Phantom Youth

Maybe the only universal truth
is the steady existence of phantom youth.

The teenage extremes, 
the cool drawls of ambivalence,
the angular excitable limbs,
the flashes in the eyes,
the bravado and insecurity all meshed together
into a super-charged raw animal mixture of total 
joy and madness.

But one day comes when we are no longer the target market,
and we think that maybe that old high school teacher was right
when he said, 'Youth is wasted on youth.'
But of course we didn't understand that, then.

Even though our hearts no longer race and thud 
like cat's feet down stairs, 
and our nights aren't spent feeling small
in dimly lit rooms pondering what it's all about,
or parading down suburb sidewalks drunk with the night,
or stretching our bodies under warm blankets late in the morning,
or worrying and fretting 
about what somebody might have thought, or said, or implied,
that phantom youth alights upon us
like a soft talisman hitting us like a stone.

And suddenly we need to catch a snowflake on our tongue,
make an angel in the snow,
ride our bikes through rain puddles,
breath in the earth and mud and rain of Spring,
let our backs be warmed by the sun,
grab someone we love with fierce joy,
and live deliberately.

Sometimes the phantom of youth is lamentable.
We rise, feeling refined but dull
pushing our shopping carts through
grocery aisles, reading nutrition labels
and later touching the soft parts of our bodies
with a tired caress.

Maybe I'm just childless and naive.
And maybe these idle days of chasing dreams,
smiling at trees and drinking tea
has left me with a bankruptcy
of responsibility.

Or maybe I'm just okay
with letting the phantoms
swirl about just enough
to make me sound and sweet
and forever meet 
each moment 
with pulse and heat.

Richard and William

Brautigan lies beside me
It's the 21st century
Light is energy

My life, a safe drug
His, a red wheelbarrow
White chickens
Leftover plums in the icebox

Resurrected jeans
1970s beauty queens
Chocolate cake
Pink gingham with lace
All machines of loving grace

A moustache and a moment
A monument and a lady
We're all shady
And hazy
We'll carve the future like crazy
Eat alphabet babies

Sylvia, Jack and Mary Oliver

Got Sylvia sinuses
and Kerouac cravings
the head's rarely clear
and sanity's waning.

Just listen to Mary
'cause she's got it down:
purge all the madmen
and their angel howl sounds.

Get up in the morning
Dig a hole in the ground
Put your hand in the mud
And find what is found.

Listen to geese
They are harsh and exciting;
Let your soft animal body
Be joyful and frightened.

Got Sylvia sinuses
and Kerouac cravings
the head's never clear
and the mind's always raving.

Put down the bottle
and put down the pity
cry away sober
and pray for the gritty.

Against Demons

Shut away the demons
because the children are screaming.

Put them in their beds;
take back those things you said.

We're against the demons,
the ugly and the bleeding.

Watch how they've been feeding.
Mouths chewing without meaning.
Lips moving without feeling.

Passion Ration

Seeking with a ration

no passion

a collision, a crash-in

feeling's out of fashion.

Only breath is left

but the chest will never heave

only fear is left

and these duties never leave.

But failure's not an option

take caution

the static's erratic,

the automatic, tragic.

Reason is the season.

Is there time for feelings?

Passionate by accident.

Don't forget to grieve.

Some Morning

Some morning
I will buy you
a bouquet of pink sweetheart roses
ones that I always see
at the local supermarket.

I will drive them to your house
and we will chat
and have a cup of that awful Folgers coffee
that you and brother 
call the nectar of the gods.

Afterwards, I will put stones
around flowers that my mother planted
in your husband's grave.
The stones will come from the beach 
across the street,
and one of the stones will be from my purse.
It is smooth and white 
and from the American campground
where we all spend so much time.

After he died you thought
you could never go back there
but you did.
We often go together.
You often believe that we take you there
but that's not true.
You are strong
and I know you miss him terribly
because I do too.

We all do.

Poem-letting

The pen is a knife 
that cuts the truth 
and leaves the ones we know 
bleeding.

The poet is a surgeon 
who makes incisions

on the things 
we are left wanting.

The page is a needle 
that pierces and stitches 
and leaves us forever 
loving.