FICKLE

"One should rather die than be betrayed.
There is no deceit in death.
It delivers precisely what it has promised.

Betrayal, though ...
betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.”

- Steven Deitz

FICKLE

by denny



Each day they gather
flies attracted to honey
sycophants, spouting
inane chatter, back slapping
in mock friendship.
Observant, I stand afar
reluctant at first
to join the cyber circle.

People stop,
discuss their mood
rally each other
with well-tried deceits.
You woo me
as protégée, confidant
tempting me
to coil you around
the mainspring of my heart

Seduced by feigned charms
I drop my guard
let you lead me to the dance.
Until then one day,
clicking on my favorite link,
I am suddenly confronted
with a dreadful phrase

Access Denied

.

Amber Haze

"Forgotten? No, we never do forget:
We let the years go;
wash them clean with tears,
Leave them to bleach out in the open day,
Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,
Till we shall dare unfold them without pain,--
But we forget not, never can forget. "

- Dinah Maria Mulock

Amber Haze
by denny

He sat there staring at the bottle
Standing half empty on the top shelf
Where he had placed it 5 years before.
He had managed to ignore
It's temptations all these years, but now
He could feel the old craving coming back.

He hadn't seen them in nearly twice that long
Not since they moved away and
Left him there in the lonely house
Filled with all the clouded memories.
The Phone call had come as a surprise.

"Dad, we just happened to be in town
and thought you might like
to meet your grandchildren".

Grandchildren. That sounded somehow strange;
He barely remembered them growing up.
Their Mother had died when the last was born
And his world just dissolved into an amber haze.
They had been High School sweethearts
She had the deepest brown eyes, and
Chestnut hair. And she had been his life
For as long as he could remember.

Life had been hard, but she brought
A measure of joy into every day.
He got up early this morning, not knowing
Exactly what to think or what to do.
He fished around in the closet for
An old white shirt and put on clean socks,
Went into the kitchen to fix breakfast

When he opened the cupboard, his old friend
Was sitting there on the shelf .. waiting.
He sat down at the table and stared, remembering
What life had been with her, and after ...
And the half empty bottle on the top shelf.

Perfection

“The reality we can observe
is but an imperfect reflection of
a deeper, more beautiful reality”
- Dr. Steven Weinberg

Perfection
by denny


One of the most wondrous things
about human nature is
we seem to require
a poetic version of life,
attuned to natures ceaseless vibrancy.

We yearn for a perfect sense of self

a longing for beauty, pain
and paradox;
just as the vibrant colors of spring
conceal the muted rusts of autumn.

As if something as delicate as a poem,
ephemeral in its beguiling nature,
daring and whimsical,
somehow divine - could be
the bridge from dark to light.

Weeds In The Garden

"God is a comedian, playing to an audience
too afraid to laugh.”
- Voltaire

Weeds In The Garden
by denny

“You really shouldn’t make those faces,
someday it might just freeze that way”.
What if my Mother was right?
Abruptly, I ran to the bathroom mirror
to make sure I was still my loveable self

Years later, I am still plagued
by the vision of Linda Blair
possessed in the Exorcist,
face contorted by demonic forces,
recalling my Mother’s stern warning.

And the face I see in the mirror
no longer young, the relentless hand of time
having done its cruel, indelible work.
The once vibrant youth entombed
within this aged and wrinkled shell.

Does the sun no longer shine?
Have the vibrant butterflies of youth
somehow become faded and gray?
Must all the playful weeds in the garden,
be sacrificed for the thorns of the rose?

No Running In The Halls

"You don't have to suffer to be a poet;
adolescence is enough suffering for anyone"
- John Ciardi

No Running In The Halls
by denny

Now it seems so long ago
those first uncertain days
put away our childish play
new school and friends to make
to take the first tentative steps
into youthful adolescence.

Serious lessons to be learned
No more recess, now it’s Gym
Wow! – just look at him – you giggle
the first girlish infatuations
divert your glance, don’t let him see
did he look at me, does he even know
that I exist – Oh! I do hope so.

And then the words that break the spell
Children – get back to class
No running in the halls, no chewing gum
as if she doesn’t really understand at all,
how much older we’ve become ?

