easter sunday

on an easter morning in the 50s

my sister and i received 

a large easter basket each

the crowning glory

was a huge chocolate bunny

hollow and waiting to be eaten

but i could not eat mine

first was the dreary inevitable

of an easter sunday high mass

with the chanting and the incense

the pageantry and the raiments

the liturgy and the sermon

my heart and soul grew faint

at the thought of being wedged

between my mother and her friends

on the pew in their easter finery

with their latest hairsprayed hairstyles

and reeking of pungent perfume

i carried the chocolate bunny

and hid it in the backseat of the car

under tissues and it cowered

all through mass as my father 

sat and smoked and read the paper

as the warm spring day heated up

after mass we were greeted

with an unwholesome mess

of melted bunny and tissue

fearful of my parents’ anger

i managed to spread the mess

and covered my hands and shirt

it could not be hidden

once we returned home but

i cannot recall what punishment

was meted out to the devilish boy

i suppose my father tried to clean

the seat but the stain remained

often during road trips long and short

my sister and i avoided the spot

as if it were lava on the seat

we’d sit on our separate sides

me on the left and she on the right

pressed against the door panels

a year later my father sold the car

the stain a shadow of itself 

the place where still we would not sit

perhaps another child again avoided

the melted chocolate bunny stain

that spread beneath mercury’s gaze

jeg.

4/21/19

the tomb of words

I dreamt that all poems were written

and that we’d write poems no more

a silence of words fell across the land

every language and every tongue

And when I tried to write the words

into a new and different form

to be original and and to be alive

the words would form no more

And all the words settled into an order

and all the thoughts followed in turn

and all the minds went rigid within

and all the voices sounded along

Neither good nor evil nor hot nor cold

the words fell as an invisible rain

upon the soundless empty souls

and new thought was frozen solid

I woke to find that all the words

had congealed upon my tongue

my mouth too full to spit them out

my throat too narrow to swallow

I woke to find that all the poems 

had been reduced to dust

what was important is not now

and the words interred into tombs

These tiny tombs did not hold

the dreaming words were unquiet

the ghosts of thoughts rose to haunt

my hopes of waking poems once more.

jeg.

10/16

inside

i am frail

and i fear the moments 

of weakness inside

tools

the tools are clumsy in my hands these days

i used to be so quick and sure

dropping the hammer dropping the nails

fumbling with my fingers

measuring and remeasuring 

and missing the cut

why do my hands seem to get in the way

they once were delicate and nimble

this is the second time i dropped that

stiff and unwieldy fingers

grip loosening and tightening

a hair more a hair less

my body has betrayed me in the aging days

eyes unclear reflexes unsure

memories dropped careless and wasteful

the fingers slow to open or close

numbing and cold

the jagged cut too short

jeg.

12/17

over

in this life

i have done everything wrong

i want to start over

death inside creeps

hovering at the closed door

until beckoned

death, silent, inside creeps

the cold breath

across the warm face 

lips part and slacken

the tongue lolls

the eyes turn

and motion settles

and time keeps on

jeg.

2/18

heart

you know I loved you with all my heart

it was just that I didn’t have enough heart for you

jeg.

2/18

petty

I do not understand your petty god

he does not sound like a god

he sounds like an old man

weak and trembling in the night

afraid of losing the power he holds

i do not understand your petty god

why does he fear other gods

and forbids us their worship

weak and vain and not all powerful

careful to conceal a lack of power at all

jeg.

2/18

the man in the mirror

i see the man in the mirror

but i do not know what others see

an aging balding softening man

or some kind of evil to avoid

i used to not hate the mirror

but these day the less seen the better

i brush my hair in a reflection

my teeth in furtive glimpses

i am surrounded by framed photographs

but in only one of them is me

hidden in a corner of the bookshelf

a young man unaware of what is to come

jeg.

5/18

fire-fight

one minute i was the all-American

john wayne fighting machine

and the next i was lying helpless

on the ground crying for help

watching the blood run out of me

the darkness pulling closer

the light fading

a sacrifice on the altar of greed

jeg.

