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House-heart-clock’s rhythmical
beats seem to be growing
weaker, fragile
glass-eyed-windows having
witnessed countless years
of each bird-wing sunrise
and sunset. Front door’s entrance
exit portal keeps tally of all
arrivals and departures. Some
still, living faces, never to be
seen or heard from
ever again, as well as those
dead, whom—having crossed
another threshold—skeleton
key’s rattling visit when
they enter through dreams
portal. I wake
as they leave. Old oak
staircase creaks. Naked
hallway bulb swings back to
cross examining thoughts.
Phantom sheers hide windows’
panes, as I climb
each night back into my empty
body, fall back
into dreams, spirit circling
Polaris, moon
turns tidal seasons as I
drift slowly, calmly into
timelessness, to have been or
to not have been—here.
Urban Garden, a love poem
for George
In marbleized moonlight, hidden
garden as if part of Eden
had secretly fallen. Discreet
in city’s concreteness, just
at the bend of a shared neighborly
driveway, where waist high
red & pink roses tell
of passionate love. Black-eyed Susan’s
whispers of their purchase
from a roadside stand, along
Jersey’s Pinelands, where gardener
emptied all bills from bathing
suit pockets, transplanted here
from root bound pots—taking
three summers to fan out
showy as peacock tails—hundreds
of black-eyed gumdrops, circled
by wheeled spokes of sweet golden rays
decorative as Chinese umbrellas round
out several empty spaces. Summer
breeze’s warm gentle caresses touch
everything like his caring
hands of tenderness. Purple and pink
phlox heady clouds of billowing
stories and five-pointed buds of violet
balloons unopened buoyancy; as daylilies
one day residencies collapsed
as faded paper scarfs wrapping
long stemmed necks; multi-colored
hydrangeas nicknamed “snowballs”
meltless in heat; as tall spiked cardinal
wildflowers rise
from dark undergrowth
attract morning’s hummingbirds; and shaped
like prickly inverted strawberries
cone heads bow lightly and lovingly
at twilight; sweet summer grass
mixed with clover: all occupying
this city space with us
chorally sing tonal colors
of gratitude to him, before autumn
creeps up narrow sidewalk, blowing
down all leaves. Fluted hollow reeds
clanging dirges play, as frosted
moonlight eerily streams as fog’s
off-white plumes rise
into disappearance.
Weil-McLain Heater
Heat giving object sits
silently in the center
of its own orbit, unnoticeable
as a human heart,
where unseen fiery
flames lick their raging
behind a panel bearing
a branded name. When
it kicks on, rather loudly, rhythmic
drum beat penetrates throughout
an entire house. Heat’s
pulsations raise water
temperatures in each room’s cast
iron radiator. Stationary
for countless years, little
need for repair, unnoticed
as a forgotten bike. Concealed
companion clicks abruptly on
and off, then all’s silent, again
and again, 24/7 works
winter hard like behind the scene
maintenance man or out-of-the-spotlight
stage crew hand. Housed
in basement, shares room with containers
of Christmas decorations and boxes
of retired books. Each cold day
and night creates warm flows
high tide rising throughout
every room in a two
story stone home. Loud surprise
growling roar, flickering
tongue’s lapping, then low purr
hum vibrations of a lion inside
a rectangular metal frame, unnoticeable
as a World War I ammunition box.
Desperately dazed one floor down
from where I am sitting. Constant
glowing companion living
here unnoticed
as a caged burning star.