Boulevardier on a Bench

... In tomorrow town
Waitin' for the trolley
And the coming Spring
Of the heart's desire.

There are benches
For every metaphor of life -
Benches and cafes
Where a man
Might go to sit and wait,

For serendipity and fate,
Wild dancers and destiny
And English ladies drinking tea ...

"The Last Passenger Pigeon"

The last Passenger Pigeon
Died alone in 1914
At the Cincinnati Zoo.

The only one left and lonely
Of the once many millions,
Spread out majestic and splendorous
Across America’s mid and prairied west,

That with her death,
Last soft breath,
Lifted her up and out
And bore her over,
To the freedom to finally join
Those migrating ghost flocks
Seen on full moon nights
Eternally crossing the Ohio River
Setting John Audubon a-quiver,

For to her silk-ilk
Of feathered minions
She fled
Coming home to echoes
Of “last call”, she sped.

"I built a Shed in the Fall"

I built a shed.
I laid down those planks,
Those cornerstones,
Made that flooring
Upon those beams.

Lifted them heavy
Put them along
And lined them up
And put them strong.

I Built a shed.
Rose up and lifted
Those joists and walls,
Set them proper and tall.
Struck them firm
The decking, the roofing,
Cannot fail, cannot fall.

Lifted up to the eaves,
Rafters and beams

I built a shed in the Fall
Before the Winter comes.

I tacked hard the shingles
On the roof,
Hammered the shakes
Upon the wall.

I built a shed
In the Fall
Right before the Winter,
In my early Winter
I am sixty
That is all.

I built a shed
In the Fall
I ached,
Tho did not suffer
And sore each night
And alone,
I built a shed in the Fall
I am sixty
That is all.

Sore each night
And alone
I dreamt you held me
Once again,
When I was young,
Handsome and tall.

I built a shed
In the Fall
I am older now
That is all.

"Waiting for Lenore" : An Homage to Poe and Blake

Waiting for Lenore,
There is ice
On the widow's walk
Not far from shore,

Looking out onto the sea
For that proverbial ship to come,
Pacing and glancing seaward,
First glimpse, she brings
Warmth to me.

For it has been cold
on the widow’s walk
With metaphor
For voyages home
And welcoming warmth
at the end
Of the wait
of a lifetime.

With renaissance ship,
Her sails of silken garments
Flowing in the breezes.

Of sea saddled vigils
And endless nights
Of cold lookings-out
Onto moon luminations
Of the whales' spout

And gentle mammaled migrant herds
From the iceberg terraced North,
Enroute to warm watered,
Mexican lagoons.

As Dead black night watches
On the chilly widow’s walk
Turn to sun-blind, brilliant days
And the ocean sprays
The notes of salt-bird cries,
Again and against the view
Of weary eyes,
The phantom ship upon
The horizon dies.

Thus unrequited, yet he tries
And steadfast, visions-out
To slip-skim the waters
To where the Seahawk flys.

And later,
From the widow's walk that night,
The Gods of Neptune
Heard him talk to her
Of love and grace.

For upon a shimmered ocean light,
Her resplendent angel's face gave sight
As he wept and stumbled
Towards the shore,
Into the chilled water he dove
and swam out, then deeper
Until he was no more.

Last breath, last words
from his lips were "Lenore,
my Lenore, I pray thee not
to join the fair Elenor".

Be thee not ghost
Nor mermaid
At Poseidon's door -
But return with me
Where once along
The sunny and sandy shore,
We walked hand in hand
Towards tomorrow's evermore.

Tho merely a man
against the sea
This love for you,
These Gods shall not undo
nor damp the glint and sheen
that astride the lights of eternity.