by
three years ago
at sixty-three
after thirty-four years
I stopped teaching
I stopped taking
anti-depressants
stopped drinking
as much
the night terrors
though not stopped
are less frequent
and less frantic
I am not somebody
out of a capra film
nor a famous nobody
listening to frogs sing
I am me— an old man
who still loves lisa
and writes little poems
few people will read
(March 16, 2026)
When what I see is not
making sense even in jest,
there is where the hinge bends
one plane into the veneer
of another, and I fall away
afloat in a delicate chaos
of dust through afternoon light.
I live along a distant periphery,
where change happens
like one season to another;
a slow edge of soft magma,
where tectonic plates patiently
grind their jagged stones
into a field of dominant debris.
(March 15, 2026)
It has been awhile since I read a sweeping epic of a sci-fi novel. I guess it is still awhile to go, since there are like nine more volumes of the series which are collected under the name The Expanse. I probably will not read the rest of the series. This is not to say I did not enjoy Leviathan Wakes, because I did have a good time. I read the book over the last few days. While it is over 500 pages long, it is a fast read uncluttered as it is with the subtleties of an analysis of the human condition. This is not to say it lacks depth, although the book is focused on the narrative more than sweeping themes. It does touch lightly upon colonialism; prejudices and bigotry against those not in your tribe (Earth v. Mars, Earth and Mars v. the Belt); corporations too powerful and focused on gathering more wealth and power over the interests of the people; science v. humanity; loyalty; honor; and love as a unifying force. But I could be over-reading the novel. As they say, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I would have loved these books as a teen ager. There is an equally enjoyable television series, The Expanse, which arose from the books. Both the book and the series are worth the time it would take to enjoy them. Sometimes escapism in literature is a good thing.
(March 13, 2026)
I re-read Randall Jarrell’s The Bat Poet late this afternoon (It is short, 36 pages so don’t be too impressed). I first read The Bat Poet as part of The Hill Country Writing Project (the precursor to the Heart of Texas Writing Project) in 1987. It is such a lovely book about becoming a writer. Lots of analogies between the narrative of the bat and the stages newbie writer’s go through on their journey to being a poet—1) seeing a world different than your peers; 2) finding a mentor (text); 3) writing your first poems 4) mimicking others’ voices 5) finding your voice in your identity; 6) returning to your community with your vision: a mini-hero’s journey! I love the scene between the bat and the mockingbird (the accomplished poet no one understands) when the bat reads a poem he wrote about the owl to the mockingbird. The mockingbird explains the technical aspects of the poem he liked, befuddling the bat who just wrote the poem like the owl was oblivious to the academic names for what he was doing. The illustrations by Maurice Sendak for the book are a bonus.
(March 5, 2026)
Free of belief’s comforting vanities,
the small profundities of the day
reveal themselves through slow unravels
as their collective weight strips conceit
away, leaving bare bones exposed
to judgement and snide approbation.
(March 4, 2026)
a scream like lightning
rough ragged quick
followed by male laughter
then more garbled screams
like dogs growling
lights go off and on
upstairs then downstairs
the front door opens
light stabs across the yard
then the door slams shut
a bedroom light remains on
a car guns out of the driveway
then shoots off into the dark
then silence
(February 28, 2026)
days arise and fall
as time flows
without direction
and I don’t know
what season has come
or if there is a beginning
or an end this time round
(February 26, 2026)
i don’t know
he says to himself
about nothing in particular
and then smiles
for he knows
for once he’s right
(February 25, 2026)
Walking into the kitchen
I forget my reason
for going; I stop,
and retrace my steps.
As when I am reading
and my attention drifts
lost in the dream of text,
I must return, sometimes
pages back, to regain
myself and what it was
I was looking for before
I wandered through the door.
(February 24, 2026)
listen for the unspoken
not the silence
filled with implications
and potential energy
but to everyday words
those spoken in hallways
almost a passing greeting
or between strangers waiting
quietly in awkward lines
for mid-morning coffee
those words which slip past
unremarked and unacknowledged
like the flow of giant rivers
which cut a new way
over time through bedrock
until the fixed boundaries
of cliche and custom
churn into a slurry of silt
inevitably forgotten
then again rewritten
(February 22, 2026)
subtext 