Some More Poems

This is the only kind of writing I have time for right now. Whether or not anyone was reading my posts about books, I will get back to them at some point!

When God Closes a Door

I spend a lot of time staring at doors these days.

Every place I go could be the place,

and every day could be the day.

More often than not, someone

will walk through a door

whom I find worth considering.

So I consider:

Surely that guy's hairline has receded

as much as it's ever going to.

And that one is wearing sweatpants

because the rest of his clothes are in the wash.

And that one is only talking to himself

because he's trying out pick-up lines for me.

In my head, I've already told our grandchildren

the whole story of our first meeting.

Of course, then he leaves

without so much as a word.

I should feel disappointed but, really,

I'm just glad I won't have to grow old with those sweatpants.

Another door has closed.

I think I'll start watching windows instead.

Madison Square, February

In a certain light,

the trees in the park look stronger

than the buildings.

Winter's fog slides silently by,

wrapping the Flatiron in its diaphanous fingers.

But branches resist the fog's pull into ghostland.

Who can tell the difference

between a branch and a root?

One curls toward the sky,

asking that we trust it is immovable,

and will not be carried away,

offering no proof,

other than its stillness in the twilight,

when some are tempted to nod off

and let go.

The other creeps into the frozen ground,

wending its way through

the wilderness below,

an arm fortified by a single-mindedness

that we could never equal.

A branch is the same,

only it seeks to cling to the winter sky.

When the mist claims everything else,

holding it hostage through the night,

the trees only seem to grow stronger,

holding on with root and branch,

undisturbed even by a slow decay

that begins to seep.

At the Lord's Command (Numbers 9:15-23)

He delivered us from slavery, and now

we owe all our allegiance to Him.

So many laws and regulations, all given

to consecrate us,

set us apart,

make us holy.

Many men are charged with ensuring

that all the laws are obeyed, all the time,

and that proper sacrifices are made

when laws are broken.

But that's not what I do.

I am the watcher of the tabernacle cloud.

When it stays, we stay,

and when it moves, we move,

and I'm the one who catches the movement.
The cloud doesn't feel like a rule.

It feels like a guide in the sky,

directing us where to go, and when.

On clear days, it's a perfect pillar of billowing white,

turning itself inside and out, over and over,

every moment becoming new.

On stormy days, it's turbulent,

its surface reflecting the raindrops as they fall.

But I love night best of all.

At night, when the last whisper of daylight

has disappeared over the horizon,

and the sky has deepened to black,

at that moment, the edge of the cloud seems to ignite.

A thread of flame travels along the bottom,

filling the cloud with orange light,

and then the cloud itself nearly erupts.

No longer a white whirlwind, now it's a towering column of fire

no one can miss.

I watch the cloud day and night,

from the moment the fire begins

to the moment it goes out, and back again.

The cloud hovers over the tabernacle,

and as long as it is still, so are we.

Then, without warning, the cloud begins to stir.

I'm the first to see, and I run through the camp, shouting an alert.

"Pack up! Hurry! It's time to go!"

Before the cloud is out of sight, we're on the move.

We follow the cloud for as long as it goes,

and when it stops, we stop.

We set up camp and resume our living,

and I resume my watching.

Home

I lived in a box with a rocky top. 8-year

-old eyes closed every night on the dusky gray blue

silhouette of mountains against a sherbet sky.

An enormous sky, with few trees to interrupt.

But the trees that did grow sank their roots in deeply,

and held on tight. I breathed the sweet smell of campfire

smoke that drifted through the pines on autumn evenings.

I never wondered whether there was anything

more than my broken-in baseball glove, my tattered

sneakers, and my big sky. I was one person there,

the same one I've always been, surrounded by those

who made me that way. Safety can be frightening, too.

I live on a floating

sliver, concrete and stone

puzzle that hides the sun

often as not. Alone,

I turn corner after

corner, search for challenge.

This block smells like curry,

and this one like kimchi,

and this one like diner

food, beer. I want to try

every one. I take each

step with a different pair

of shoes. Can someone die

from excessive walking?

I know that if I leave,

I will never come back.

Love and Baseball

Take me on the road with you, my love.

Let's visit Wrigley, Fenway, Camden, Arlington,

and all the rest, named for those

who own the rights to the world.

When the sun is high,

let's roll the windows down and sing

"Don't Stop Believin'" at the top of our lungs.

Let's stop by the side of the road

and dance on the shoulder,

shoulder to shoulder.

If you ask me to marry you on the pitcher's mound,

you won't have to ask twice.

And I'll say "I do" on the steps of the dugout

so I won't have to spend one more inning away from your side.

I want to forget that anything matters

except for our collection of foul balls,

your sun-warmed skin glancing off mine,

and the view from the top row, where our nosebleeds are worth

the pennies we saved by sitting there.

Let's fall asleep curled up in a blanket,

just us and the cooling stars.

Soon the sun will set before the first pitch,

and we'll know it's time to head home.

Don't bother to knock the dirt off your shoes at the door, my love.

I want every inning to stay with us.

Let's find love on the diamond

and sing each other to sleep, because

that's the only language w share.

That, and nine innings on grass and dirt.

I'll always see you in the morning.