11/18

the hate savage

the hate savage lies within

its blind eyes hating all it cannot see

clouded white, unblinking and cold

waiting for the light to dim

in darkness the sighted and unsighted

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its deaf ears hating all it cannot hear

cauliflower cartilage, twisted and numb

waiting for the sound to dim

in silence the heard and unheard

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its mute tongue hating all it cannot say

tar blackened, bitten and bloodied

waiting for the words to dim

in gasps the spoken and unspoken

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its anosmic nose hating all it cannot smell

flattened, congested and running

waiting for the smells to dim

in miasma the scented and unscented

exist equally.

the hate savage lies within

its numb fingers hating all it cannot touch

calloused, gnarled and broken

waiting for the touch to dim

insensate the feeling and unfeeling

exist equally.

11/16

jeg

Thanksgiving

The Thanksgivings continue to add up

and my heart is no longer quite broken.

It is oddly lumpy and scarred and battered

and has lost the ability to mourn and wail

but it is definitely of one piece.

Every year a bit is gained a bit is lost

and I ignore the consequences of this.

It is a part of aging a part of life and of dying

that goes on until it doesn’t

until I am no longer aware of the sequence.

A memory here a recollection there

like relics to be prayed over and mulled.

I have collected all I can collect

that collection is now part of the background

and collects dust in place of tears.

Except every now and then a solitary spark

ignites the fire to flames once again.

These fires threaten to engulf and overwhelm

they crackle and spread from the center

to my mind to my heart to my soul.

Yet each time they start to burn and encroach 

upon some unscarred ground they dampen down.

A lack of fuel a lack of oxygen a lack of heat

saves me once again from the memories

banked and dulled amongst the ashes.

Thanksgiving is a wind barely stirring the embers

though there are other days I dread and avoid.

I seek to pour water on the smoldering

I need to quench the center of the fire

that welds my lump of a heart together.

11/24/16

jeg

My American Mirror

As I open up the page

and look into my American mirror

I never know what I’ll see

waves of joy winds of hope

clouds of fear rains of hate

all pierce my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and stare into my American mirror

am I aghast at what I see

rivers of wealth mountains of goods

deserts of hunger canyons of waste

all enter my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and glance into my American mirror

do I know what I see

schools of love cities of peace

houses of despair temples of self

all touch my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and delve into my American mirror

should I love what I see

armies of help masses of kindness

souls of solitude hearts of loneliness

all pass my American eye

and settle in my mind

As I open up the page

and step into my American mirror

must I accept what I see

wonders of freedom glories of triumph

despairs of slavery depths of imprisonment

all blind my American eye

and settle in my mind

11/27/16

jeg.

terse words

written words are shadows of thought

etched upon the page in ash

their meanings vary

self-serving to insightful 

they are ghosts until read

spoken words are echoes of thought

caste upon the atmosphere

their meanings vary

lies to truth

they are ghosts until heard

shouted words are bullets of thought

shot into the mind

their meanings vary

encouragement to destruction

they are ghosts until fired 

whispered words are vestiges of thought

shimmering on the surface

their meanings vary

seduction to malice

they are ghosts until shared

remembered words are dreams of thought

lost in the mind

their meanings vary

delight to horror

they are ghosts until recalled

forgotten words are essences of thought

distilled its most basic

their meanings vary

tongue tips to nagging

they are ghosts until failed

guilty words are crimes of thought

twisted into innocence

their meanings vary

shame to pride

they are ghosts until arisen

whimpered words are sorrows of thought

clad in the moments of weakness

their meanings vary

remorse to helpless

they are ghosts until sounded

terse words are the ends of thought

best left unspoken

their meanings vary

unwritten and unthought

they are ghosts until understood

11/29/16

jeg.

