ghosts

there are still ghosts

and i find myself in conversation

with so many of them

we take our time over coffee

or as i walk the river valley trails

or on the commute to or from work

they cross the lake

to where i sit fishing

and wear familiar faces

i take them in my arms

and kiss their foreheads

it leaves my mouth burning

and my hands numb

endings

i’ve never been good with endings

the ending full of suspicion

the long and drawn out ending

the problematic ending

the ending that brings you flowers

the ending you were afraid of

the silent ending

the ending that wraps everything up with a bow

the ending with reasons of its own

the same old ending

the ending that had nothing to do with you

the ending no one wants to discuss

the hopeful ending

the ending full of screaming

the ending of endings

the ending no one saw coming

the whispered ending

the ending that is a beginning

the mutually agreed upon ending

the ending that says goodbye with a kiss

the ending that leaves everyone wounded

the ending that takes hold of your hand

the tear filled ending

the ending that forces a smile

the ending of all things

the ending full of joy

geese

All day long the honking of geese

as they arrive from the breeding grounds

in Mexico or the Carolinas,

the ragged v of their winging

as they cut across the sky

in ever increasing numbers,

the female of the species guiding their way

to the same place every year.

They don’t always return.

There are some that remain in the Midwest,

taking up too much space,

forgetting how to find their way.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter--

they are creatures of the recent habit.

It’s not really a question of how

to make a home for their millions.

It begins with each nesting pair:

travel when the urge stirs,

rest when it is necessary;

sound your arrival

in the crisp, pale air.

sometimes poetry

i don’t know what to tell you

there are secret poems

i would be a fool

to speak them to you

i’m not sure what a poem is

what it’s supposed to hide

how much weight a word may bear

how much do i give away

how do you choose what to hold –

do you use the right hand or the left?

what is the gift being offered

or is there even a gift?

we speak the words into being

give the stories skin and bones

an architecture of hope

that there is someone listening

that even a soft still voice still

makes an imprint on the world

now i speak through a cloud darkly

(no. that’s not it)

now i see through a glass darkly

each phrase a broken mirror

perhaps it isn’t that big a mystery after all

perhaps it was never meant to be one

sometimes poetry plays games with you

sometimes you even win

National Poetry Month 2019

It's that time once again--in both Canada and the US, April is National Poetry month!

I will once again be attempting to write a [finished] poem each day.

I hope you will follow along or, even better, join me (either by reading a poem a day or writing one). 

Obviously, I'm not the only one doing this--you can find more participants here.