Sipping

Ripened by a setting sun,
picked with gnarly fingers,
crushed with purple toes,
aged inside an oaken soul,
sip these notes of love and loss,
these hints of hurt and hope,
reflecting when and where
the grapes were grown.

Uncork the bottle of my words,
hold them up to the light,
swirl the read around your glass
sniff the scent
taste the tart
drink the dark

Let the swallowed verse
not belly flop
into a pool of gastric juice--
but spring instead to a higher place
and linger there with a bit of grace.

The Vowel of My Life

You were the a of our days
the i of our nights
the o of our love
the i of our life.

You were the y of our why
the o of our who
the a of our what
the e of our when.

You were the i of our tried
the u of our true
the e of our breeze
the a of our gale.

Who we were is
who we’ll always be.
You’re the u in I
I’m the i in you.

Ever the vowel of my life,
you enliven me yet.
For all that I say
and all that I do
I owe you.

My Address

Find me
a mile or more
from the Church of Dos and Don’ts,
where dim meets dark,
and sweet turns sour.
Not far from the Bar
of Dreaming Big,
a block from bluff and bluster,
on dying Dogwood Avenue,
near the wild and weedy park
that borders on the river Styx,
in my house of broken bricks

What It’s Not

It’s not the owl but the hooting,
not the goose but the honking,
not the wolf but the howling.

It’s less the tree and more the climb,
less the ball and more the dodge,
less the pool and more the dive.

It’s not the wool but the weaving,
not the wood but the working,
not the wheel but the whirling.

It’s less the steak and more the sear,
less the shell and more the clam,
less the toast and more the jam.

It’s not the bell but the jingling,
not the spice but the sprinkling,
not the eye but the twinkling.

Oh Christmas Tree

We do not speak of peace or joy or hope
but of height and width and girth
as we walk the farm to find the perfect tree.
When we do, we lay our silver pieces down
and watch them cut it to the ground.

We take it to our merry little home,
light it up and dress it full of cheer.
Trimmed with baubles from the past,
we place some presents at its feet
and crown it with a golden star.

As the coming year draws near,
its boughs begin to droop
and drop their needles on the floor.
The jewelry borrowed is now returned,
we strip the skirt from its feet
and throw it, naked, in the truck.

In the morning when the rooster crows,
we drive it to the parking lot
and toss it on a growing heap—
there to meet its mulchy fate.

Back at home,
we sweep the needles from the floor
and ponder yet again—
death to birth, birth to death—
a lesson always taught
but hard to ever learn.