prayer

the price of prayer

the price of life

life is taken away

and life is given back

yet somehow it does not balance

in the heart

i cannot trade one life for another

they all seem to tear away pieces of my heart

when one arrives it demands its share of the love

and when it leaves it takes that share away

how much love

is left in the heart

perhaps that is why it flutters and fumbles at night

when sleepless

the restless unbidden thoughts mingle

that which is present and that which is absent

until the early light brings sleepless to wakeless

and begins a new cycle of pauses and regrets

the bits of love

that have been given away

do they stay in others’ lives forever

or are castaway

a bloody shadow here a dried wisp there

littering the paths that were taken

discarded wantonly disposed of carelessly

and left to mark the trails that could never be

i scatter my life

as i scatter my love

in the knowledge of imbalance

left are memories and tears

furrowing the age of the face until all is barren

twitching vacant loveless heartless and drying

awaiting the savage moment that lies between

the sad slow movement of time to life to death

jeg.

4/8/17

clock

the seconds and minutes drag

while the days weeks and months flash by

my inner clock is out of touch

confused by the real time that never ceases

jeg. 

4/17

The Call Button

I was flying across the Pacific

and, inadvertently, I pressed the call button

and when the flight attendant appeared

I roused myself out of a mid-flight

half sleep half wake

and apologized and went back to my half state

Another call button arose in my thoughts

it was the early sixties and I was awaiting

a minor operation on a Sunday afternoon

bored in the hospital fascinated by the TV remote

warned to never press 

the call button lying snakelike next to my pillow

I must have clicked the television through

its three or four channels a thousand times

sparing a glance every other minute

to the forbidden call button by my head

all night as I half slept

it winked and beckoned in the room's half light

And yet another call button came to my mind

into a cool hospital room as I watched my mother

wrapped in ice to cool the fever

and wrapped in morphine to cool the pain

as breathing stopped

and I reached for the call button by her head

5/13/17

jeg.

Measures

There are many mirrors in my house

most of them cut me off at about neck high

so I can see how much weight I've gained

but not how much hair I’ve lost

or how many lines crease my face

There is one mirror in the hallway

between the bathroom and the backdoor

that allows me to groom and brush my teeth

without bending over double

and I look in it each time I go to step outside

It is my window of truth and I hate it

no matter how I ask it never lies

despite the dimness or brightness of the light

it is never kind and never harsh

it is just a measure of what is and that is all

5/17

abandoned

i am more than one person

i am a different person for each situation i encounter 

and a different person for each person i encounter

and i am a different person 

when i am alone at different times and in different places

that time when i am alone, calm and collected

and a different person

that time when i am consumed by rage at the action of another

and the time i feel compassion at their helplessness

and that time in the deep of the night 

when i awake from the nightmare alone and afraid

and even my ghosts have abandoned me

jeg.

5/17

in me

I wonder about the human in me

what keeps it civilized, what keeps it sane

the animal wrenches and writhes

just below the surface

threatening to emerge

at the least convenient moment

I feel the struggle when I’m at my weakest

where do these thoughts come from

the evil words bubble and roil

scum upon the surface

a sickly foam leaking 

at the corners of a silent mouth

I recall all that was once in me

I quiver and gag at the weakness displayed

disavow the evil and anger and ignorance

hidden under a surface

of a shimmering mask

and acknowledge that it was real

I wonder how much of the evil

was of me and by me and for me

and how much was instilled in me

the inclination to hate

the disposition to judge

prejudice and bias mocking reality

I ask should I forgive myself 

or forever wallow in guilt and remorse

and lie that it wasn’t really me

it was the animal

it was the untamed

that was in control of my heart

5/17

jeg.

the six-legged spider

there is a six legged spider in my bathroom

i first saw it in my kitchen

hanging around the sink

one night when i turned on the light 

it scuttled under a table

just in time to avoid my foot

the next morning it wasn’t there

and I didn’t think about it for a while

but then I saw it lurking near the sink again

i began to think of it as a friend

i hoped it would eat the gnats and flies

that swoop as i pour the salad dressing

then again i didn’t see it for a few days

and i wondered if it had left or died

i looked under the table 

and looked under the toaster

and then i saw it in the bathroom

clinging to the shower door

from the kitchen to the bathroom

was quite a journey for the spider

through the carpet around the sleeping dogs

under the dining room table a television

and through several closed doorways

to the opaque glass of the shower door

it has been about a week since it made the move

and everyday it moved a bit here a bit there

until yesterday when it moved to the ceiling

and now it hangs a few inches above my head

as i enter and leave the shower

i glance up each time

i wonder what happened to its legs

i wonder where it will go next

will it find its way out the back door

to the real world where spiders roam

or will it wait above my head

until it withers and joins the legs that are gone

jeg.

