Passing Time by Paul Bluestein

The late afternoon sun painted the house on Devereaux Street
with shadow stencils of early autumn trees.
The FOR SALE sign, weedy lawn and overflowing mailbox
told me everything there was to know.
This was the house of someone who had lived alone,
without money enough to have the place cared for once they were gone.
No one to prune the roses, leggy and grown out of control.
No one to wash the windows curtained with cobwebs.
No one to pick up the jigsaw puzzle pieces of the fallen roof slate
scattered on the stoop.
Three small squares of glass set in the faded blue front door
looked like alien eyes watching me walk up the steps,
turn the key in the lock, open the door and call out
“Ma, I’m back”, though I knew there would be no answer.
Everything was as it had been when I lived there so many years before.
The Bohemian-overlay glass lamps, the plastic-covered couch,
The TV set in the corner of the room.
It was all the same and nothing was the same.
Time had left this changeling
in place of the brownstone I used to call home.
I settled into the chair that had been my father’s,
sat listening to the uneasy creaking of the attic
and watching dusk crawl across the walls
until the streetlights came on
and the moon rose red in the sky.

Paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing) and a blues musician (still practicing). In addition to poems and short stories that have appeared in a wide variety of online and print publications, he has had two full-length books of poetry published - TIME PASSAGES in 2020 and FADE TO BLACK in 2021.

Winter Solstice by Paul Bluestein

What can you do

on the darkest night

of your darkest year?

How do you put to rest

the days that tripped you

and made you fall down,

breaking your body and your spirit?

 

Gather the appointment reminders,

laboratory reports

and the well-meaning,

clumsy sympathy cards.

Tear them up

and from the fragments,

fashion a giinquq mask,

a face, but not a face.

Make it fierce and scarred from battles,

to tell the passing year that

you are not afraid of it -

that you are reclaiming the power

it tried to take from you.

Then, when the old year has shrunk back,

unnerved by your resolve,

burn the mask and warm your hands

over the fire you have created.

even though there are tears in your eyes

from the smoke.

Paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing), a blues guitar player (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He currently lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. Nearby, there is a beach where he can let my mind off the leash to go where it wants. He is grateful that, thus far, it has always come back, sometimes with an interesting idea in its jaws.

Somewhere up Ahead by Paul Bluestein

Driving through the night in this old car,

scratched and dented,

pitted by rusting regrets.

Dim headlights no longer

chase away the darkness.

Worn tires seem to find

every pothole of doubt and loss.

 

Long ago, there was a time

I drove with unfettered confidence,

even recklessness. A breakneck

rush to see, hear, feel

whatever the spinning wheels would bring.

Top down, sun on my face,

money in my pocket.

One hand draped over the wheel,

the other reaching for tomorrow.

 

But these days, I am a careful driver,

reading the signs,

staying between the lines.

Still following the road where it leads

but no longer in such a hurry

to reach the dark city

somewhere up ahead.

Paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing), a blues musician (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. When the Poetry Muse calls, he answers, even if it’s during dinner.