With a headful of sighs,
I move from room to room,
stand in the doorway, then turn,
followed by dark regrets
which waited to slither back
from all the obvious corners.
I promise myself again
as I slip further away:
it will only be a moment;
then days, then years vanish
before the wait will stop,
before I walk out the door.
(September 19, 2020)
As in the Last Days of Pompeii
In these next darker days,
Shadows walk in laughter
upright and self-righteous,
and we have no where to hide.
Ash floods the bitter sky
filling the streets, the rooftops,
our lungs with thick death.
With no time to cast bones,
our glazed eyes watch
the portents unfold into heaven.
Panicked, we rage in the street,
or cower next to a wall,
a silent witness to the fall.
(September 17, 2020)
In these next darker days,
Shadows walk in laughter
upright and self-righteous,
and we have no where to hide.
Ash floods the bitter sky
filling the streets, the rooftops,
our lungs with thick death.
With no time to cast bones,
our glazed eyes watch
the portents unfold into heaven.
Panicked, we rage in the street,
or cower next to a wall,
a silent witness to the fall.
(September 17, 2020)
today is today;
only, today’s different:
today, I am here.
(September 11, 2020)
this body holds no answers
other than its own
I listen to its stories
all the iterations
the looped variations
as if razors inscribe each word
labyrinths within labyrinths
a slow-cut scratch through skin
to bleed heal and cut again
until what is true
what is believed
what is said
intermingle
their incestuous scars
like runes carved
across cave walls
and I have nowhere to go
and nothing left to say
(September 9, 2020)
He stands on a small rock
in the middle of a river;
the water rushes past
an obvious metaphor.
He ignores the danger,
and leaps the gap to land
on the next wet stone
barely within his compass;
And there, as he teeters,
searching for his balance,
he hears the falls hunger,
then is neither here, nor there,
but lost in the churning froth
of some other’s creation.
(September 6, 2020)
If I could peel these veins
from my arms and fashion
them into a noose,
then I’d find a dead tree
to swing upon
like a tattered paper lantern
dancing in an empty breeze.
(August 30, 2020)
As the last bits of sun brush
the sporadic clouds in pink.
late August heat flows slowly
across your skin like whispers.
Cicadas, nearby, hum desire to others
who hum along in the distance.
Even the trees are tired, dropping
their leaves like an old man’s regrets.
The moon, of course, rises once more
from the dark, alone and unnoticed.
(August 28, 2020)
The words I have
are enough
to tear
my flesh from bone,
to feed
the ravenous voices,
the hundred mouths
which peck,
and gnaw, and savor
my base
foundations
as if blood.
They are enough
for this—
(August 21, 2020)
Briefly light lays lace
across the crepe myrtle’s leaves,
then whisks it away again,
before this sentence ends.
(August 18, 2020)
whose story
your story
my story
some other
someone speaks
some listen
some believe
some obey
here the page turns
hear the page turn
slow whispers
form a deaf ear
control’s the word’s
darkest destiny
(August 13, 2020)
His problem has nothing to do with the train which travels steadily through the night. Everyone is content, if not happy, on the train, reading opinions they already agree with, drinking champagne, eating delicacies imported from foreign countries. They pretend they do not like the food, but wish they could eat as well at home. All of the people on the train are facing the same direction, which gives them all a strange comfort. A few of them look out the windows, but it is too dark to see the trees in the forest. It all follows along so logically, like a math problem in high school where rats scuttle east over well-polished wing-tips at a variable rate of three feet per second. They stop randomly to nibble on discarded bread crumbs dropped with nonchalance by the passengers on the train. Meanwhile the train travels south at a consistent seventy-three miles per hour directly toward the crumbled bridge which once traversed a chasm one thousand feet deep and a mile wide. There is no question at the end that one must answer. However, there is an answer; there is always an answer. No one watches the train fall from the broken bridge. No one hears the explosions as it crashes into the rocks below, or the last cries for help of those who are momentarily still alive.
On a trail nearby the train tracks, a monk moves through the dark as if he has been here before, thinking vaguely of other things. He pauses, peers into the dark, then wanders off along his way. The monk’s tangentially wandering mind is not enough to mark the train’s passing beyond the silence which lingers in the mountains for several hours after the sun has risen again.
