As if I have anything
to say, I ponificate
more than I listen;
a silent skull one
assumes is laughing.
(July 18, 2019)
A Thin Arrogance
A Gleaner Dons a Disguise
From bits she left behind,
he pieces himself together:
thousands of shards sifted,
then rearranged to form
fused-glass mosaics
into patterned fascimiles
others easily recognize.
(July 18, 2019)
drowning
an inch is as easy
as an ocean
to drown, we venture
into waves, unafraid
one is different
from the next and next
rolling vast undulations
toward the horizons
(July 13, 2019)
eros
four haiku with a tanka couplet
her nightgown slips
past her hips
as she steps toward him
*
her skin cool
beneath the sheets
simmers at his touch
*
a fan rattles
over tangled sheets;
cicada pulse the heat outside.
*
she wakes before dawn,
and slips from bed,
leaving him alone
*
like rain in drought, we
desire what remains
(July 8, 2019)
Before Completion
from “Rendition of Change,” a work in progress
The old tortoise-shell cat slips
cautiously through the grass
as the storm approaches.
This-too-shall-pass provides
small comfort in the moment’s
chaos and fear. Lightning strikes
often and nearby. As rain
starts to fall, the cat watches,
motionless, from the stair.
(July 3, 2019)
After Completion
from “Rendition of Change” a work in progress
A juggler balances plates
to thunderous applause;
he smiles, and they all fall.
(July 2, 2019)
Love’s Sole Cry
hold me again
tonight
against the night
(June 30, 2019)
Confession as a Form of Explanation
My story is true in so far
as it is my story. The lines
I must maintain for my belief
to be justified are many.
I fear questions lest it all falls
like a child’s tower of blocks falls,
tumbled across unstable ground.
Although I know that the truth lies
for I formed each one on my own,
turning them over and over
like rosary beads until smooth,
they still allow me to believe
each stone lies firmly on the next.
With no one to doubt what I say,
the facade I have built is real
I explain to myself myself:
I live forms of happies
As long as the ever after,
and the hero is always me.
(June 30, 2019)
Preponderance of the Small
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
At nine I wrote a poem
to a girl in my class — a love poem.
Today fifty years later,
I still write poetry.
Like a small bird flits
between branches, poetry
and love intertwine through
my life giving shape and succor
to even the quietest moment.
(June 30, 2019)
After the Trigger’s Pulled
Blood spatter slurs
on wet tile:
rorschach blots
without interpretations
(June 29, 2019)
Inner Truth
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
somewhere, nearby
vague, yet pervasive,
like these whispers
which define all
as some other than me,
some other voice–
always here
not just an echo
of myself
(June 24, 2019)
Without Clearly Marked Exits
A room carved
into his heart–
no door,
but a room
without a candle.
His heart
a hollow room
without a candle.
He desired a candle,
to watch it burn,
but there was no match,
or he would burn,
the world would burn,
the house would burn
into ash,
into ash,
into ash:
ash
and wind.
(June 20, 2019)
Hubris
Not the one, or the one,
but one:
Humility
strikes down
even gods.
I am who I am,
but without
the silence to kill.
I forgive us both
the slippery hope we shared.
Together we were more
than one discordant circle.
Wrapped in dry mouth’s
slow-tongued kiss,
we blurred beneath
late autumnal leaves.
(June 16, 2019)
Limitation
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Random borders set blurred forms
to contain apportioned bits
of chaos. He accepts these
chains, like religion, to free
himself from the infinite.
(June 10, 2019)
Dispersion
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Without god to save us,
a breeze slips through
the sycamore’s leaves
slightly sifting the heat away
from the shade beneath.
We must find ourselves
within ourselves, or perish.
Light dapples the grass between us
like butterflies over flowers.
(June 7, 2019)
The Joyous (Lake)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
In various taverns
around town,
we have spoken tegether
for years, gathering strength
from our gentle laughter
over beer, books, and beatitudes.
Each of us offers what we can,
then part renewed.
(June 6, 2019)
The Gentle (Penetrating, Wind)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
To be there. To bear witness:
one tells one’s story— That’s all!
That is how evil falls— Again
and again— tell one’s story.
(June 5, 2019)
World Vision
He wanders
from wall to wall,
turning tightly
at all the corners.
There are no doors,
nor windows,
only walls;
no light
outside his dark.
(June 4, 2019)
The Wanderer
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
At home, I cannot move on.
I have few friends here,
but I am content:
I am myself with myself.
Each day, I wander alone
through a foreign land,
where I have no tongue:
no tumblers click
within their conversations,
no prison bolts drop
within their conventions.
(May 31, 2019)
Forced to Speak
Go down the occasions:
the tally marks of days,
weeks, months, years
ago when something
was said, or not
said, or done, or
not done– enough!
What happens when one
no longer has anything
to say; when language
has outstripped
one’s desire to speak?
I’m at an impasse
and fear my words.
(May 31, 2019)
permeable
each day I revise
and renew the dream
if not into now then
some other when
where I want to be
becomes possible
for the moment
in which I’m in
dream dreams
dreams too until
all the seams
between seem as
if some other were
only what is here
(May 30, 2019)
something’s amiss
He spits bits
of fat and flesh
into the fire–
to conspire,
with a smile,
something for you,
something askew:
a new line,
a new charm,
or warning hiss;
some new distress,
some fatal harm,
like twined snakes
upon a cross.
(May 27, 2019)
Abundance (fullness)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
The moon wanes,
as he begins
to speak:
so many words
go unspoken.
He chokes on air.
(May 25, 2019)
The Marrying Maiden
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
not drowning, nor waving
but to enter a room
and not be the room
nor resist the room
each wave is a wave
distinct until the shore
my voice is strangled
before it can be heard
(May 25, 2019)
Development (gradual progress)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I’m here where I belong,
sitting beneath this tree
I planted long ago.
(May 24, 2019)
Keeping Still, Mountain
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Before he moves,
he waits on time,
listening for a breath.
He moves still
without motion;
his mind wanders
across the valley
to the next mountain.
Discontent breeds desire.
He sits stiffly
somewhere between
here and there:
no end,
no beginning.
(May 20, 2019)
The Arousing (shock, thunder)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
A door blows open;
I wake to a storm.
A familiar room whirls
in disarray. Fear dares
for someone to speak.
(May 17, 2019)
half empty, half full
1.
I cannot hear America
singing– the sun
descends, and the moon
is dark. Hell’s gate
swings wide. I fear
I am lost.
2.
I worry the world,
and am wrong
about so much;
yet, the sun still rises
each morning,
despite all of us.
(May 15, 2019)
The Cauldron
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
No flames engulf–
I burn in slow embers
which pulse like blood;
if god exists, he’s here
now between these words
I live within.
(May 15, 2019)
Revolution (molting)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
As I age, I must
change: life’s last third
will fall away like snow
hanging on a dead branch.
(May 14, 2019)
The Well
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
the students come and go
I remain, little changes
we talk about poetry
and show our minds
at play in essays
it’s what I have
to give, what I know—
for most it will end
with whatever they take
away with what they did
(May 14, 2019)
Pushing Upward
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I write as I have
for years—I have,
through time, come
to understand:
I write to write,
doubting praise, I write
in silence to silence.
(May 14, 2019)
One’s End’s Ambiguous
The labyrinth
bends into itself:
one thought feeds
bits of fear to the next;
until, teeth crack
on broken bone,
and it ends
without a beginning
to begin again.
One’s end’s ambiguous
as one’s beginning.
Indecisive and vague,
the end’s no different
than any contingent.
The end ends
with a flailing
of the mind
through a stark
unawareness
of where we are,
where we have been,
and without a why
to justify
the confusion
of the scattered pages
across the floor,
and the ash in the air.
(May 12, 2019)
Gathering Together (Massing)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
There is no center to hold;
no story of violent gods
to tell while drunk
around a fire.
There is no fire.
Yet still, we turn
to one another
with what words
we have, and begin
again to speak.
(May 8, 2019)
Marginalia
The ghosts in his forest sift
between the bramble, collect
momentarily in clearings,
and compare notes on their
unconsummated affairs.
His apparition slips along
her edges, begging the margins
she ignores. Annotations,
without context, entangle
his thoughts, growing a life
of their own, a meaning
of their own, as blooms
of moss on the forest floor
disguise the broken trees
in a green effulgence.
He try to trace her designs
within her fractured words.
Each turn he takes leads away
form yet another possible exegesis;
until, he falls into a clarity
forever uncertain and voiceless.p
(May 5, 2019)
Community Prayer
I need someone to tell me–
I’m okay– I can make it
through this day— unashamed,
as do we all.
I need someone to hold me
closely through this night
of terrors– calm and unafraid,
as do we all.
(May 4, 2019)
Drowning
Hubris hangs thick
like funerary flowers,
redolent in disregard.
Like burnt yarrow stalks,
the dead know us
for what we are:
inches from the earth,
we gnaw on fear,
only to drown in dust.
(May 1, 2019)
idealistic pronouncement
truth is without trust
it speaks without proof
is known without belief
it harbors no amity
towards any who hear
nor makes promises to keep
one does not play safe
with what truth offers
for each day is at risk
each moment opens anew
toward a hope unfolding
into some better world
my truth I trust
my ideal and my damnation
(June 26, 2013)
Coming to Meet
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
It’s always so simple to trust
an Iago’s words to lift
a bland darkness over
the light like a veil
to hide a leper’s face:
I allow myself to degrade
myself, ignoring my better
angels as if they exist
only as shallow hubris.
(April 26, 2019)
accents shift
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)
Coupled
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)
Motion
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)
Turn
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)
Just Another Name for the Devil
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 from “My Book of Changes”
three poems out of 250 from a series of poems I wrote in the mid 90’s
Breakthrough (Resoluteness)
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)
Increase
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)
Without Mirrors
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)
New Normal
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)
Cliff Face
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)
