Last Train South

Two robins packed for the last train south.

Trees now but skeletons of summer splendor.

The gypsy mystic was long gone from city streets.

Once alive parks and playgrounds empty of laughter.


How has our time together vanished so quickly.

Our halcyon banter evaporated like fog in the sun.

Joyful excursions through mountain flowers now dead.

We swam naked in a cold mountain river now frozen.


Bear sleeps hungry in a hidden musty forest cave.

Red Tail sails in the sun looking for a last meal.   

My kitchen sink overflows with last week’s dishes.

Outside my window a lone flower longs to bloom again.

A Dead Boat

A dead boat lay solemnly upon white sand

too far from the turquoise water shoreline

at the border of impenetrable Mexican jungle

where Mayans and jaguars once held court.


Hemingway knew he should die in 1961

when there were no more stories to tell,

when everything became too hard to say,

when fiction had become too real to write.


A tall woman in a shimmering white dress

that glistened like scales on a silvery fish

arose from the sea sliding slowly to shore,

she more for living on land than in sea.


A lone red buoy bobbed in a gentle swell

witness that all had been finally resolved.

I Came of Age in a Time of No Heroes

I came of age in a time of no heroes

except for the horn man

who blew jazz blue bebop music 

from a golden wailing sax

to the city canyon tall buildings

to all who passed and those

… who didn’t.


A regular feature

on a regular corner

on regular nights

making unregular sounds

for irregular people

who were regularly groovin’

on something irregular

… or not.


A time of the beat poet

alcohol drug induced creative 

writing, art, music, sex.

Jack, Diane, Allen, Lawrence

Neal and all the many more

who pushed it all so the 

normal might think

… or not.


I came of age in a time of no heroes

lost in city funk

writing, drinking, smoking

lost in loves in a one 

room flat with a mattress

on the floor and a needle 

in my arm 

… and hers.


Many years many loves

now reformed to 2.5 kids

in a suburban nightmare

creativity in lost a box store

where I lost my soul 

in aisle 3 by the canned goods

I sleep in dreams 

… of lost times.


I sleep in dreams of the horn man’s 

music still moving in my soul

permanent in my empty psyche 

of sad love loss and life

while I sob to sleep

my father’s golden sax

stares its one eye

from the shelf

… now quiet.


The Meadowlark

She wore a man’s hat draped in crocheted finery

deserving more respect than some tawdry decoration.


“Where are you going?” asked Old Crow

from his perch on the cigar store sign.


“Off to see my sad Meadowlark friend

who lived alone in the field by the road

where the dry grass burned yesterday

destroying her house and possessions.”


“What possessions can a meadowlark have?”

asked Old Crow as he flew along her side.


“A Jack of Diamonds,

an Ace of Spades,

a golden ring she wears in her nose.


“With green fields gone to ash,

she lives with me in the hollow tree

in the glade by the fairy pond

where we will share our winter 

in sweet song to awaken the cold sun 

who languishes too far south.”


“Caw,” said Old Crow.

Months Ago

Struggling from dirty grey sheets with

a soul in desparate rebellion from

last night’s too much tequila I

struggled my sad angry body to

that dark filthy bathroom from

those months ago when she left.


Gazing into the crooked mirror my

heart again grieved seeing the

perfect red lipstick kiss she

diabolically placed there from

those months ago when she left.


No other mark or memory remains but

that red mark I dare not kiss fearful

of the smearing destruction that

all would be forever lost from

those months ago when she left.


Damn you mirror memory holder to

demand my jealous response for

having received that last warm

affection denied me from

those months ago when she left.