(July 6, 2018)
from a work in progress: “Memory and Silence” (83)
without chatter
without books
without the day’s noise
with only gossipy mouthings
within my head
with nothing to shore against
I drown in the slurry
gasping for air
(August 2, 2020)
from a work in progress: Memory and Silence (81)
he spoke to silence
the remnants the shadows
gathered into the ghosts
he played across the wall
they were his shadows
his ghosts his play
like dark French caves
the walls distorted
the shadows bent away
from him into a dark
into his larger fears
into his silence
(July 29, 2020)
I started a serial poem back at the beginning of January. The plan was to write 140 poems, each poem’s length pre-determined by a random number generator, ranging from 3-140 syllables. It was to follow vaguely the rules of a renga, where each poem grew out of the one before it somehow, whether through theme, pun, image, or a reply. The number of poems was determined by the number of syllables in a sonnet.
I have reached 80 poems in this series. I hit 40 back at the end of March. I have 60 more to go. I would like to finish this by the end of December, which means I should speed up a bit. LOL. I have never really written under a deadline except for required essays in grad school. However, 80 poems in 7 months is a fairly phenomenal pace for me.
I will now begin to move forward with the third ‘stanza’ while collecting and tightening sections 1 and 2, in hopes that as I reread and work over the first two sections, the third stanza will continue the conversations, if you will, that began in the first two “stanzas,” and the themes and images will continue to echo and grow organically in section three.
A little obsessive, but then what about life is not.
(July 27, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (81)
summer bears down
without any ambiguity
of phrase
a crucible burns away
the last impurities
without regard
what remains is ash
which with one puff
vanishes
(July 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (80)
so he thought if
as if she said
what he heard
he thought she
said more
he wanted her
to say more
yet her metaphor
slanted in then
out like a kite
testing the wind
with her string
(July 22, 2020)
“Why aren’t you bold and free of all your fear?”
-Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto III
as smoke
infuses itself
throughout the house
long after the fire’s extinguished
so fear
circulates in silent eddies
flowing like ravenous minnows
nibbling sharply at our toes
.
my fear lies
within doubt
it breeds
in the crevices
in the misunderstood word
in the scene not played out
it’s brood hatches
hungry needing to feed
skittering along memory
like spiders alive to every
web strand’s tingle
it descends to attend
to the fly’s quick dispatch
(July 21, 2020)
Why shouldn’t I?
A wren perched next to a cardinal
like a drunkard on a stool
looking for a bit of trouble:
Am I such an easy fool
to think this wind is for me?
A yes, and a yes, waited unsaid.
(July 21, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (78)
after the worst of summer’s heat
we’d sit in the grass
beneath the pecan and cottonwoods
away from the radiant streets and sidewalks
the adults spoke of friends
far away or long dead
they’d laugh and tell stories
which we were not a part of yet
we ran wild through the night
afraid of nothing
(July 18, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (77)
the abstract
takes shape
along an edge
a plane
teased
to a form
more tangible
than shadows
in the grass
beneath the stars
(July 14, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (76)
so many boundaries
are employed
in any definition
the outlines cut
from what is not
are as important
as what remains
a pattern
even with
a patch
bears a pattern
if not original in intent
with care I fold my words
into this conversation
like origami cranes
from crisp white paper
(July 14, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (75)
with a hand lightly
touching a wall
as guide where
do you turn when
there is no wall
to the left
to the right
(July 13, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (74)
It is hard to hear
what must be said
easy to fall
into cliche
a pair of shoes
softly worn old
they know the way
to take you home
as cows wear down
a simple path
between one place
and another
no difference
really matters
our thoughts carve out
the same channels
and run like rats
trapped in a maze
never pausing
to look for more
than what was there
the last time here
repetition
a common thread
comforts us all
with old ideas
and traps us too
with such fools as I
(July 11, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey”(73)
beneath this static
this white noise
silence flows
unnoticed
pervasive
the river’s source
as in prayer i kneel
cup my hands
and drink
(July 9, 2020)
even now I hear them
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)
“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”
—Guillaume Apollinaire
insistent demanding attention
soft whispers curl at my feet
like cats they claw at me
with their sharp reminders
lightly pulling at my skin
until the ground is awash
in the blood of memory
and then slightly below the surface
small phrases embedded in dead
conversations rise like tattered faces
from the sea to mouth their silent
vowels like fish dying in the sand
