Here are several of the poems included in this book, ones that I feel best represent it as a whole. If you would like to read more, please contact me and I can arrange to send you a copy of this book or any others. Remember the Planes is my third book of poetry, one which may take more time to complete than usual. It's an odd book in that there is a strange mixture of styles and voices that can change drastically from one poem to the next. As I experiment with various methods, I also search for new sources of inspiration that will hopefully lead to heartfelt and yet provocative poetry.

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THIS IS MOTION

I was with them on the surface,
Breaking new ground,
Cycling through motions,
Scenery, and sounds.

We closed the drapes at night,
Went to bed and dreamed
Of daylight, and planes
Marched past unending like
A breeze moving in only
One direction: west.

There were words
To scribble down, and wheels
To be spun round to get us
Where we had to go.

Go, go, go.
Inside metal, inside wood,
And all the elements made
It so we could thrive on self.

Close the curtains,
Bolt the doors, and in
Medicated sleep we hoped
For more and more
The next day.

More motion, more events,
And the intensity kept us
Blinking through the nights.

Shut the windows,
Crawl in bed, and read
A word or two without
Action instead of looking
To the blackness
Filtered through lights.

When motion ceased
There was no direction:
No south, north, east, west,
But there was only to your
Left and to your right,
In front of you and behind.
Everything was relative.

The night became
Day and night, and thought
Was without motion.

How is it I’m here now:
This sub-atomic particle
In an endless spectrum of
Large and small, and
Smaller and larger,
Everything relative.

How is it I see the light
Emanating from your
Planet now but know
Not what it is.

Given eternity,
Mystery is the only end.
Yet a mind conscious
Of nothing is nothing,
Is nonexistent, but a mind
Conscious of everything . . .

I only wake to see starlight,
And to remember motion,
To envision the particles
On your Earth spontaneously
Bouncing around from
Metal to metal, creating
Direction like it was fact.

I only breathe to be
Aware that there is too
Much for this mind to bear.
And I revel in the insanity,
The paradox that is
Mortal consciousness.

But I fear not for my
Own health and mind so
Far beyond particles alike;
I fear for those still below.

And to choose to return,
To choose motion,
And chemicals, and elements,
And objective direction
Would be the sacrifice
Of my own thoughts, and
Therefore my existence.

4/29/2009

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THE WAY IT WAS

Old man Winter’s on the horizon,
Things dying in his path,
But Autumn doesn’t squirm much.
He just lets his leaves go their way
And settle with the dirt.

All alone now, and the stretch
Of hills defines my company,
Sitting slumped atop this
Wizened rock, looking, waiting
For the clouds to roll in,
But they just inch along now.

The coyotes howl yards away
And I look one in his gray eyes.
He quiets down then,
Examining me slumped over
In his barren country just
A step from civilization.

He doesn’t squint,
Doesn’t bat an eye, but just
Examines me with his head half
Turned on his way up the hill.
We hold that stare until
We’re reconciled, man
And animal, sharing
What’s left of what was.

For there was the wild here
Ages ago when man made
His home inside the hill
With dirt and mud.
But we stare at one another
With houses to the left
And to the right as each day
The hills come down,
The valley widens, and
Concrete swallows this desert.

We stare inside each other,
And there is no pain,
But no happiness either,
No contentment left here,
Just an understanding that
Both of us miss what was,
And this is all that’s left.
And so he wanders up the hill,
And never turns back.

8/26/2008

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THE VOID

Not love, not hate,
But only indifference.
Not to you or to me,
But to life itself.

I know it better
Than us both,
And it knows me
Like an only friend.

I can’t cut loose of it,
Here, then, now.
It has become
My only friend.

For those around me
Find comfort in
What they know,
But I am destined
To be alone,

Within the crowd
Or without,
I am alone.

And when you see
Me you will not.
I am somewhere
Else outside you,
Looking at my body,
Wondering who I am,
Where I belong.

But space fills the air
And the void
Stays a void.

And so I come back
Inside my body
Leaving a piece,
A bit of soul still
Lingering outside
In the air.

Come back, I say,
But it won’t.

For what was it
To begin with?
What constitutes it?