Lost Souls

Lost Souls
by denny

There's an old abandoned baseball field near my home
Where I go to hash out the problems in my life.
I sit amid the worn empty bleachers,
full of muted voices and watch
Games long over on lazy summer afternoons.

Baseball catches in my craw like a cat with a fishbone.
I played as a child, got my virginity ripped from my soul
By a baseball coach who long ago missed his chance
And took his vengeful retribution out on each of us.

I watch the ghost players upon the dusty field;
Well worn gloves a size too big on hands half grown.
All the young boys that played and are now long gone,
Dreams of the big leagues gone in wasted lives

At this empty stadium in miniature
A lone crane has taken up residence, a lonely sight.
I think his mother found herself far from the flight path
Had to deliver her overburdened womb prematurely.

Thus he reminds me of myself, born somewhere
Other than the place he was intended to be, a pariah.
At dusk he swoops in to land on the old batting cage,
The only contender on deck, waiting to eye the pitch.

His long slender neck makes an elegant curve.
He stretches upward, eyes left and right, and preens.
Now motionless, head turned into the wind, eyes stoic
He stares forward as if to ask some eternal question.

I do too, and I feel a keen solitary sense of empathy.
This refugee from the coastal climes is me with wings.
I would fly but never will, this land holds me fast,
Damned as I am to die in this God forsaken place.

So I will desiccate in this arid landscape.
And my winged friend will wonder senselessly
Why he was born in this ballpark.
The game long over, three outs and two left on base;
He on his batting cage, me on this bench.

A Freedom Song

denny is the descendent of a Slave
brought to Virginia in 1682 to work the tobacco fields,
whose grandson married a Tuscarora woman.

A Freedom Song

by denny

Listen my voice, I am an American
And I sing a Freedom Song
A song of hope and promise
But one filled with grief and despair

I sing of my Native Brothers
Their ancient wisdom and love for this land
I sing of their tears and sorrows
I sing of what once was.

I sing of my Black Brothers
Of slavery and oppression
Negro spirituals sung in the fields
Under the whip and chain.

I sing of my Hispanic Brothers
Fleeing poverty and hopelessness
I sing their songs of hope
Longing for a chance to be free.

I sing of the Irish, Asians, and Dutch
Working in the fields and factories
I sing of Appalachian coal miners
I sing of sweat, hard work and courage.

I sing of all my brothers
Those that came and made America great
Building a Nation on their backs
Giving their lives for the next generation.

Screeching of the Gulls

"Real politics are the possession
and distribution of power."
- Benjamin Disraeli

Screeching of the Gulls
by denny

New Orleans is miserable this time of year.
The heat rising off Lake Pontchartrain
hangs over the city like a wet blanket.
Unable to sleep on the sweat-drenched sheets
I walk outside along the empty streets, past
the drunk sleeping in the doorway,
on the sidewalk, an empty wine bottle.
Past the hungry eyes and empty hands
peering from the cluttered alleyways.

The city has never really recovered
from the devastation of the storm, so
I walk out to the harbors edge
to where the waves play along the shore and
sea birds strut, looking for a meal.
To the half moon curve of the sandy beach
the clean salty spray of the ocean breeze.

The politicians keep tell us that
the city is coming back, just wait
give us more time, more money.
But here, along the shore all I hear
is the screeching of the gulls.

Saturdays In The Park

Saturdays In The Park
by denny



It’s Wednesday, the week half gone
as I sit at my desk, doing the meaningless things
that have become the boring routine of my life.
It pays the bills, I guess, it’s a “living” they say
as my secretary brings in the mail and
I check my Daytimer just to make sure
that I’m not missing anything “important”.

Note to self – pick up a birthday card for Beth.
Not my weekend to have the kids so
I’ll drop it off in the mail tomorrow
so at least she knows that I didn’t forget again.
I glance at the family photo on the corner of my desk
remembering when that word had other meanings.

And my mind wanders to those Saturdays in the park
with the kids playing soccer with their friends
before we went off to Baskin Robbins for ice cream,
before I built this wall between me and my dreams.
I still go to the park on Saturdays,
but now it’s to watch other families at play, a voyeur,
trying to find meaning in the lives of others.