until the raw scraps of language
in which I am tangled
are cast out in a storm surge
far out among the dark waves
and I drown choking
with nothing to say
(July 6, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)
“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”
—Guillaume Apollinaire
insistent demanding attention
soft whispers curl at my feet
like cats they claw at me
with their sharp reminders
lightly pulling at my skin
until the ground is awash
in the blood of memory
and then slightly below the surface
small phrases embedded in dead
conversations rise like tattered faces
from the sea to mouth their silent
vowels like fish dying in the sand
until the raw scraps of language
in which I am tangled
are cast out in a storm surge
far out among the dark waves
and I drown choking
with nothing to say
(July 6, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (71)
some time after sunrise I wake
go downstairs book notebook
pen in hand make coffee take
my meds check various
social platforms eat some thing
shower get dressed
sometimes read sometimes write
sometimes nap wake
cook dinner wash the dishes
watch TV listen to music and
then after some time go to sleep
(July 2, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (70)
the cat rolls
like time
into the sun
(July 2, 2020)
from a work in progress, “process, not a journey”(69)
the grey cat sits
on the table by the window
and watches the mockingbird
on the elm outside
.
I watch her patience
today and yesterday
and last week
and think she’s oblivious
to sit so stoically
day after day
without hope
of any desires’
consummation
.
I lose my way each day
throughout the day
thinking of this
then distracted by that
as if the unspecified contains
some mysterious truth
more than a cat
sitting in the sun
(June 28, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey: (68)
“I cannot keep my dreams straight.”
-Franz Kafka
some nights most nights
after a whiskey or more
years if not decades
swirl like blue smoke
at my feet
and I forget
where I am as time
falls away like an old drunk
stumbling on my way home
the familiar story
the soft path alters
and strangers step out
of the dark laughing
vaguely and I have forgotten
why I’m laughing
then laugh again
(June 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: “Process, Not a Journey” (67)
our earth wobbles its way
about the sun like a drunk
unsure of her footing
moves again
toward the bar
*
day by day minute by minute
plods toward darkness
for the next six months
each day grows darker
by one minute
*
not quite disturbing
the dullard doves
who coo complacently
on the fence
–
cardinals and jays
fussing constantly
slip after each other
between tree branches
–
I watch and listen
to this dance
for hours
and can do nothing
*
as it was in the beginning
world without end
(June 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (65)
she speaks of her self
and all that entails
.
your memory is not hers
less so than those daffodils
.
shut up and listen
(June 19, 2020)
from a work in progress, “process, not a journey” (66)
a grey cat twitches
her tail in the grass
.
who has time
to listen
to a sparrow’s
stressed twit-twit
from a tree
(June 19, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (64)
what he remembers now
is different than what
he remembered then
.
now he is old
and does not remember
as well what happened
.
then he was young
and foolish and remembered
trivial things
.
of little use then
even less so
now
.
as he holds
his aspects together
between fragile hands
.
facets of the past
spin off light
for a moment
.
and he sees her eyes
that first night
they almost kissed
(June 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (63)
inevitably
we would join hands
twirl a circle
with wild abandon
then fall into laughter
on the fresh cut grass
.
summer was summer
for longer than a summer
could be or ever would
be again
.
when the kids on the street
were everyone we knew
and the world was safe
nearby
(June 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (62)
all
falls
to
ash
(June 16, 2020)
limbo
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (61)
months of laconic weeks drift
past as the centuries two-step
a dance macabre about the village
square like old lovers late at night
dance slowly arms entwined
in a practiced grace
your death’s not important
to them any more than mine
only this dance matters
the horror of it lies
in the death head’s grin
which does not pretend
to hide its deception
there is no skin to map
its laughter into flowers
across our blind eyes
no dead platitudes to act
as balm for our world in flames
(June 14, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (61)
months of laconic weeks drift
past as the centuries two-step
a dance macabre about the village
square like old lovers late at night
dance slowly arms entwined
in a practiced grace
your death’s not important
to them any more than mine
only this dance matters
the horror of it lies
in the death head’s grin
which does not pretend
to hide its deception
there is no skin to map
its laughter into flowers
across our blind eyes
no dead platitudes to act
as balm for our world in flames
(June 14, 2020)
“stop, children, what’s that sound
everybody look what’s going down”
—Stephen Stills
Another day spreads across the sky
as the flood waters continue to rise.
