Yesterday I didn't get out that much.
It was raining. Then the power went out for
about a half 'n' hour. But then it turned back
on.

	This morning, I had to meet with
a clinician in the computer room about
my insurance plan being changed. There
is still more work to do. And there were
a bunch of people moving in, and the
elevators were barely functioning.

	The highlight was my building
manager was going to make herself
a cup of coffee. So she offered to make
me one. I'm getting my second wind
right now.

	I saw my neighbor who has one
leg, and might have to have his eye
removed.

	"All we have in life is each day,
every single moment, right?"

	He was right!

	Then I went for a walk, and
a neighbor said, "Your shoes comfortable?"

	And just because he said that,
I resented it.

	Then I was talking to my friend Tom,
and telling him about that. "You are too
easily irritated." he said.

	Then he read a poem he wrote about
walking in nature and noticing every blade of
grass, stopping to witness nature, things adults
tend to forget.

	I agree, we live in a noisy, distracting
world. Everything is competing for our
attention.

	Advertising, spam on computers,
we need to get out and see nature! I'm going
to Florida to visit my dad, and it's been raining
here, but in Florida, there is no rain, and my
dad says his grass is turning brown.
	Everything in the universe dies
one day, that's why I try to have faith in eternal
life. If this is all there is, how can any of us
go on. I remain faithful, and humble.

Illinois
land of taxed freedoms
of gas hikes over flat trails
a state of leaving residents
on to greener pastures
Illinois
Lincoln's land
a penny for one's thoughts
a massive motion of tollways         
a windy city in its midst
cold fronts
and access to lake fronts
 
Illinois
my home
my displaced heart
paying tolls for feeling blue
a blue state
the state of me
Illinois.

It began while we slept,
and continued as we awakened . . .
softly falling
as if sifted from a sugar-shaker
by Heaven's unseen Hand.
 
Feathery flakes fastened themselves
to branches shorn of leaves
by a recent wind. The branches
welcomed them as flake after flake
settled in its own predestined place.
 
Standing amidst the changing season,
I am reminded that few things
in life remain the same.
For in life, as in nature, the unseen
Hand in charge of change, changes me.

Full moon, high tide. No school.
Weatherman as oracle, fear a 
Pleasant tingle. Dawn at my window
Was real; the Atlantic pulling
The summer people's house down
 
With frothy fingers and wet arms.
A rear wall slithered under the sea and 
I spied a jar of Tang; so wrong, exposed 
Canned goods an invasion of privacy 
Worse than a naked bedroom scene.
 
The Atlantic came for us next. We
Scrambled to know in seconds what
Was precious. When waves chased 
Us into the car, the floor of my dad's
Sedan disappeared in salty suds. 
 
The Massachusetts National 
Guardsman who hoisted me up, 
Pathetic parcel, had eyes as green 
As his truck. We huddled, 
Silent stares begging What just happened?
 
The gym at the school was a
Makeshift motel with blankets for
Beds. I squeezed next to my sister
At the left net post, fully schooled
On life versus death.

The first Thanksgiving
Was in Plymouth, Massachusetts.
Squanto and his fellow Wampanoags
Brought venison and fish
And the settlers provided beans and squash
They offered up prayers of thanksgiving
And feasted.
Afterwards they competed in sports.
 
Today, we do much the same
But with some differences.
The menfolk of the family
Watch football on television,
While the women
Prepare the feast
Of turkey and dressing,
Giblet gravy, cranberry sauce,
Beans, peas, and squash.
 
After the football game,
They all gather at the table,
Pray
And enjoy the feast.

I don't recall giving thanks: 
no prayers at our home, no offered grace.
We scraped by, as abrasive as the green pad
floating on top of greasy dishwater.

I don't remember the canned cranberries, 
dead turkey, that horrible tablecloth:
red and green convolutions 
in an endless blinding pattern.

I don't remember arguing over the knives—
never sharp enough. 
Not as sharp as my mother's tongue.

I don't remember my brother, hunched in his chair
hoping to be overlooked this time—
nor the looks on our faces,
barely muted by candlelight. 

I don't recall how the wine spilled,
how I clenched my teeth as it slowly soaked in.
I don't remember my sister leaving,
yelling as she thundered up the stairs: 
she was running away, she would never come down. 
She always kept her suitcase packed
and her nine dollars in savings ready.

I don't remember saving anything. 
I left it there, gelid as turkey fat 
on the white platter that never washed clean.

Emptied of memory,
I devour this year's feast.

Thunder in the distance
growling powder keg
flashing across provincial fields
as the sun blasts the horizon
on a quiet April morning
goldfinches, kestrels and robins
shrieking in the first jagged shafts of light
virgin grass soiled wetness
suddenly deers rush away across the silent forest edge
then a vicious sound
in the deep underbrush
hollow but distinct movement
men trudging heavily
muffled sounds sweaty grunts
we wait
huddled together
tired, hungry
hoping Revere was right
our colonial militia
huddled together at the edge
of the sycamore and elm trees
terrified and frightened
yet bound together by our belief
that we must be free
that we must fight
that we must stand against tyranny
and it begins
everywhere and all at once
a sea of redcoats
moving ... a solid red wall...
hold your ground boys
wait, wait, wait...
we have been waiting too long
our tea has been soiled
the taxes are just too much
blood in Boston
we just want to be free
and
then
a shot
from the long red line
and the Colonial boys
open up their muskets
balls loose glinting off the morning sun
anticipating
a long history ahead...
Camden, Paoli, Bunker Hill,
Antietam, Gettysburg, the Argonne
the Bulge, Okinawa, Pusan, Fallujah
and the next...
we all know it's coming
and this one will
annihilate our planet
there will be nowhere to hide
nowhere to go
thousands and thousands
nuclear missiles free
glinting in the 
early morning sun
the world ends in fire not ice...

Months of blood and sighs
she held out
for a change.
Sour grapefruit grown inside her
took each remaining seed—
tears not for that betrayal but
a tumorous calendar.
Psychologists mistook her
for the rest, yet
cleared her name.
 
Dark morning
brought five-thirty
to the green-chaired room—
its tattered magazines
thin sweeping hand—
called her to the table,
rewrapped clenched nakedness.
Center of a dull party
stinking with business,
her crummy party favor was
a wicked scar. 
 
Hold me a while, she'd asked.
I didn't think I'd ever
be this scared.

O Lord, I don't know
what "O" and "Lord" mean,
nor do I know what words
to silently say
into your holy ear
(if any ear at all is hearing),
nor do I seem to receive replies,

and yet I feel in my deeper
inside places (which have no places)
that, as I'm fumbling for words
and stumbling within my soul,
a prayer is somehow praying me
and giving amen to my life.
Uncomprehending, Lord,
I drop my words.
Amen.