Tonight, on my way “home”, pick out a card for Beth
and probably another bottle of Johnnie Walker,
Johnnie and I became close friends these past years.
I’ll put on a CD, something mellow, and sit
in my favorite chair, gazing out the front window
reliving once again those Saturdays in the park.
adding one more brick to that ever-growing wall.

The Red Dress

“I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.”
Kim Addonisio

The Red Dress
by denny


I didn't see her at first
as she stepped from the taxi and
began to walk towards me
wearing that short red dress I loved.

The way it clung to her body
accentuating every curve and
forcing you to just stare at her
whenever she walked by.

Revealing long muscular legs
that seemed to go on forever
the kind that made you wish
for a sudden strong breeze

When I saw her she was almost on me
walking straight and determined
that purposeful look in her eye
that caused my heart to pound.

She threw her head back . . flipped her hair
then threw both arms around my neck
pushed hard against me
her tongue probing to find mine.

We stood there for what seemed a lifetime
locked in that passionate embrace
there in the middle of the sidewalk
while the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

Had it only been three weeks since that day
she stopped me on the beach to ask the time
and we wound up spending the afternoon
on the floor of my beach cottage ?

My mind going back to that first night
sitting in the dark - watching
her cameo white skin aglow in the moonlight
auburn hair draped across the pillow.

Young athletic body - curled into an ess
I watched her gently breathing
contented and so peaceful, like
an alabaster statue I had once seen.

And I knew - it could never again be this good
never again like the very first time
you find that special someone that seems
to touch a place no one had ever found before.

HOPE

"Not only is another world possible, she’s on her way.
On a quite day, I can hear her breathing"
- Arundhati Roy

Dedicated to Truett Collins

HOPE

by denny

In a world of hate
and heartless greed,
the dogs of death
relentless feed
upon the weak
and hopeless souls.

Where life is false,
a ghostly dream,
and faith is gone
with mortal scream.
that drowns our hopes
in misery

Yet we stand again,
alone once more,
and peer across
this mortal shore.
with dreams of that
which might have been.

For in a world of hope,
where faith resides,
and human dignity
has not yet died.
our fading dreams
might come to pass.

For faith’s the key
to this mortal cage,
so loose the chains
absolve thy rage.
grasp the future,
yours by birth

Break these chains,
release thy mind,
absolve thyself
of all that binds,
from these bonds
of flesh be free

Awaken friends,
look past this guise,
see lust and greed,
and sloth and lies,
as merely tools
for digging futures graves.

In search of life
It’s time to find
the truth of which
this earth seems blind,
that all our days are numbered
save the last.

Black Snowmen

Dedicated to Catherine Reynolds

Black Snowmen
by denny


Ascending slowly from the depths
their habitation underground
where they toil day after day
the ore cart brings them to the surface
dark eyes adjusting to the brightness.

Life has never been easy
for those that make their living
in the coal towns of Appalachia
born to a life of backbreaking work
a life that often ends too soon.

Guardian angels of the darkness
the flesh must be given it due
spirits broken by work and despair
lives colored by the blackness of coal
that steals their spirit and soul.

Bodies meant to house the soul
empty shells trapped in darkness
knowing neither comfort nor joy
where none can escape their fate
and even the snowmen are black.

Poetry of Dead Things

"Live as you would have wished to live
when you are dying"

Poetry of Dead Things
by denny

Some think poetry is alive
They're wrong, of course
Poetry is about dead things
Like the flowers that we crush and
Smear upon the clean white pages
Their blood saturating the emptiness.

We try to capture the essence of things
Vivid thoughts that race through our minds
Of living things and human existence
We place them in a cage of words
Take from them their life, their soul
The poet, you see, is a murderer, killing
Living things for the pleasure of others

Perhaps it would be better, if
We gave more thought to those things
Which are already dead, like
The ghosts and demons which
Live only in our tortured dreams.
Like the dead leaves which blow
Across the distant fields of our mind
Giving them new life.

Putting flesh upon long dead bones
Forgotten in history's graveyard
And then, perhaps, someday
In the distant future, another poet
Will bring us back to life.

