QUESTIONS

Rainbow

We met as strangers, on a plane...

and high above the clouds, we talked of life.

I, of the students I teach and the poems I write...

He, of the cars he drives and repairs -

Jaguars, Porsches and Corvettes.

We touched on oil and the terror of war.

We both agreed on the beauty of the clouds and sky.

And when the turbulence hit,

we locked eyes and knew...

the only thing that mattered was this time,

this chance at life -

that explodes like a rainbow

and quickly melts away.

Then, again, the ride was smooth,

and we stepped back into our masquerades.

"I like what you do," he said, with a smile,

"but who would fight the wars,

if we all wrote poetry?"

"Exactly," I said.

Canvas

The snow came down in soft sheets

and ended in splashes on the ground.

The meeting of fall and winter

produced a nebulous slush,

too wet to shovel,

too dry to turn to rain.

What to do?

Like a life crisis,

it wound its way through silky streets

and barren trees -

painting concrete canvases

with white pictures that will not stay,

that will not give us answers...

but, in our minds, remain -

reminders of this day.

In Memory of Prufrock

Dust, gutter whirlwinds...

dusk silhouetting the sky.

Unacceptable reminders of certain doom -

gentle gauges of time.

We all know.

All that's really left to show is how we pass the day.

Shall I sit and sip a cup of tea?

Look out of the window, away from the rain -

or jump in...

only to drown in a drop?

The question is:

Shall I lock myself up in my room

and write poetry anticipating my doom?

Shall I ride on each wave

or watch the sea from shore?

By expanding my physical presence,

will I really grow?

Can a leaf teach me

all there is to know?

If I love you,

will I forget who I am,

or never know?

Can anyone run fast enough

or rest too soon?

And does each eye have the same yearning

for the sultry, simmering beauty

of high noon?

The Money Tree

Who replaced mahogany with a money tree?

Spreading its asphalt dreams

into meadows and streams...

clouding my memory of pristine paths

with industrial smog.

Who broke the ozone barrier in the sky

and compromised the sun's rays?

Who filled our lives with plastic bags

that hold no hope?

Who litters our days

with promises of stuff

that smothers our flowers and trees?

"Not I," says the voice in the money tree...

"not me."

Hats

The homeless man walked by my car,

with a sign asking for money.

I wanted to open my purse

and give him all that I had in there...

but I didn't.

But he needed so much more.

As I drove away, I thought -

It's getting cold -

I wish he had a hat...

but he didn't.

I have many hats -

some summer straw,

but mostly wool to keep me warm.

I should wear them more often...

but I don't.

And I sometimes wonder...

why some of us have so many hats...

while others have none.

The Drunkard's Lament

His sun sets on a washed out rainbow,

slick with oil,

lying in the gutter.

His song has no harmony -

a senseless utter.

The drunkard's lament of a trashcan survival

fills up his alleyway dreams -

The icicle moon reminder of fruitless schemes.

He nurtures his fighting spirit with beer...

"What's that, a drinking song I hear?

The rain tapping through my brain?

No matter.

I tip my hat to the world

and take a bottle of wine to wash away the pain."

Lost

Who called my name?

I heard a voice in the shadows...

I followed it up a hill -

I ran through fields -

My bare feet catching in the sprawling weeds.

I should have, at least, worn shoes -

but I had no time to plan.

It was a sound I had longed for...

and, then, it disappeared.

Choices

Like the sun painting the morning amber -

Like the moonlight sliding across a lake -

Like a hot coal hitting an icy road -

Like a floating cloud teasing the sky -

The kaleidoscope of choices that we make...

makes who we are.

The Question

It's not the question that confounds,

but the answer.

Looking back - have I been wrong, so long?

Was I right but let it go too long?

Is this question worth exploring...

in the depths of my heart and soul...over the acres of time,

where I stumbled, paused, climbed and plummeted?

I think it's a canvas worth looking at -

but one whose worth only I can know.

So, here I am, again...

Asking the question.