6/1

masks

This morning I awoke

and before I glanced in the mirror

I put on my morning mask

then I looked and saw what I expected

a disheveled man with white hair

and sleepy eyes.

Then I made a cup of coffee

and as I drank it

I saw my reflection in the monitor

and I decided to put on a new mask

I call it the disheveled man after coffee

hate

hate arises from somewhere within

unbidden and shameful and tasting

of some unknown moldy sour fruit

it sicken the tongue and burns the lips

and leaves the mouth rancid and rotting

hate the master and i the slave

i never knew i had so much hate in me

where does it live, reaching the point

then bursts forth from its womb

leaving the face twisted and scarred

hate bubbles and boils under the skin

awaiting the pin-prick to burst

to spew and writhe and disgust

driving thought and knowledge away

until only ignorance is left

hate is so much stronger than love

dormant and then reanimated

with the slightest taste or smell

hate lingers beneath biding and plotting

leaving its shell in the moment

hate fills so much that is inside me

i wonder that I can contain it all

i fear to open my lips or eyes or ears

lest more flow in filling and bulging

leaving it nowhere to go but out

hate has the human face and body

the heart and soul are empty husks

hate has the life of a god

the ability of turning joy to misery

leaving the sun blotted out the stars black

hate is cunning and cruel and mindless

i have learned to live with my hate

to disguise my true nature, masked

to cast my eyes away from the real

leaving a pleasant lie on my face

hate has the power to turn life to death

mewling and whining and spitting

the unseeing unfeeling and grim

without the benefit of grace or mercy

and only the primitive urges remain

9/17

jeg.

human

Because I am not black

I cannot speak for black people

all over the world,

especially black Americans.

I grew up white and privileged

in a nation where merely by being white

I was privileged.

Because I am not a woman

I cannot speak for women

all over the world,

American or not.

I grew up male and privileged

in a time when merely by being male

I was privileged.

Because I am a human

I can try to speak for humans

all over the world,

even Americans.

I can see, think and feel

and try to rise above my sense of privilege

even if it hurts.

Because I am a human

I can dream for all humans

all over the world

jeg.

9/17

everything everyone has ever wanted

the godstick

stopped

sitting in another room

separated from motion

a glance at the clock

a glance back down 

at the trembling hands

waiting each minute apart

a minute taken from life

set too far to reconnect

separation not nearly enough

a blink clears the eyes

a blink clouds them

waiting between the blinks

motion has betrayed life

standing above the form

separated eyes locked

a tear caught in frozen time

a tear caught on the tongue

waiting the moment of birth

and the minute of death

pacing between the seconds

separation both near and far

a nod and sleep claims

a nod and a start 

waiting for waiting to awake 

motion too quick to catch

kneeling in prayless prayer

separated from life from death 

a whispered endearment

a whispered cry

waiting for the breath to stop

hoping that the breath doesn’t stop

10/8/17

jeg.

my father's voice

i awoke at 3:00 a.m. 

