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)
Drowning
Category: ego
Modesty
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)
Youthful Folly
I found myself
without looking
for myself.
Only fools question
and question, then
doubt again.
I was there
from the start;
I simply noticed
where I had been
all along.
(January 21, 2019)
The Individual Lie
Someone has already been here
Always, even if you are still
Unaware of her presence.
You are never alone, even
When you are alone, in awe
On a mountain cliff’s edge.
Someone has been here—
Even if only in imagination
Someone has been where you go.
Everyone you have met—
Everyone you have read—
Everyone, even the slightest touch
Has always already existed
Inside you now, and forever.
(October 26, 2018)
Flower as Metaphor
I am not a flower
about to bloom, nor
one whose petals have fallen.
I am not a flower,
nor is this poem
my prurient confession:
I am not a flower
worn like a corsage,
or draped on coffin tops.
I am not defined
like a bridal bouquet
for I am not a flower.
Flowers are more
than what they are;
I am only what I am.
(July 31, 2018)
Obstacles
as in rain
arms out
head back
laughing
only my voice
in the way
I open to silence
(July 23, 2018)
Blur Into Heaven
The words above the door
replicated and smeared
themselves along the wall.
With one stroke, I saw
what drugs decades before
revealed in delusion:
For a surety,
our projections turn
back proffering chains.
Yet, no chains exist beyond
our myopic visions;
the earth begins and ends
with a whisper, with a shout,
with inarticulate gargling
(May 15, 2018).
