JOHN AND MARY
John Berry writes a poem
for his dear departed Mary
and reads it at all the open mics
It is a lovely poem
about parallel universes
and all the other ways
they might have met
or never met at all
He tells me that it changes
every time he reads it
which makes sense
since it is well known
that you can never step
in the same poem twice
I hear that it is also true of rivers
QUANTUM LUNCH
There is nothing stable in this table
And yet
the ever so quickly spinning
nothingness
that is me
is happy this particle – wave
filled morning
to rest on it with non–existant
elbows
and gaze and gaze
at the improbable you
SERVICE
Every small town funeral
Church ladies serving tea
and sandwiches and cake
Love
through
shaking hands
spreads in quivering
waves
out across the jellied salad
VALENTINE 09
Every Saint Valentine’s day
one should write a poem
to their beloved
Not just to remind them
how lovely they are
and your bursting desire
to show it
But also how lucky you are
to know that you know it
QUESTIONS FOR THE NEXT SÉANCE
Dearest Mother;
Sorry to disturb you
in your well deserved bliss,
but here’s a short list
of things that I forgot to ask
And, if it isn’t too much trouble
I’d like the answers as detailed as possible
It will be understandable
if you can’t conjure up a voice,
but one rap for yes, and two for no,
on a floating table won’t quite do
However, if you can look up Samuel Morse,
(who may well be bored and available),
he can give you a quick-study course
and I will dust off my old Boy Scout manual
I believe “talk to me” In Morse still becomes:
-/•-/•-•/-•- -/— –/•
So, now that we’ve got the hang of it;
– What was the best day of your life
– What was your worst
– Your greatest triumph
– Your greatest disappointment
– What you are happiest that you did
– Saddest that you didn’t
Why exactly did my uncle shoot my dog
Whatever happened to my baseball
card collection, with the rookie
Mickey Mantle
and what is heaven like
MOTHER’S DAY
Before Hallmark got ahold of it
Mother’s day was not
the second Sunday in May
Less commerce
but more meaning by far
in spring’s first crocus
in a jelly jar
HI HO HI HO
Work
I sometimes think about it, but not too hard
Like, shouldn’t there be a different word
for doing what we love or hate, for money
Like how I got to drive big trucks at eighteen
that I dreamed about at eight
and they paid me
Like playing cowboy and riding the range
where the deer and the antelope play
and getting paid
Building buildings bigger than Lego
and getting paid
Maybe work is about being serious
but I seriously question that too
I mean, what can be more joyous and serious
than a child adding one last block to his tower
or me, as I write this poem, and look up
to see it is 1:25 in the morning
SONNET FOR THE ORDINARY
There is a loving way to make a bed
With pillows care set at the head
And a mother’s loving knead to give
Adds nourishment to help us live
We know that water crystals change
With words of love or hate about
From snowflake to a muddy mange
And we are water without doubt
A cheerful flipper at the greasy spoon
Feeds us better though the food be junk
Than Pierre at the Ritz with silver spoon
Serving Crèpes Suzette with Galic funk
And care enough within a poem
can provide another home
SECOND HONEYMOON
It is my mother’s birthday
she has barely made it to
88
Not one infinity sign but two
I see her from behind
standing again with my father at the altar
IN MEMORY STILL
(or computers byte)
You keep popping up in my memory
On old disks I find love notes
still as loving as when they were entered
Faxes, letters, poems, thoughts
full of beauty full of trust
Valentine’s poems, three of them
overflowing with sensual exaltation
wisdom exchanged, depths plumbed,
promises made
Fresh and clean and bright
as the day they were written
lines that would go on forever
lines that still do go on forever
I don’t know how to tell the little ones
and zeros that we’re now apart
it might break their heart