Post-Modernism

A Parody on a Poem by
James Clerk Maxwell

Post-Modernism
by denny

“The fool asks questions the wise cannot answer.”


And so they sat, obsessed with poems,
On their literate asses, so wise and grave,
now transformed to literary lions,
As round their prey they rant and rave.

Thus, by a swift metamorphosis,
Their wisdom becomes a poetic joke,
Fragmentation is incense to their noses,
For when these lions speak, they smoke.

That’s Nonsense! Cry the literary lions,
From them, the wise, all wisdom learn,
And what we’ve said they call absurd,
Against our ranks they boldly turn.

And yet, what combinations of ideas,
Nonsense alone can wisely form!
What sage has half the power as we
To take the towers of poems by storm?

Yield, then, ye rules of rigid reason!
Dissolve, thou too, too solid sense!
Melt into “Nonsense” for a season,
Then in some nobler form condense.

Soon, all too soon, on the chilly morning,
This flow of thoughts will crystallize,
Then those who “Nonsense” now are scorning,
May learn, too late, where wisdom lies.

Big City Dreams

Big City Dreams
by denny


I grew up in a small rural town
and dreamt of running off
to find adventure in the bigger world.
I’d watch the planes fly overhead and dream
of going wherever they were headed.
Somewhere away from the corner store
and all the gossip at the local café
where real life was taking place and
everything was shiny and new.

LA is a place of false hopes and
imaginary dreams where nothing
is quite what it seems.
I dream of running off
to find another place where life is real
somewhere perhaps I’ll find love
something meaningful;
and real dreams
that don’t get trampled under foot.

Toothpaste

Dedicated to Catherine Reynolds

Toothpaste
by denny

Late afternoon
I sit - reading
The last dying rays
Streaming down the page
Of the book
Open on my lap

Poetry is like Toothpaste
I like mine simple
No exotic flavors or
Tartar control
Just white teeth.

I want to tear
The pages out
Put them in my mouth
Chew on them
My eye teeth
Examining each word
Molars grinding
Them into fine powder
For wisdom teeth
To examine
Before I swallow
Digest the thoughts

Satisfied
I flash a dazzling smile
Sharpen my tongue
Before taking
Another bite.

Cracks between the seconds

“The only reason for time is so that
everything doesn't happen at once.”
- Albert Einstein

Cracks between the seconds
by denny

Between the measured tickings of the clock,
the silent pause when time stands still,
as if the Universe held it's breath and
waited for the next beat of my heart
for confirmation that I was still alive.
In that split second between the beats,
the atoms flickered in and out of existence
as the planets, cupped in gravity's hand,
stood momentarily still in the heavens
waiting for silence to beat it's drum.
As the thought-birds patiently wait
while roosting on neural branches above
the stilled stream of consciousness
that somehow defines my existence.

The Old Cowboy

Dedicated to Pete Bowling

The Old Cowboy

by denny

His legs were bowed, his back was bent,
and his skin was leather brown.
No one knew how old he was,
seems he'd always been around.

His hands were scarred, his fingers gnarled
from hard work all these years.
Yet he always had a kindly word
whenever folks came near.

No poet he, few words he spoke,
but when he did, you listened.
And when he gave that knowing smile,
Oh! how his old eyes glistened.

They say he’s the last of a dying breed
of those who tamed the west.
And soon his days will be no more
as he rides to join the rest.

Under star-lit western skies
which have always been his home,
he’ll ride into one last sunset
and there forever roam.

Home

"We bury love
but forgetfullness grows like the grass
That’s a thing to weep for
not the dead."

- Alexander Smith

Home

by denny

They sit in plastic chairs lined up
against the gray walls of the assembly room,
blankly gazing out into space.
Others, sitting at tables, play solitaire
against imaginary opponents,
while the attendents try to be helpful
reminding them to take their medication
waiting for their shift to end.

In one corner, a daughter
who has traveled from out of town
sits with her Mother and shares photos
of the grandkids she scarcely remembers.
“It’s good to share things from outside,
to keep them ‘connected’ to life”
an Administrator had told her.

