Monday, December 20, 2010

The Walk
I walked to the end of my Square Corner
Stood at the rough water's edge
One foot cold the other warm
My bare soles waded on a bed of sharp stones,
Then under a brilliant sun I felt a blazing story:
This Square Corner as home, this sea a bed of bloody stones
I was healed round on soft sand
Headed humbly toward a rising voice, where I belong he said in welcoming tone

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The Line
When I was a boy we moved to a new house
At night a freight train would race by
It kept me awake with its rumbling sound
But I was young, sleepiness faded like tired eyes
Now when a train rumbles on an awakening night, I think of that new house
I wonder, as it rolls away, is it as old as me

Sunday, December 12, 2010

i run often from a setting sun
scurry as best i can towards a waning sky
but now i see life in whole new terms:
we are each a setting sun
easy we go from brilliant red,
behind blackened earth to know life no more
so what we owe, if there is God who loves these ones, to ourselves:
a forgiveness of what we've done
to cease not so far from easing days,
but run alive as best i can with each day's sun

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The River
On a swift summer night Springsteen played for me and my girl
So that's what we did:
Went down to the River,
swam and laughed under a low starlight
With soft white towels we dried each other's skin
Made it to a mountaintop and waited for the safe morning sun rise
Those were so many years ago;
Now I stand by The River and sing Springsteen alone
Dry myself under a fading sunrise

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Reassured

I had a few hard drinks at the One Lucky and blended into nothingness. My bar stool gave out from under me, and here's what I remember: dead black eyes and the voice of Zigman Zibanski.

"Tortelli, Tortelli! Ya wake up." he cried in his old world accent.

A rush of ice water fell onto my face. Zigman lifted me up and placed the bar stool under me. The bartender, 'Beer Mugs' Moran poured a cup of black coffee. Otherwise he left us alone.

I knew I drank too much, which was unusual for me. I felt bad for Zigman who had a prediliction for worry and chasing after woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He drank himself too often into a regretful depression.

"Ya, drink too much, Tortelli," he said. "You no want to end up like me."

I stated with a slurred speech that wouldn't happen. This was just one of those nights. My head would hurt tomorrow, maybe for a few days, which would be reason enough not to turn me into a drunk. I'd be better off mostly posting blogs, I told him. This reassured Zigman. Which suited me just fine.