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In the aftermath of yet another break up,

The question of a prom date emerged.

Still stinging from the most recent heartache,

He considered his options.

He thought of Theresa,

The pretty but quiet brown haired girl in Algebra 2.

She had the sweet, shy smile,

And seemed to be likely without a date for that night.

He thought of the other girls who have been friendly,

But weighed his chances at yes.

He thought his best chance was Theresa,

So that he wouldn’t have to handle one more rejection.

He thought there was no way he could lose.

He felt cocky inside when he approached her,

And why not, he always had “luck with the ladies”.

She thought about his invitation for a split second,

And smiled shyly and sweetly and quietly said “no, thank you.”

He stood there for a while,

She walked away.

Clearly she meant no harm.

But she said no.

It was not what he expected,

And he was left to wonder if he had some kind of metaphorical zit on his face,

Or somehow, something, that disqualified him.

He knew he had learned a lesson, but did not know exactly what that was.

Of course, he never asked her out again.

Still I don’t feel all that good inside.

Medicated and meditated,

I tried to shake off the disappointment.

Thought it through,

Figured it out,

Settled it rationally, 

Still can’t shake it off.

It gnaws gently,

but doesn’t stop.

I enjoy my coffee,

but the jitters are just re-energized.

I listen to music,

but the notes fly by ineffectually,

while the unwanted buzz stays

and the desired tones run away frightened

Not wanting to be a part of the ridiculous ritual

of acting like the world has ended

when it is just another day in this heavenly hell

or hellish paradise.

It would be nothing short of presumptuous to declare this new visitor to my yard

My new pet.

Though, when left alone, she seems as comfortable as my dog

Exploring my yard.

She lands solidly on the ground and with purpose,

Sometimes to have a better point of view of an intended prey,

But sometimes to meander and poke at the ground for plant or smaller creature

That requires more persistence perhaps

But less exertion and only casual concentration.

She comes so frequently,

I find myself glancing out the window every chance I get.

Sometimes she is just walking the lengths of my yard,

Front or back.

Sometimes she sits on the short white fence, a mere six feet tall,

Then she takes flight and lands on a branch

Or on the top of my shed.

Always alert, always looking,

Seldom appearing relaxed,

But always looking comfortable,

Always knowing that she is welcomed here.

Perhaps she is my sister,

Or is sent by my sister,

Whom I eulogized with a reference to a previous hawk

Which my wife and I encountered after breakfast one morning.

We had left the restaurant and gone back to the car to leave.

We sat chatting in the car about how the servers

Had engaged in back and forth verbal altercation

And how my hospitalized sister would have enjoyed how laugh out loud funny that really was.

The phone rang with the news of her passing from her middle daughter.

Turning into our driveway, there was the hawk in the yard.

Clearly not today’s hawk.

When it took flight, it went just a little over my wife’s head.

We thought, “Well there’s Mary”.

That same niece responded when I told her this story

That when she and one of her sister’s visited their mother’s apartment after her passing

There was a hawk on her roof over her doorway,

Watching as they entered her home.

So yes, today’s hawk, the same one who has visited for the last several days,

Can come anytime.

Please.

She’s watching over us, like a hawk.

Believe it.

The duck who swims alone
Allows my mind to wander and wonder.
Nearly every early morning,
Even when the sun shines,
He spends this time in solitude.
Is this his choice
Or does he wonder,
“Must’ve done somebody wrong”?

He does not appear to be the proverbial
Or actually ugly duck.
Or is this his choice to start the day?
Is he starting each day in the quiet

Intentionally
Away in the quiet

At the crack of dawn
Perhaps a duck’s life isn’t all it’s
Quacked up to be?

On a Saturday afternoon,

after returning home after the Army and Undergrad,

I would sit with my sickly and rapidly aging Dad

and watch the Red Flops,

as he often called them in the early 80s.

We’d watch on the little TV set up in the kitchen.

He’d sit backwards on a chair and chain smoke,

and swear.

I know, an endearing image of the returning adult son and the loving dad.

Baseball was the common thread,

stitched together tight as the baseball itself

that he’d throw to me while playing catch when I was about seven years old,

with him showing off that he was ambidextrous.

And so many times, over the years,

his admonitions,

his advice,

and his love would be stated in baseball.

“Babe Ruth struck out more than a thousand times!

Get back up there!”

“Yeah you’re fast,

But you can’t steal first base!”

“Three strikes you’re out,

unless the catcher drops the ball.

Don’t drop the ball!”

“You’re only as good as your last at bat!”

“Don’t be caught looking!”

And the night before he died,

I swear he looked at me and mumbled

and I swear he said,

“It ain’t over til it’s over”

Yes, my Dad’s last words were from a Yankee.

Go figure.

I realized that my walk had to end

Because I had used all the time I had

And needed to return to my car

To hurry back for my nearly weekly Sunday breakfast

With the two old friends I affectionately refer to as my fellow Jamokes.

But instead my pace slowed as I unconsciously raised the value

Of these last few steps.

I noticed the red cardinal fluttering around me and tried to catch him resting,

As they sometimes do, on a nearby branch.

I thought I have enough time to get one more special photo.

But the cardinal went from one barely visible spot in the brush to another,

Depriving me of my last thrill.

But the effort was a last minute thrill of its own,

And then the finches ushered me off the path,

Weaving their flight, two or three of them,

In front of me, alternating sides,

Reminding me,

That even now,

At the end of the path,

I am still worthy of a parade celebrating my journey.

If hindsight is 20/20

I am afraid that I won’t even glance.

I would rather believe that the blurring and blending

should be allowed to swirl and twirl

in the same baffling but not entirely benign sign of things

that thankfully never came to pass. 

Without knowing where or how you are,

I know that we each has done better separately

Than we could have/would have together.

Our best selves never really met each other. 

You had not even met your own best self,

And I had not yet met my best self.

Yet you still have my record collection.

Some things you can never get back.

I think the songwriters I really like

are merely poets who can carry a tune.

That is, sing on key.

I’m okay with that.

But I concede that I am a poet by default.

When cornered by a question when I was a featured poet,

I stumbled to name my favorite poets.

Out poured the names Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes.

Before I was able to breathe, I was asked to name more woman poets.

I panicked. I said Joni Mitchell, Rickie Lee Jones, and Laura Nyro.

I had been found out.

The cat was fully out of the bag.

I stammered, and for men, I love Dylan, John Prine, Kris Kristofferson, Guy Clark…(dot, dot, dot)

And I could’ve gone on and on and on.

But I didn’t because I was interrupted by a hilarious heckler,

“What’s the matter? Can’t you sing?”

NOPE

I hope I don’t die

now

that I have finally got my shit together

after having to consider another ten or fifteen years

of living through this aging slog.

I never saw it coming until

now 

that I have outlived

my self-determined life expectancy,

and I figure I’d better get well

before I get ill.

I had been fit enough for a quick end,

but my maintenance schedule was not built to last. 

But now that the road is apparently longer, 

I have to get stronger.

Still,

before I get ill.

Don’t wonder what you’ll miss when it or they are gone.

Buy the ticket,

See the game,

Go to the concert,

Eat at the greasy spoon

And find a greasier spoon.

Call that friend,

Take that flight,

Even if you stay only two days,

Make the trip.

Do not make the end of your life sentence

A list of regrets

And coulda beens.

Make your own bucket list,

Call it your own damn fuck it list.

Open up the checkbook,

The kids want but don’t need your money.

They need you to be the younger you

Until the older you is gone.