collecting dust
on a coffee table
used to archive
dates of births
weddings,
& funerals.
walnut shells seem 
impenetrable,
but once 
cracked open,
the meat is sweet.
Holy Bible

       The day moves
without our moving it
we are its age
if we had not shared it
with each other
then perhaps with others
or perhaps experienced it alone.  

      Now that this sharing is gone
we look back once
smile on all the memories
we’ve learned
turn
and go 
      forth.

I wasn’t conscious that I was doing it
My wife noticed it
I didn’t do it at home or elsewhere
But for some reason when I was at the hospital
Back when I had cancer
I’d walk around with my chin
Pressed to my chest
And tucked over into my shoulder
“That’s the way you do it
When you’re in the ring
So you don’t get your head knocked off”
She didn’t care for my explanation
“Quit it, you look stupid.”
Rather
As the treatment went along
Got tougher
I’d juke and jive around chairs
Bob and weave around people in the hall
Side step around corners as if slipping punches
As if defeat were coming at me
With jabs, hooks, uppercuts
Crosses
The weaker I got
The more pronounced my defenses
I feinted a jab as the nurse handed me the sippy cup of water
Parried away the blood draw needle
It got to the point that when I was sitting there
Punch drunk from the chemo
I’d roll my head away from imaginary punches
After I got up off the canvas after the last radiation treatment
Standing at the car door
Unsteady on my feet
Knees close to buckling
Gritting my teeth to get the energy
To keep my eyes open
As if I was in the center of the ring afterwards
Waiting for the judge’s decision
I sank down into the car seat
And my wife drove me home

There’s been quite a few miles since
But today I was back at the hospital
Checking on cancer symptoms
I saw an old timer standing in the waiting room
Except for his grossly deformed cauliflower ear
He looked good
Hair neatly combed back
Nose straight
 No scars around the eyes
“Were you a boxer?” I ask.
“Yeah,”
“Pro?”
“Yeah”
“What’s your name?”
“Look, I don’t feel like talking, get lost.”
Yep, he had cancer.
And he knew how to deal with it.
When I walked out of there
I felt like my hand was already raised
It’s good to meet a real fighter
When cancer could be in the opposite corner
I threw up my hands like Rocky in that movie
My wife knew that gesture
She’d seen it from me before
“Come on, Champ, I’ll drive you home,
So you can have your nap.”    

He turns it on
and Paganini jings out of the box
he is flush to get his feelings out for her
he types “pisicato lips on the tender rims of your nipples”
and though this image accurately portrays his desire
he knows it is sophmorically floral
thus undermining the maturity of his passion
he listens to the virtuoso’s strings swoon and buck up tempo
through entrallment
to rapture
and he is with her
her black hair
soft ink spilling his fingers stiff
soft lialac scent sending, sending the heartbeat sent
soft breath pulsing past gasps
soft birch bark roughened by the rise of an oak
soft ocean waves lapping the song of the surf
soft blue flame skys discover soft is clouds bursting honey dew to gently, softly rest on the float of warm carressing dream pools
her black hair
he is with her
this is the moment the music has brought him
and as Paganini softly lapses
he switches the box off
yet he is with her
her black hair
he opens the window and feels grand as gold
and is grateful that it is spring for upon the breeze is the scent of lialacs
and he is with her
her black hair soft as the night
the moon unseen fills full his chest
turning
he shuts the light off
and gets into bed
there will be no more attempts at typing tonight
there is time only for the longing for tomorrow
that must be with her

It is to give up
The hearts
And flowers
Of blooming seasons
And reside beneath the snow
In the frozen mud.  

It is to forget
Her touch
As if she had never Touched
And to sleep
Through the spasm of life’s embrace
As an eye Apart
From all That it longs to
Behold

