark of will

that lets us step away,

and nobly salvage

a scrap of our day

Gathering purpose

with every stride,

our covert rebellion

a source of pride.

Living for the journey;

For these moments are fleeting.

The fire stays alive

when the soul takes a beating. 

Young Pirates of Flushing, Queens

young pirates

of Flushing, Queens

shout about treasures

they pull from their jeans

taste floor hors d’oeuvres

before mother can clean

but even at their worst

we’re living the dream

the pirates

of Queens

have promises to keep

they punctuate their orders

by stomping

their small feet

our joy ambition

is molding these girls

into warrior women

who conquer the world

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. 

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