from one neighborhood
to the next — one town
over– no more sounds
like yours or your friends
at the corner pub
where even the odd
and unloved fit warmly
at a table in the dark
where the fog follows you
home into a darker wood
until your voice tangles
among incestuous roots
and a knife draws
a line along your throat
at the possibility
of a misunderstanding
(April 22, 2019)
At home, they sit across from each other
like a pair of stone-silent gargoyles, when
he sighs to himself as if with remorse.
Looking up, she asks, out of politeness,
“Is something wrong?” He shakes his head, and says,
embarrassed that he had spoken out loud,
“Oh, Nothing, just thinking, at least nothing
important enough to say: just thinking.”
They watch each other with a quiet calm
like the still center of a raging storm;
each happy enough at home not to stir
up any conversations to avoid.
Slowly, they fall into their silences,
starkly alone with their thoughts together.
(April 18, 2019)
one stands always at a beginning
a new door opens to a passage
which leads to another door
which opens wherever you are
there are no keys no locks no doors
only you standing within time
in motion without moving
yourself a passage a sluice
through which apparitions slip
taking on your form like robes
then quickly cast away replaced
by yet another without end
each moment embraces death with a kiss
each moment finds your self reborn
(April 16, 2019)
a turn toward the other
whether in body or spirit
a turn toward some other
than myself to complete myself
a turn toward the other
like the horizon turns east
always seeking after light
a newer day to exult in
the earth’s curve the curve
of your breast silhouetted
in dawn’s light slipping
through our bedroom window
I turn to you from the dark
seeking your warmth in turn
(April 15, 2019)
Perhaps the thousand-thousand
unpronounceable names for god
wait to burn your tongue,
if, by chance, your babbling
could bring you to the brink
of intelligibility. The thousand
monkey’s theory of Macbeth
could prove true given enough
time. Yet, we’ve been at this
for so long now, one would
assume our relationship
would be stronger somehow,
that I would know your name;
since, I know you know mine.
I’m unsure where you are, or if
you are, or, perhaps, I’m speaking
to myself—all those years gone,
as I puttered randomly about the house,
pulling books off the shelf, reading
a passage, thinking someone nearby
was speaking directly to me, but
only within the context of that moment;
never a sustained conversation,
as between long-time friends.
What can be said, when there’s no one
to hear? If you are not here, then
what consequence can I be, beyond
these words I speak only to myself?
Unless perhaps, what I speak, and to whom,
are enough of a signature, a singularity,
to pronounce, with clarity, if only
for this moment, my name into the dark.
(April 12, 2019)
unpronounceable names for god
wait to burn your tongue,
if by chance your babbling
brings you to the brink
of intelligibility. The thousand
monkey’s theory of Macbeth
could prove true given enough
time. Yet we’ve been at it
for so long now, one would
assume our relationship
would be stronger somehow,
that I would know your name;
since, I know you know me.
I’m unsure where you are, or if
you are, or, perhaps, I’m speaking
to myself—all those years gone,
as I puttered randomly about the house,
pulling books off the shelf, reading
a passage, thinking someone nearby
was speaking directly to me, but
only within the context of that moment.
What can be said, when there’s no one
to hear? If you are not here,
then what consequence can I be, beyond
the words I speak only to myself?
Unless perhaps, what I speak, and to whom,
are enough of a signature, a singularity,
to pronounce, with clarity, if only
for this moment, my name into the dark.
(April 12, 2019)
three poems out of 250 from a series of poems I wrote in the mid 90’s
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Speaking truth to myself
is difficult—as to power,
just more dangerous: no
compromise with evil,
nor abatement.
(April 10, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
It took me more
than a decade:
to realize
my students were smarter
than we let them be;
to stop being
such a martinet
prancing upon a stage;
to listen to their minds
as they translated
their world out of ours;
to finally be silent
and step out of their way.
(April 4, 2019)
I hold up mirrors
as shields to reflect
what I’m expected
to be: brother,
father, teacher,
lover, friend.
These apparitions
flow through
me like fish
slowly nibble
the bait clean
from the hook.
I’m only myself,
when nothing’s left.
(April 3, 2019)
Trouble pulses, like cicadas
along oak branches through
summer’s heat: pervasive
and cold. It permeates
my blood like a poison.
I worry the times — for nothing
can be done – How does one
take on more than one self,
yet again? Don a new mask
to project a calm certainty
when fear’s fires rage and burn?
I have no place to stand with
surety. Answers are simple
without people’s constraints:
the constant tug and shift,
like the tight tectonic grind
as ground slips over ground.
(April 2, 2019)
Too near-sighted to see
a larger view, he holds
close to the present.
He has no memory
beyond now; but
with tight-curled fingers,
it is edge enough,
if only for a moment,
to hang a life upon.
(March 30, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” from a work in progress
The storm breaks
with the new dawn.
(March 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” work in progress
On this road
he is a boulder
he cannot remove.
He turns, then returns
with others.
He absorbs himself
until he vanishes
to himself.
(March 27, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
He shuffle steps his dance
to the left; she circle slips
through their spaces
around her. They move
against the other, dancing
with one dance.
(March 27, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
If what he says is said
within the bounds
of proper order–
If what he said is heard
like fire flickering the wind
toward the horizon–
If what was heard was
what he said, each circle
replicating the last–
then the world becomes home.
(March 25, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
At night a light
exposes one, opens
like a wound to bleed
out into the dark.
I want to stay
hidden within
my secrets, to hold
my desires close
like a small flame.
It’s safe there, stitched
tight between muscle
and bone, waiting
to enkindle a better day.
(March 23, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Daylight expands
over the dark
earth. I, too,
must find a way
home, to be happy
with my friends.
(March 23, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I wait more often
than react– more often
a squall line doesn’t form
but disperses in the hills.
I know you will
go, and I’ll remain.
(March 21, 2019)
Like flowers in a slow conversation’s
eddy, he floats through his circular day.
Nothing’s amiss. Almost, as memory,
the pattern persists; almost as if he
whispers to someone who listens nearby.
Each flower’s petals fall, by troubled turns,
until the air is not enough to hold
the incoherent world; and, like glass,
it shatters into the composting earth,
oblivious to its own slow demise.
The flower unfolds into its silence;
the swift flutter of bird song in the trees;
the rough caress of dry leaf on dry leaf;
the winter wind’s incessant pulse and pause;
are nothing to his flower’s petal’s fall.
(March 20, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Again, the full moon rises
through the Live Oaks—
how we go on.
(March 14, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Can one be wary,
and still be
unconscious?
Words seduce me—
their pulse and purr,
without my awareness.
I know nothing
more than nothing;
this I know.
Someone
somewhere
whispers to me.
(March 12, 2019)
all folds
into now:
nothing
remains
always
all’s nothing—
no more
no less
only now
here
with you
(March 12, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
He holds to the shape
of his world, safe
as a cow’s contentment.
He darkens the light
he reads by, then forms
opinions like fire
softly licking the air
into smoke. As each
day becomes another,
he accepts the work
before him, unconcerned
of what comes after.
(March 12, 2019)
not fairies
but fire
voices dance
dispelling fear
motion as motion
blur the air
not here yet
everywhere
(March 12, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Yet again, the river rages;
I know what to do now,
after so many years.
(March 8, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I worry too much,
or not enough,
yet do nothing.
Here at home
cats curl
in our laps;
when friends visit,
the table’s full,
laughter and wine
flow unabated.
Far away
along the edges,
below the ice,
cracks appear;
and, the ground shifts
beneath us.
(March 7, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I return again
and again to
gain small bits
of what she offers.
Often drunk
at her table,
I feed on
her infinite root.
Even as I am
changed, Poetry
absorbs the earth
and all upon it.
What part I am,
what part I have
become, rises
into her dance.
(March 6, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
I read,
write,
and teach
still;
thirty years
passed so
quickly.
(March 5, 2019)
Oblivious, he scurries about
without guilt. A paper mask’s
enough to escort him through
this play. By default, self-deceit’s
a natural innocence.
(March 4, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
As any day, the cicada
sheds its skeleton
then sings once more
into the summer heat.
Each moment returns
to extract hope
from the smallest egg.
I find myself,
yet again,
at a beginning.
(March 1, 2019)
Slowly stirring
the cold ash,
he sifted her words
from a memory
which had drifted
softly into air,
like smoke.
Vaguely,
she danced
away in silence.
His words slurred
into darkness:
his story was
not her story.
(February 28, 2019)
E
“The unexamined life is not worth living”–Socrates
What’s wrong with being
happy? Oblivious,
stumbling along, content
with the morning sun
parsing the petals
of the rose’s first bud?
Under the instant and
insistent barrage
of doubt, the examined
life is not necessarily
worth living. Living
is worth living. Implicit,
joy radiates, each moment
transcendent, without
need to justify within
mocking parenthesis.
(February 26, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progressS
I sat still in the dark
on the bank of the river.
The river was rising, so I moved
to higher ground. I could not
stop the river, nor hasten
the oncoming day. Sometimes
to do nothing is resistance.
(February 26, 2019)
Dim light crept like rust
across the leaf’s edge water
tensed into a fall
(February 22, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
To pitch lit matches
at gasoline is not the way
to shine a light
on small irritants.
Yet, I have my tinderbox
ready to strike,
my clothes are soaked to skin,
waiting to burn.
(February 21,2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
My voice is not
enough to speak.
(February 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
I observe myself
to obscure
myself. Too
many explanations
destroy the art.
Platitudes, as these
and this, are
easy to impose—
my reader,
my brother,
myself. Notice
the time, yet
be honest
in yourself,
without becoming
the lie as well.
(February 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Hope flourishes
as spring buds appear;
My students grow anxious
as graduation approaches.
(February 20, 2019)
L
The beginning squeezes back
like a hermit crab retreats
deeper into its ever-tightening
shell. This moment opens
into and closes off the last
and next, as we each pretend
we are a cumulative consequence.
God, if extant, does not care
about time and its causes, the click
and clack of the marble rolling
through preordained mechanics,
nor the butterfly landing on her hand.
I fear pat endings’ homilies,
as if someone turns off the lights.
(February 15, 2019)
Last year on Valentine’s day, my students were working on three of the stories which are alluded to in T. S. Eliot’s the Wasteland. On the way home that day, I listened to NPR’s reporting of the shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, where seventeen people were killed, and another seventeen injured. Since the Columbine High School, Every time there is another school shooting, I think about the students I teach everyday: the joy, trust, hope, and curiosity they bring with them into the world. As news of another killing happens, I cannot avoid thinking about them bleeding out on the floor of my classroom. I am horrified at the “solutions” offered by our political leaders: arm the teachers, “harden” the schools, conduct live shooter drills as casually as fire drills. Last year, I responded personally, the way I respond to most of what troubles me by writing into the horror. A few weeks later Shantih Journal ( https://shantihjournal.org/issue-2-2/) put out a call for writing about social justice after the March for Our Lives protest in Washington. I sent them the poem I wrote the day of the shootings, which they graciously published. I would like to think that there has been a change in people’s political will to do something that will end the slaughter of our children, but I fear we are too mired in sclerotic thinking to change. Here is the poem I wrote:
Today’s Lesson
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins”
–T. S. Eliot
my students work over the abstract
idea of redemption in three stories
as a preparation for the wasteland
which we will read for the next class
one thousand miles away students
hide as their classmates are killed
and we are told there is nothing
nothing we can do except pray
prayers are useless balms for the dead
and pale recompense for the living
who must clean blood from the walls
and mix memory into the earth
devoid of hope near an open door
we are in a hell we have created
(February 14, 2018)
From “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Caught in a tight
spiral of self-loathing,
I try to scrape
and cut away
memory,
like a benign tumor.
Yet, I return and return
to each malignant moment,
and paint my face
in ritual guilt,
as if one could absolve
the past, and be free.
(February 12, 2019)
in explanations explanations
that happens
to him to her to us
the story starts
well before this
then as now
more unfolds
within the seams
than seems
then as now
contexts inculcate
like wisps of mist
dampening fields
as god not us
speaks from silence
(February 11, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
A
Tentatively, I stumble down
the hall in the dark. This time,
this is not a dream. I tell
myself I will kill myself
tomorrow. I laugh, as if
I was joking. Then I hear
a draft of a first line,
and hope I can hold it long
enough to write it down
before I drown in a river
of my own clotted blood.
(February 9, 2019)
F
from “Rendition of Change” a work in progress
The stories I teach
open a space.
Our day demands
patience and rest.
Following our talks,
my students leave,
their candles leading
away into the night.
(February 9, 2019)
A
Even against prevailing winds,
the pattern persists—Happiness
is a myth. Too troubled to
untangle this moment from
the last, I am trapped in
a quandary of happenstance,
an Irish know woven from briar.
Unlike Lao Tzu by a pond, I hesitate
allowing decisions to pass undecided.
I don’t wait for the wind to fall,
or the murk to settle into clarity.
(February 8, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Music plays under the earth;
its poetry delights,
like fireflies.
(February 8, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I’m too proud too often
when time’s safer
to stay humble,
thus unnoticed;
the gods take joy
in slapping down hubris.
(February 8, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
As I teach my students,
I try to be honest
in who I am;
yet, fear
I’m a fraud.
Teaching’s resistance:
how to read,
analyze,
break meaning from words–
then rewrite
in the students’ voices
without becoming
a lie that exalts
the life
they are not.
(February 7, 2019)
S
As if with a spoon,
she scoops the words
from his pliant mouth.
The rounded vowels,
and crisp consonants
shred her tongue
with shards of ice.
Meanwhile, with slick
knives, he carves
all conversation,
leaving bits of blood,
like rose petals,
to stain the ground
in a red-wet lust.
Neither he, not she,
can speak into
what was said.
They stare, stunned,
past empty eyes;
their mouths slack
like the recent dead.
(February 5, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
We ate a simple shared meal,
a sixteen-bean soup with bits
of Christmas ham. Afterward
we played a counting card game:
They laughed and talked awkwardly,
as players dropped from the game.
I realized, once again,
I do not fit in.
(January 31, 2019)