There is little to stand upon now
that does not tip into complicity.
Ice melts along its edges. One moment
we are there watching the turmoil
below our feet, then the ice is gone,
and we are all breathing water,
floundering in the lies we live.
Our words fill our lungs, and
silence gurgles past our lips
as we slip slowly deeper
beneath the cold gelatinous sea,
to drown in our undeserved comforts
(June 8, 2020)
Contained
“I contain multitudes”
-Walt Whitman
I am not a voice,
but an echo of silence—
before and after.
Like dried flowers in old books,
I live pressed within these folds.
(May 27 2020)
Vanishing Point
“Falling is one of the ways of moving.”
— Merce Cunningham
Finding walls
where there were
none before,
I stumble,
and fall
toward a point
perceived as distance,
yet, always here.
What I see is
only what I know;
perception’s a deception
one swallows entire.
The eye’s led on
from the outside in.
(June 2, 2020)
“Falling is one of the ways of moving.”
— Merce Cunningham
Finding walls
where there were
none before,
I stumble,
and fall
toward a point
perceived as distance,
yet, always here.
What I see is
only what I know;
perception’s a deception
one swallows entire.
The eye’s led on
from the outside in.
(June 2, 2020)
“I contain multitudes”
-Walt Whitman
I am not a voice,
but an echo of silence—
before and after.
Like dried flowers in old books,
I live pressed within these folds.
(May 27 2020)
I negotiate the moment:
the shape of a shell;
the color of a shoe;
the proper knot for a noose;
what was said when,
and to whom. As if time
whispers the secrets
it finds in tide pools:
what belongs
scuttling in the rocks,
and what has washed in
with the last full moon.
(May 24, 2020)
enough
a stir of air around a leaf
a hesitation brief enough
to give pause to be still
to listen through the quick silence
for the birds’ chatter and flirt
to return and then it doesn’t
and it doesn’t matter
that you missed it
there’s always enough
for any day to be enough
(May 11, 2020)
a stir of air around a leaf
a hesitation brief enough
to give pause to be still
to listen through the quick silence
for the birds’ chatter and flirt
to return and then it doesn’t
and it doesn’t matter
that you missed it
there’s always enough
for any day to be enough
(May 11, 2020)
dark earth
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
as a death skull’s laughter’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
and a death skull’s bored laugh’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
Infinite Watched Pot
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pot.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
“That is, if you write it has it happened twice”
—Michael Palmer, Notes for Echo Lake
I woke and now it is now; the sun’s setting.
Was the writing the thing that happened?
Would today happen without being written?
Are they two events or one?
I see something—
like a car crash,
or water boiling on the stove.
One’s disconnected,
one’s intentional, possibly
even a causation; for example;
I’m hungry, so
I hop in the car for a burger.
She was in a hurry. It was
raining. She slams through a yellow light.
The driver in front of me dies
on the wet street. Or,
I’m still hungry. I hold dry
pasta knowingly, and watch
as the tiny bubbles form
on the bottom of the pan.
Did anything happen?
I am hungry, and will be
each time you read this,
even if I was the driver
who died, or I just wrote
it down; even if something
more than this
was in my thoughts
as I waited for water
to boil.
(May 3, 2020)
there is no life outside of this
this body holds no answers
other than its own
I listen to its stories
all the iterations
the looped variations
as if razors inscribe each word
labyrinths within labyrinths
a slow-cut scratch through skin
to bleed heal and cut again
until what is true
what is believed
what is said
intermingle
their incestuous scars
like runes carved
across cave walls
and I have have nowhere to go
and nothing left to say
(September 9, 2020)