The bland music playing in the background
is interrupted by an announcement.
A monotone voice over the speakers
“Lunch is being served in the cafeteria”
Ever so slowly, in unison, the residents
rise and shuffle down the narrow corridor
to the windowless square room
with tables where lunch is being served.

The daughter helps her mother up, gives her a hug
promises to come back soon, and not forget.
She gives her the collection of family photos
which she places in the pocket of her robe
to be retrieved later and placed in a drawer
with all the other memories of home.

Madam Butterfly

Dedicated to Diane O'Donnell

Madam Butterfly
by denny


A short time after I first met her
I was walking along a street in town
and came upon a Monarch butterfly
sitting on the sidewalk.
I took it up - it scarcely fluttered.
Where should I take it for safety,
away from hasty feet and rough hands?
We went through the hot streets together,
it lay trustingly in my hand,
awkwardly I shielded it from the wind.
At last I found a scrap of green grass
to place the stranger, and silently took leave.

It was not her soul
I knew that dwelled in the mountains;
yet she spoke to me
in the brightly colored wings,
an apparition on the sidewalk
whose need took me further then
I had thought to walk, was a word,
an emanation from her,
"I know that we shall be friends."

Lasting Peace

Dedicated to Laurie Ann Meegan

Lasting Peace
by denny


Before the ornate altar
the Priest raises the chalice;
A young boy dozing in the pew
is nudged awake by his mother.
While the body of another child
lays peacefully in the casket.

Outside, old men sit on the steps
watching the traffic on the busy street;
while a young girl walks by,
stops to admire herself
in a store front window,
oblivious to the child inside.

None can comprehend
the lonely desperation of one so young,
the frightening fits of rage
of an alcoholic father,
to find lasting peace away
from an uncaring world.

Flowers for April

Flowers for April

by denny

Life's tough on the street
for a girl with nowhere to go;
virginity lost at fourteen
to a middle-aged salesman
with sweaty hands
probing under her skirt,
pink bra tossed in a corner.
A bare light bulb hanging
in the center of the room;
Eyes closed, imagining
herself somewhere else, listening
to the noise from the street.
Somewhere a car alarm goes off.
He kissed her on the cheek
dressed and left without a word,
twenty bucks on the night stand
under a bottle of dead flowers.
Outside, walking down the street
past a flashing neon sign
above the bar,
still carrying the bottle
of dead flowers.

Distraction

Distraction (n) - an obstacle to attention,
a beguilement, a diversion.

Distraction
by denny



Standing outside of the office
a ten-minute break from the tedium
one last drag on the cigarette
before it too joins the pile
of all the others littering the pavement.

There's a price to pay for what you want
Distractions, keeping me from
where I want to be
The days turn into weeks, then a lifetime
No longer knowing what I'm doing here
For the things you want, always a price to pay

In the graveyard outside of town
A simple inscription on a weathered stone
I got distracted –
forgot to live.

The Beauty of the Garden

Dedicated to Toni Randall Duesing

The Beauty of the Garden
by denny



You fascinate with your beauty and your charms
And chain the fleeting fancy of an hour
That rival all the spells of Beauty's power.

The subtle grace of heart and mind that flows
A smile that puts to shame the sweetest rose
Thus you are the fairest that in the garden grows.

A quick response of word and deed
Dignity and stateliness that all must heed
That we would joyfully take your lead.

You to whom the most gracious gift is known
The heart that peace and love have shown
That I would seek to keep you as my own.

A New Star in the Heavens

Dedicated to William "Bill" Swanzy

A New Star in the Heavens
by denny

Zeus flung them through the air,
In whirlwinds to the high heavens,
And fixed them there.
Where the constellations nightly rise,
Lustrous in the northern skies.
Joined now by yet another star.

One after another the stars
Have risen in the heavens,
Joined now by a gentle bear of a man
Sparkling upon the hoar frost of my chain.

The gentle bear that walked the earth
Now, roams all night
About the fold of the North Star
Until allowed to finally rest by
The blithesome footsteps of the dawn.

Let his lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out watch the gentle bear.

Spring Love

Dedicated to Toni Randall Duesing

Spring Love

by denny

In the warmth of her loving gaze
the chill of the years melts,
like ice, shattering from my heart.

