In Bed, Alone, with Coffee

it is a Sunday morning,
grey sky,
thin snow

and i
with thin grey hair
lie alone
thinking about the meaning
of poetry

i write
to speak my mind
to tell the truths
i cannot speak to others

there is little enough
to say
when mind and body
are neither here nor there
little enough to communicate
i work
i walk
i dream

thinking is inevitable
a word heard
creates an interior vignette
and that begets a poem
and that
another thought
to think
another window to look through
another morning to live
and smile
at the way the world
sees me

i am neither mad
nor sane
somewhere in between
as i am in culture
neither fully American
nor fully European
i stand between
looking right and left
for a clue to completion

wanting the whole world
i settle for a piece of bread
with butter and marmalade

let the day begin!

Too Much, Too Fast

mind
swimming upstream
in a river gorged with snowmelt
and broken ice

dodging
almost exhausted
i stop
to rest
inside myself
only to swim again
to avoid the danger
of being alone

Enigma

the life i live
between the european mind
and the north american rememberance
is more ambiguous
than schizophrenic

the subtleties of language
and the vagaries of women
combine
in a bilingual silver storm
and i am left
cold
immobile
weak

i cross my legs
drink some green tea
and thaw

no more krupnik, no more Maryanka

On January 5th, 2005, my sister died
after Christmas without her brother
after New Years without her family
after a life without adventure
but full of love and giving

I am flying out of here
to the little mountains around the Lackawanna
to take care of her
my first attempt
at putting a shoe
on the other foot