15.6.28

Sometimes, you pinch the mob
with three fingers, as if you’re holding
a diaper, arms length, catching wafts
of lack in dedication.

Smears seep in the canyon
of your fingerprint, washing out
whatever you first meant to say.

whistling breeze dances
in and out of poplar leaves
all waggle and sway

We 
  sat
      on the balcony

overlooking the sea,

watching the small sailing ships.

Peaceful end
to another day;

tall glass of cold ice tea
and
a bowl of salsa and chips.

If You Encounter a Ghost                           

resist your first instinct to run or scream,
especially if a ghost is what you are seeking.
Imagine the sting of someone frightened
by the vision of your face, someone
you may have known well, even loved. 

If you choose to wander among the headstones
at Glendale Cemetery on a fall evening with your
vibration detector and ghost cam, it is only polite
to ask permission before you record what appears
to be an unearthly shape. 

Remember that most ghosts are shy; they hang back
in corners, concealed behind a ficus tree, a partially
opened door, gather their vapors about them to cross
into another room when a lens appears. 

Don’t bother with gadgets. You are your own
thermometer; your flesh will rise among
cold currents in the bedroom of the historic
B & B known for its prankster spirits. 

Yet you lie awake through the night, wrapped
in an extra blanket, alert to the possible
settling noises of the old inn. Keep in mind
that you are the guest among a spectrum of hosts. 

Do not, like Horatio, demand the spirit reveal its secrets;
it knows you know them already. Neither insult the ghost,
saying its bones are without marrow, its locks gory.
This was McBeth’s second great mistake. 

It is wise to be polite: refrain from staring
at the empty places where hands and feet are missing;
even if the ghost has no eyes, it can see the contortion
that shock lends to your features and will take offense.
This is never a good thing. 

Just switch off the flickering overhead light, shut
the window you don’t recall opening, put all the glasses
back in the cupboard and close all the dresser drawers
hanging open like gaping mouths. 

After all, this may be a visitation you’ve longed for―
your great aunt Mary whose raisin scones
you’ve never been able to duplicate. She may
have returned to divulge her recipe, and maybe
to startle you just a little. Indulge her. 

Consider that to die is human, to return divine.
They form the veil between here and elsewhere
and you, lucky cuss, get a peek. Plus, I’d wager
that we are far more animated than most
living people you know, so enjoy my visit.

Blackberries are sweet in jelly, jam, or pie
but sweeter plucked and gobbled from the vines.

I speak of wild berries, the kind you find
on old grown-over fencerows and wasted hillsides,

smaller, tarter, and hot from the sun, the finest
berries deepest in the thicket. Mind

your hands, your hair, your denim shirt, your eyes.
You must wear long pants, long sleeves though it’s July.

A straw hat’s optional. Some old timers
swear by a length of kerosene-soaked twine

tied at wrist and ankle, as the first line
of defense against chiggers. The canes will bind,

the thorns will grab hold tighter, the harder you try
not to spill your pail of berries, to unwind

yourself one-handed, and it’s no use to whine.
Your Granny is hard-hearted as the spiders

whose webs you broke. They look at feeding butterflies
and see lunch. Spiders, bugs, birds, grannies alike

know to stay alive, beauty must be sacrificed.
So the berries with their sweet entice

us and we scatter their seed complete with fertilizer.
It’s a system that culminates in more canes and more pie,

and you will get chiggers. That’s part of the price.

I walk in a fog
so thick the sand and sea 
are obscure, interwoven,
any difference indiscernible.
I flow my steps into the cool
bay feeling seaweed
between my toes. I see
only clouds that engulf me
and my hand in front of my eyes.
I worry that my brain works in reverse,
it wanes like the out going tide.
I hope clarity emerges
through the steamy mist
that covers my world.

It all begins with a spark
that grabs onto the wood
holds on tight,
and spreads its warmth throughout the log.
Growing higher and higher
while fading into a softer and softer light.

It dances for the log;
performs.
But the audience is getting smaller and smaller.
Their ashes piling up higher and higher.
Until the log is no more
and the flame takes a bow
before slowly fading into
nothingness.