My normally calm demeanor,
the deep spring within me,
runs hot and turbulent.

And seeds asleep beneath the snow
slip finger-like tendrils up
to find the warming rays.

There comes a stir of music,
Like the joy of children's laughter
which picks the strings of their insipid lutes

And this strange sensation
The sense of wings
Growing in my heart.

My eyes are filled with a flowery
Noise that I can almost taste,
Like a tree in spring

Which has suddenly come into bud,
whispering a little tenderness,
Of which the leaves are tongues.

Youth Remembered

Dedicated to Loree Mason O'Neil

Youth Remembered

by denny

While walking in the woods one day
I chanced upon your cottage there
Long since gone to disrepair
Near meadows where we used to play
In the spring time of our youth.

The old barn, once red, stands nearby
Keeping silent sentinel there
Now gray with age and wear
Given way to weeds grown high
That was our play yard then.

Field mice play where once we ran
Long before the cannons’ roar
Signaled yet another war
That cancelled every other plan
And called us off to duty sworn.

Wild raspberries have overgrown
Ruined fences left unrepaired.
By souls departed unprepared
Fields gone to seed, unmown
With none to set this right again

Now at peace ‘neath marker stone
Mute witness to our folly shown
That steals our youth in hatred’s cause
With heavy heart we doth bemoan
Innocence taken by mankind’s flaws.

Seasons Gone

Dedicated to Toni Randall Duesing

Seasons Gone

by denny

Now gone, the days of summer shine
Warm days that now have long gone past
At last your tender lips seek mine
And now I hold you close at last

Though there are shadows on my brow
And seasons gone and with them youth
But you, my dear, you love me now.
In spite of times relentless plow

Though fled is every girlish grace
And gone the bloom of summers rose
Despite the sad and faded face
Still it is you that I have chose

I'll count no more my lonely tears
Nor curse my life's ill gotten fate
Forgotten now the lonely years
For strong is love that comes so late

I fear not now what time may bring
For we have sworn a lover's vow
Thus joyously my heart does sing
And you, my dear, I love you now

Reality

"Reality is merely an illusion,
albeit a very persistent one." - Albert Einstein



Reality
by denny

I sit and ponder, wondering
about the life I lead
full of the human passions and
daily preoccupations, actions
which I somehow consider meaningful, yet
still unsure about my place
in the greater scheme of things
upon which I seem to have
little to no effect at all.
Momentarily, lost in my thoughts,
I drift as if caught between
two parallel universes, released
from the daily noise and chatter,
spellbound by the utter silence
of light filtering through the leaves
of a nearby tree, enraptured, then
suddenly returned, as if tethered
to my prior existence, having glimpsed
for just a moment in time,
an altered reality of things,
having been forever changed,
if only so slightly.

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

by denny

Cresting in its northward flight
the fiery orb has reached its peak
claimed its dominence over night
But soon enough his reign will end
and night will rule the evening skies
For so it is with all things thus.
The ebb and flow that rules our lives
The passing fancies which delight
will soon give way to other thoughts

And all things born in the mornings light
Will someday end in the darkness of night.

The Photon - An Ode to Light

“In any field, find the strangest thing
and then explore it.” - Archibald Wheeler

The Photon
An Ode To Light

by denny and John Wheeler

The Photon is a bit of light.
It gives us warmth and gives us sight;
Not always seen, yet ever there,
Yes, even on the darkest night.

It travels very, very fast.
The speed of light can’t be surpassed;
It has no mass to hold it back.
Before you know it, it’s gone past.

And passing through a cosmic lens,
Its dual nature's rather queer;
Its travels show the Universe
Somehow foresaw that we'd be here.(*)

But, oh! So lovely to behold
In all its colors, bright and bold!
It paints the rainbows 'cross the sky;
In all their glory they unfold.

It makes the trees their vibrant Green;
And all of Autumn’s colors seen
From Red to Violet, makes them all,
And every color in between.

So here we are, at journey's end,
Deciding just what path to take
The lowly Photon has to choose
In order for our hearts to wake.


(*) A famous insight by astrophysicist John Archibald Wheeler

A Poem About Nothing

A Poem About Nothing

by denny

The cosmos is a funny place
It’s really mostly empty space
Oh sure, there are those Galaxies
and all the cosmic oddities
with lots of nothing in between

The stars they think they are so great
Of how they learned to aggregate
forming pinwheels in the sky
but just between you and I
I’m fascinated by the void

’cause when you add up all that “stuff”
there simply ain’t enough
to hold the Universe together
so where’s the “magic tether”
that keeps it fixed in place?

They say it’s all that “emptiness”
that we all thought was “nothingness”
Dark matter is the clue
that forms the cosmic glue
and not those haughty stars

So when you gaze into the sky
and watch the twinkling stars go by
notice what’s in between
the stuff that’s never seen
’cause that’s where all the action is.

Wamakaskan (Lakota - Dirt that Moves)

Dedicated to Wolf and Anna

Wamakaskan
by denny

Here along the water’s edge
Reflections of the aspen,
Birch and jack pine.
The trees seem to sigh.
But of course, it's only the wind
And the cry of a hawk,
Circling high above.

We're not accustomed to silence as music,
Nature's murmurring in the wilderness,
Which is why we live here
To remember something we once knew
And lost to urban forgetfulness.

Here, life seems more complete,
The air, scented with pine
Perhaps, if we all lived as quietly and
Watchfully with nature,
We would hear the voices
Of our ancestors speak to us
And feel less alone in the world.

Numbers 3.1

The Greek mathematician Pythagoras believed that numbers could define the world, that numbers could symbolize unexpeted things to happen and that "dream numbers" were metaphores bridging the past and the present to bring insight about both. To him, there was geometry in the humming of the strings, music in the spacing of the spheres.

This poem is specifically written to draw upon the concepts and images of the world of Mathematics and Set Theory by using such math terms as real, imaginary, infinite, discrete, perfect, imperfect, rational, irrational, excessive, limited, prime, cipher and divisible.

Dedicated to Laurel Anne Hoffman

Numbers 3.1

by denny

“When One made love to Zero,
spheres embraced their arches
prime numbers caught their breath"
- Raymond Queneau

There’s something dehumanizing
about being treated like a number
a mere cog – a cipher
existence reduced to a measurement
“greatness” judged by our height
rather than how high we reach

And I sometimes wonder if
I’m being excessively irrational.
In the prime of my life
with infinite possibilities,
limited by only imagination, yet
confounded by the complexity of
an imperfect world.

Desperately I yearn for a world
belonging to those with the passion
to somehow make the numbers dance;
A world where each is an individual
prime number divisible
only by themselves.

“The Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question
about Life, the Universe and Everything is . . . . 42”
- The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

The Playful Wind

The Playful Wind
by denny

Sometimes I sit and watch
the wind have its way with
the trees outside my house
blowing the leaves
into billowy curtains
or shimmering like sequins
on a festive dance dress

Of course, you cannot see the wind
only what it does to things
the delight it takes, sneaking up on flags
then suddenly snapping them to attention.
Or swirling dust and debris about
turning them into miniature tornadoes.

And how it shapes the clouds
into a menagerie of circus animals
parading playfully across the sky
delighting the child in each of us.
Like foam floating in thin air
a high-flying ball of fluff
like a dandelion taken flight

And what is the wind with
it’s murmurring through the trees
if not like the silent whispers
from our heart carrying
our joyful song aloft.

Buttons

Dedicated to Bill Kalles

Buttons
by denny

Damn. I just noticed
that I’ve lost another button
off my favorite shirt,
the one you bought me
that last Christmas.
And when I go to the closet
to get the needle and thread,
I see the box - tucked away
in the corner where I put all
the memories we shared.
The buttons of our life
that held together its fabric.
Standing there, I reminisce
about that first time -
trembling fingers unbuttoning
the front of your blouse and how
whenever you smiled,
you’d wrinkle your little button nose.
You could always twist me around
your finger, knowing exactly
which buttons to push.
But I loved to make you smile
just to see the joy in your eyes.
You’d laugh and say that I
was too buttoned-down,
that it was your task in life
to get me to smile more.
So, I force a little smile
just for you, as I sit patiently
sew the new button on my shirt,
the one you bought me
that last Christmas before
the fabric of my life fell apart.