If my body
Constitutes myself,
Then what you see
Is nothing, and I am
Gone into the void.

10/08/2008

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BREATHING IN THE NIGHT

I sat there for the longest time,
Peering out through the window
In the night.  3am.

The air came through,
And somehow it was always
Cooler at this time, always
Keeping you awake just to
Breathe it in as long as it could.

Cars passed on the highway,
Some fast, some just moving
Along.  I wondered where
They were headed,
When they’d get there,
If at all.

Wondered how many times
The situation was reversed,
And some stranger
Peered out at me as I
Passed along the highway.

And I wondered that until
The night was quiet.

Time kept moving along,
But I didn’t think to notice
Until I heard the clock
Ticking and wondered
How I had ignored
The sound.

Half an hour had passed,
But it moved slower now
As I lived by the beat
Of the clock.

I noticed it then,
Noticed my life passing
With the beats.  So there
I went, sixty beats per
Minute, like my life was
A song written on a
Music sheet.

And once God had played
The last measure, once the notes
On the sheet ended,
So would I.

But I wouldn’t think to live
Like that, listening
To the steady beats,
Even if life passed
Slower.

I’d rather smother the
Clock with a pillow and
Keep on listening to
The quiet, for the clock
Still ticks when I’m not
Listening, but knowing
Is enough.

And so I covered it up,
Put my nose up to the screen,
And kept on breathing in
The night.

8/30/2008

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THE MESS YOU LEFT BEHIND

Funny how it ended up.
I stand on the steps to your old house,
The grass once immaculate with
Its hedges sharp at every corner,
With the flowers perennially in bloom.
They captured you, the perfectionist.
But now the hedges are gone,
And the flowers wither like old
Memories too far gone.

I wish I would have known you more,
And sat on that old bench by the
Front door to talk late in the night,
To hear a voice of vulnerability
And insecurity, to hear what
Fear you harnessed and hid.

I could have done it before the
Cold metal of the barrel found its
Home against the skin of your head,
Before you let the element
Destroy you and leave your family
Wishing what I have wished.

But wishes are just that,
A vain attempt at creating
The cure to the solemnity
That haunts us in restless nights,
When during all the nights you were
Haunted we were sleeping soundly.

Now we want the nights back,
Want them back to sit on the porch
And speak from open hearts,
But your heart has stopped and
Found its place in the green hills
Of the town where you grew up.

Forgive me for my absence,
And I’ll forgive you for the choice,
But for leaving your own without
A father, I lose my will and voice
To see you as I once did, and I can
Only feel pity. 

So I stand on these steps,
While strangers lounge in your
Old room, and I admire how you
Held on until you lost your grip
And fell. Now the hedges are
Removed, and the lawn is filled with
Weeds and dead spots.  How will
We ever recover from this mess?

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CALL JOANNA A BANANA

“Joanna, you’re such a banana.”
“Don’t call her that Jonathan.
How would you like it if someone
made fun of your name?”
his dad says with a red face
full of bottled up anger.

“Yeah,” Joanna yells,
“Jonathan-bo-bonathan.”
He chuckles and leaves.
She cries and slams the door
to her room.

The next morning he finds a sign
on his door made from printer
paper that reads, “Don’t call
Joanna a banana,” in big
red letters.

He takes a marker and crosses
Out “Don’t.”  When his
Mom gets home she sees
The sign and bursts out with
Laughter.  “Joanna banana,
Joanna banana!”
Joanna cries.

5/6/2009

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THE OPEN DOOR

It’s chilly by the open door.
Shut it and bleed the room of air,
Bleed the atmosphere and build
A barrier around your mind.
Keep your ignorance open wide
And let your time stop here.
Let the coffee settle at the bottom
Of the mug as you stare at your
Reflection in it: pale and
Complacent, you think, and
Take another sip.

Your life stops here.

It’s chilly by the open door.
You want to shut it but you don’t.
You sit quietly and stare,
Pale with a nervous glare.
You want to bleed yourself
Of the surrounding world,
Pull it out of you like itchy
Stitches in your mouth, and
Still you won’t.  The draft
Comes through and the door
Bumps the wall.  You sip your
Coffee and let the world in,
And another day begins.

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