Three poems

from a work in progress, “process, not a journey” (33-35)

resonance

the cold rail vibrates

beneath his hand

.

It’s inevitable

he stands and waits

.

Time Enough

patience sips her tea

as she watches

the bees flit and hover

among the roses in her garden

.

a breeze shifts the leaves

to the left and right

.

as above so below

morning breaks

pink and blue

beneath the ragged clouds

as the wind chime

in the chase tree

ripples through the yard

(March 6, 2020)

nothing much

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (19)

Cashel, Co. Tipperary

several years ago

for several years

nothing came to entrance me

more specifically

doors entranced me

the emptiness of doors

the simple lack of existence

led me further to rooms

and bowls cups and spoons

it wasn’t the rooms the doors

the bowls cups or spoons

but the pure embedded absence

nothing was useful

nothing was transcendent

the absence the lack the emptiness

(January 25, 2020)

the future was a threat

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (12)

in school we were always on the move

field trips to museums to math class

with Mr. Buesing to middle school

to high school to college the future

was a threat brandished like a whip

by degrees our world turned

then it stopped and I stumbled

and found myself here in the mud

like a body dropped from the door

of a passing car

(January 18, 2020)

with options of desire and defeat

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (8)

I don’t want

to be a salmon struggling

upstream to spawn and die

exhausted and decayed

nor

to be swept downstream

with broken branches and silt

into a churning sea

I want to be

a catfish

calm and content

deep within a silent pool

(January 12, 2020)

metaphor’s logic is like you know

from an untitled serial poem (4)

yet you know

we are alone

together

only in our common

solitude

I assume you are

like me a simile

if you will 

like

an understandable analogy

a cat is to a dog

as a rabbit is

to a stellar singularity

I fear the wind

in my fur

is a tell a fox is near

a trap is set to drop

I am aware 

because somewhere

some other thought

and told some other

who eventually

inscribed the pattern

along a random strand

like now

(January 6, 2020)