A Little TLC

Dedicated to Ryan Matthew Hoffman

A Little TLC

by denny


"The most important thing in any relationship
is not what you get but what you give....
In any case, the giving of love is an education in itself"
- Eleanor Roosevelt


It was just an old worn out truck
One that had seen too many miles
A lot like me in many ways
My son found it in an Ad - For Sale
Needs some work and lots of TLC

So, at his urging, we went to take a look,
Pretty much what I had expected;
But I could see the gleam in his eyes.
He didn't see the rust spots or work
Needed to clean up the interior

He saw a dream - the potential
What the ole truck had once been
And what he'd like to do with it
So we hauled it home - we two
Hooked to the back of a tow truck.

Thereafter, for weeks and months
We'd be out there in the garage
Sometimes late into the evenin'
Father and Son, gettin' dirty
Puttin' things right, a little TLC.

Now, when I look at what we had done
Takin' care of all the past neglect
Undoin' all the damage from past years
By people who hadn't really cared
It gave us both a sense of pride.

And I look at my Son, what we had become
Out there in that garage at night
Takin' care of what had to be done
To make things right again
Doin' some work and lots of TLC.

Father and Daughter Reunion

Dedicated to Caitlin Elizabeth Hoffman

Father and Daughter Reunion

by denny

Turned up nose on a freckled face
Bright green eyes that sparkle with joy
A smile that would melt a father's heart
And a laugh like a wind chime on a breezy day.

Hair, fire red . . trailing out behind
As she rounds second base making for third.
Cloud of dust as she hits the ground
Trying to avoid the too late tag.

Eye the pitcher .. watch for the mistake
Ball gets loose and she's half way home
Before the catcher even realizes
And scampers to retrieve the errant pitch.

Late that night .. tucked snugly into bed
There's the question .. always the question
Daddy .. did you see .. did I do it right?
Do you love me ..
Will you love me every night?

Calliope Horse

Calliope Horse
by denny

He sits astride a gaily-painted
calliope horse, going round
and round in endless circles
with each new place being
somewhere he has already been.

Big city cowboy,
riding the range
in the neighborhood Mall,
fancy boots and shiny buckle,
romantic dreams that never existed.
Weathered briefcase for a saddlebag

full of wasted ambition and
forgotten ideals.

Riding a desk, 9 to 5 while
pretending to be "meaningful".
staring blankly out the window, westward
at the distant hills, pretending
to be something he can never be.

Like a child playing in a sandbox
with plastic cowboys, while singing
an old familiar tune, that repeats
endlessly in his head.
droning over and over in
endless repetition.

Cosmic Castaways

Cosmic Castaways
by denny


There is no escaping it.
We live at the bottom of a gravity well
created by the enormous sagging weight
of our own home planet.
Surrounded by the four-dimensional fabric
which serves as the backdrop of our existence.

Stuck as we are, we strain
to catch even a glimmer
of that which is beyond our reach.
We search the heavens
like castaways on a deserted island
hoping for a "message in a bottle"
from the far reaches of space
to prove that we are not really alone.

In our search, we see only misshapen images
like looking through a clouded window,
smudged by our ever-present fingerprints
and veiled by distorted expectations,
believing we can somehow separate ourselves
from that which we expect to find.

As we search the heavens for answers
what we find are only more questions.
The Universe sings to us, a low murmur
echoing the first moments after it's birth.

And so I sit here now,
struggling to remember
the words to the song.

A Cottage By The Sea

A Cottage by the Sea
by denny

And so, life comes to this,
A cottage by the sea,
To share with one we love.
Children grown and gone,
Loving memories to cherish
Of bygone days and yet
A wistful tear remains,
Of times too quickly gone.
Pictures on the mantel now
Younger faces peering out
Life's adventure still ahead.
But time does run its course
And takes its toll along the way.
Loved ones lost
And others gone away.
Bittersweet the fruits of life,
Yet challenges remain.
To face the day with love and hope
And push aside the fears.
To share the day and all it brings,
In a cottage by the Sea.