by
the police break down doors
the wrong doors the wrong people
but in other states other cities
I try to be optimistic
the world has been worse
the terror the killing fields treblinka
just not so close not so near to me
I try to be optimistic
the streets are not slick with blood
skulls are not stacked on skulls
fresh ash does not fill our lungs
I try to be optimistic
the sun rises over stone henge
as it has for millennia
To service his designs
the face I know is one
of many you deploy
to hide in the angles
between the reflections
not even a shadow.
This I, this you, this him’s
easier to disguise
within this trifold world.
I cannot see myself
except as I am perceived
in other’s mockery:
the dead narrative I
is a social construct.
(April 29, 2025)
Two thousand miles away to the East, the Mad King storms about the castle crashing into people and things he doesn’t understand. People are confused, and unsteady, like a boxer on the ropes. A few of the courtiers prefer it this way. They’ve learned what to do, and how to do it: where they can pursue their malevolent obsessions; while at the same time, create vast personal profits at the expense of everyone else in the kingdom. They quickly slither about the castle, staying close to the walls, so that no one pays them that much attention. The Mad King’s daily ravings on the ramparts help them go unnoticed most days. Everyone loves a jester, especially slap-stick. The Mad King provides the chaos, and loves the attention it brings to him. Sometimes the courtiers slip up, illicit money falls from their over stuffed pockets, or the Iron Mask slips from the latest guest to enter the hospitality of the dungeon. We are all shocked when we recognize them. They had seemed so nice. There is the polite kerfuffle which used to entertain the peasants for weeks at a time, but now is only enough to cause us all to look up for a moment or two from our lives, if that. Life has become so hard these days, what with the plagues spreading so rapidly and randomly. Even the chickens have slowed down on their egg production, as if they fear bringing their young into the world. It is all we can do to curse them all under our breath and hope for a better day, knowing, all the while, that there is no heroic knight riding to save us; no magical cure from the King’s madness. There is always another pretender nearby, humming his idiosyncratic song of death.
(April 28, 2025)
by
I fear I’m dying,
but that is nothing special—
I still have to shit.
(April 27, 2025)
by
“I have committed adultery in my heart..”
—- Jimmy Carter
the moments went unnoticed
until days sometimes years later
when the obvious slid past
like shadows tossed through a window
by a passing car late at night
and he realized what had been offered
when the difference in time between what
almost occurred and what he desired
vanished so regret could have grown
from a surreptitious kiss bestowed
instead of the one that was not
(April 26, 2025)
by
another slow day
our grand children are here now
how quickly night falls
(April 25, 2025)
by
“Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”
—William Blake
The cabinet clock has stopped again.
After following me through the house,
the chihuahua curls in my lap,
This morning, I’ve read some poetry,
talked to Lisa over a breakfast I made,
and folded laundry. Now, I take time
to think, and write this poem
as the dog sleeps contently nearby.
I think about winding the clock, then don’t.
(April 24, 2025)
“… craft of culture,
How we go on.”
—Gary Synder
a grandson, eight, who dislikes
my puns and play with words,
intentionally made a spontaneous pun,
smiled mischievously, then ran on
laughing into his future
(April 23, 3025)
He places his foot on the treadle.
The wheel slowly begins to creak,
then spin and spin like fate
in death’s dark hands.
He presses his tired eyes
to the stone; sparks fly.
It’s hard to see with myopic eyes.
Everything blurs with angelic auras.
If only he can sharpen a new lens
to reshape his stark visions,
then what he sees will not come to be—
If your eye offends thee,
pluck it out,
pluck it out!
(April 22, 2025)
by
The dogs wake me to feed them.
So, I go down stairs half-asleep.
They dance on their hind legs,
then happily wag their tails
as they wolf down their kibble.
Moments after licking the bowls clean,
they are back upstairs curled asleep
in tight balls next to Lisa.
These are my days now: no longer clotted
with work tensions from day into dreams;
no longer consumed by other minds.
I have my books, our garden, our friends,
and the time to tend to them all.
It is my life to live as I live it.
(April 21, 2025)
In the well-manicured suburban lawn,
one vulture feeds on a squirrel’s remains,
while another perches on the chimney,
its mottled black wings outspread to the sun
as if Christ the Redeemer in Rio.
Last night I could hear coyotes yip and sing
their tangled way along Gilliland creek
which runs through the green belt behind the house.
For days now the north wind has whipped the trees
against the sky, branch rattling on bare branch.
I cannot sleep. The weather makes me tense.
A bland vision of an apocalypse,
I know. Our determined whimper deserves,
despite our frailty, so much more than this.
(April 20, 2025)
by
Money makes one mad.
As if one controls the dice
with a simple kiss.
(April 19, 2025)
by
“If you haven’t read hundreds of books, you are functionally illiterate, and you will be incompetent, because your personal experiences alone aren’t broad enough to sustain you.”
—General John Mattis
Some days the distance across the room is problematic. Like now, I am reminded of a book by something I just read, but cannot see from where I sit if it is on the shelf. Prester John would know, but he lives somewhere else far far away surrounded by pagans and others I can only imagine. But for today, I am lost in thought. Prester John and his mighty Christian armies could lead the way, if only I could find him somewhere nearby. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, I’ll remember to look in that book over there. For now, I am tired, and it is almost time for dinner, and I have such a long walk home through the village square before dark.
(April 17, 2025)
by
Ghosts move through the house, sitting on the kitchen table, on the arms of overstuffed chairs, looking at the blurbs on the backs of books left casually on side tables as if they still knew how to read. They have something more to say, but they have lost their ability to speak. I loan them my mouth. