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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