with my father’s voice echoing in my head

i lay there for some time

trying to bring it back again

i have not heard

my father speak in over 25 years

the last i saw of him

both of us tearful as i drove away

while he lay dying

he wrestled death in silence

gripping my hand in an iron grasp

blankly unseeing unhearing unspeaking

i wondered if he knew whose hand he gripped

i hoped he knew i’d finally come home again

my selfish heart

my willful soul

when i heard his voice

i forced myself awake

and opened my eyes blind in the darkness

only to waken from the dream alone

he had called my name

whether in need

whether is anger

i will never know

clear

resonate

decisive

commanding

i lay there shivering for some time

afraid to wake afraid to sleep

until finally i turned

and waited to hear again

jeg

11/17

the animal moments

little moments of animal death

exist inside all

the moments of weakness

the moments of fear

when vulnerability arrives

the animal knows

that which the human denies

the animal accepts

that which the human hides

the little moments are the real

the animal death within

outside the husks of angels and gods

raiments dry rigid scraping against

the moments of disbelief

the moments within the lies

at the moment of animal death

the eyes know true dark

the ears true silence

the heart learns true stillness

and the mind winds down

the animal waits

as the light fades

and as all the sounds disappear

as the last touch comes and is gone

inside the animal death

lower than angels we live

higher than the beasts

yet in the beasts is truth

in the beasts the moments exist

and in the beasts the moments cease

jeg.

12/14/17

the year of the dog

our dogs are getting older

i can see it in their movements

slower and stiffer

and not as likely to jump for joy

it seems like a moment has passed

since they were a nonstop bundle

twisting and turning and scratching and biting

and running and jumping and landing in my arms

in these intervening years

all of our other dogs have moved on

death has no mercy and no remorse

it takes the worst and the best

i used to joke our house was a dog farm

words spoken in pride as much as jest

and now i say to those who listen

that these are our last dogs

my selfish heart cannot bear

to watch them suffer and die

my selfish mind cannot stand

to let them escape me

of course i come alive

when i see them 

but I dread the savage moment

when life transcends into death

my weakness is exposed

the coward in me awakes

and cringes and cries in the night

when no one can hear

the last dogs

the last living things in my soul

the end of the human that is me

the end of the god that is in me

12/30/17

jeg.

the moment of value

i got a new chair the other day

now i sit in it all the time as i read 

my old chair is angled beside

a miss-matched couple they stand

i see the old chair out of the corner of my eye

does it seem sullen and disappointed and grim

or is it sad and left out and hopeless

who knows what goes on in a chair’s mind

does it imagine that i’ll return to it someday

to be held comfortably in its arms

it was intimately formed to me

my head my hips my legs settled within

in my life i have had many chairs

new and old and whole and broken

ones bought ones given and ones stolen

all enslaved to do my bidding and be on call

can how i treat possessions be compared 

to how i treat those who are beloved

used and discarded and replaced and gone

treasured and wasted as all before

i am a taker and not a giver

i am a user and not to be used

i am a possessor and not possessed

only to me do all of my moments have value

jeg.

3/18/18

a dream before dying

when my mother lay dying

swaddled in ice to cool the fever

and steeped in morphine to cool the pain

she dreamed of her house

a house she hated

and complained about every day

it was too big too hot too cold

and too hard to clean

as she stared at the wall by her bed i sat

unseen beside her, book in hand

a hole in my stomach, a heart in my throat

waiting for all time to stretch out

she babbled on about the dog

and the mess that he’d made

as he ate, bite by bite

his food from the dish to the floor

and lapped his water

splashing even more

for her to bend and wipe away

day after day, meal after meal

when she was still able

she’s make her simple lunch

a sandwich for her and one for the dog

cut in bite sized pieces, the better to spread

my father called the dog his hearing ear

when, as he sat deaf and clueless, 

the phone rang the door chimed or his wife called

the dog scurried about and spoke

either to the desk where the phone sat

or the door leading to the front door

or the hallway leading to the sick room

where she lay helpless

my sister and i returned home reluctantly

full of selfishness and fear

a few minutes and we were gone to see our friends

gone to sweep all thoughts from our minds

until the decline could not be denied

and we sat by her side alternately

praying and wishing and hoping and dreaming

this was the last time i ever prayed

the mindless soulless alien god we worshiped

had abandon us and only logic and reason remained

alongside a heart forever shrunken

and a soul riddled in holes and ripped apart

if my mother ever spoke again i do not know

neither my father nor sister mentioned it

and today I cannot recall telling them

that my mother saw our dog with her last sight

a few days later all went still

the gasping breathe the stuttering heart

and as my father entered the hospital room

i did not have to speak

jeg.

5/5/18