Listening to the Rain

(The return of rain these last two months made me remember this piece...)

I lie in bed

listening to the rain,

to the whisper of TV

down the hall

where someone can’t sleep,

to the murmur in the pipes

and in her dreams.

I turn to her

and touch her shoulder.

Earth cycles its thirst –

rain, rivulet, 

river, sea,

Sun and steam,

then rain repeat.

Her blue plasma 

pulses in empathy,

lung to heart,

artery to extremity – 

tides ever pounding

on the cell shore.

I turn to her

and touch her shoulder.

Love wends

in rounds as well – 

hunt and urgency,

spat and attraction,

break a sweat

in the bed,

grow old,

but still be rain.

The Iron Curtain

(Another poem inspired by the criminal hell in Ukraine. As these days drag me back to the Cold War world of my youth. And the cycles of hate, hubris, and inhumanity that make up history.)

The Iron Curtain 

The fence

was a short road trip

from that quaint 

German town

of our visit.

The coffee

and chocolate kuchen 

of the afternoon 

had charged us 

with renewed spirit.

Tante Ella 

drove us

through forested hills,

and pastures

of white flowers.

The air 

was crisp with Spring

as we climbed 

from the warm

leather seats.

The fence

was black and tall,

its lattice of steel

thick and dark -

unbending.

It’s signs

said do not touch

or approach -

verboten -

in many languages.

Wide fields

of no man’s land

were mown to bare

like a shaved body

on an operating table.

Blank-faced guards

with grim weaponry

aimed from towers

bristling with antennae

like nightmare monsters.

A scattering 

of standing headstones

marked the expiration 

of those who dared escape 

but failed.

We drove

back to life

as Tante Ella grimly

cried for family 

on both sides.

Things I Wouldn’t Have

         Things I Wouldn’t Have

Water out of a faucet,

light out of a lamp,

food out of a fridge,

a toilet to take my shit

if rockets 

were raining down on my city.

A garden to plant,

a stereo to play,

a computer to game,

a chair in the sun

if I were hiding 

in a subway.

A child to lift,

a partner to hold,

an elder to hear,

a front door to close 

if tanks 

were blasting my street.

Knowing 

where I was going,

knowing 

how I’d get there,

knowing 

how I’d feed my children,

knowing 

when I would eat,

knowing 

when we’d be safe,

knowing 

when we could sleep

knowing 

if our loves 

left behind

would survive,

knowing 

where my home 

will be.