Curses and jinxes
Killjoys and finks
Hiccups and mistakes
Chipped teeth and bone breaks
Empty promises
Habitual liars
Nooses and heartbreaks
Hurry, hurry, hurry, although you’re already late
Skinned knees, those who never say thank you or please
Excuses, excuses, excuses and no apologies
Impatient waiting room ranters
Red light runners and tailgaters
Sloth slow government clerks
Bastards bitches arrogant ignorant inconsiderate jerks
Eight balls and cat calls
The sense God gave a stone
Eating alone, flights that have flown without you
Diapers that are full
Shit that is all bull
Toothaches and split lips
You didn’t win, so you must have lost
No money and no money coming in
Dirty dishes and dirty clothes
No time for anything except complaining
Who said, I’m a pain in all your asses?
Demanding overbearing bosses
Drinking curdled milk and feeling nauseous
Having to choose between puking or diarrhea
The dry heaves
Bad breath kisses
Wives nagging and losers whining
Husbands living for sports and two timing
Watching everyone but you winning
having to go back to the beginning 
Parking tickets until the cars been towed
A garden with nothing but weeds that need hoed
Burnt food, embarrassed to be seen nude
Always too hot or too cold
Too young or too old
Sorry, it’s already been sold
A lifetime of never having real gold
It’s all in your head
Better off dead
Lost wallet and lost keys
Not even if you say please
Head lice and dogs with fleas
In-grown toenails and a tick where you can’t get at it
Interrupted, disgusted, contradicted, ignored, and busted
Goldbricks, teases, and all the rest are out of your league
Users, abusers, and those from whom you need to be freed
Stood up, left waiting, losing out to hesitating
Stepping on a rusty nail
Coitus interruptus
Laughed at, called fat, and that slow leak is finally flat
No spare tire, no water for the fire, and no pension to retire
Final notices, and stains on your shirt that everyone notices
Aces and eights and snakes eyes
And no answer to why
Trip ups and stumbles
Speed bumps and called on a count of rain
Stock market tumbles
And nothing left to explain
Unsatisfied power mongers
Control freaks and money whores
Dust in the eyes and hair burrs
Hangnails and again jail
Bad haircuts and a hole in the pail
Queered bets and raw regrets
Lost false teeth, lost phone numbers
Waiting for a disconnected phone to ring
Nothing left to lose
Empty bottles of booze
I don’t know, I don’t know,
I haven’t got a clue
Pink slips, her with other guys
Dog shit on your shoe
Cats fighting at night
Can’t sleep even if you could
And they’re just no good
Keyed cars, closed bars
Black eyes, some guy cracking wise
A million reasons to die
Fair weather friends
No way to tie up loose ends
No reason to live
Takers, fakers, a memory like a sieve
Broken shoe laces
A seven and a two but no aces
Sharper than the edge you walk to the end
Not even one friend
And here you are again
With nothing to show for it not even a thin dime
With hemorrhoids, good luck that avoids, approaching asteroids
But with no time for next time

Written in the style of “The Road Less Travled” by Robert Frost 

Two roads on a map,
two girls worlds apart. 
Each loan traveler, came together
and drove on far as she could
to where they met in the bluest grass.   

They found each other, just as fair,
and having perhaps the greatest love,
because it was true and wanted more;
though the time upon the passing road
had worn them down about the same.

Each new morning as they lay
and wished no more to drive again
they kept that dream for another day.
Yet knowing distance wears on love,
they doubted they could stay apart.  

They shall be telling this with a smile
somewhere many ages hence:
Two roads on a map, and they-
they found each other from worlds apart,
and that has made all the difference.

She asks me not to speak and I oblige,
allow silence to fill the space between seconds
and the scent of Summer to permeate the room.
Cacophonous thoughts march forth to fill the void.
Forgive me;
as years pass, I’ve forgotten the simple
joys in life- honeysuckle has become just another word,
and my mind is no longer tattooed with the image of a sea
of fireflies before drifting off to sleep.
When, exactly, does childhood become merely a memory?

“Take care of that nest,”
the sun told the tree.
She watched over that nest
better than either you or me.
She made sure the nest was warm
and lifted up high,
until she distracted herself,
her eye on a guy.
This guy fed her great words,
that made the tree grow,
but when she found out he was a lie
she felt quite low.
She was left with a scar
of his name and her’s
until the fat cat scratched it out,
in return she heard purrs.
But she didn’t make him stop,
she said it felt good
and soon enough
she was a piece of wood.
Her mind was filled
with all things but the nest,
and when she found out it was gone
there was a pain in her chest.
The sun stared down
and as the dry season came
she let the wind take her
as she burned up in flames.

Separating from my body
moving through a tunnel
yes, I have entered the painting
where stars grow on trees
they walk in a circle, turning
in the sun’s yellow pool
listening for grace notes
like moments repeating in memory

This is what’s most solid
stone walls, moss, and ferns
and fields, blue veins flowing
water that’s nearly still
pulse of our lives
like growth rings in trees  

On the curved surface of my retina
small epiphanies break free
into the milk of enlightenment       

         ~ Cento composed from Lucille Lang Day’s book “Dreaming of Sunflowers: Museum Poems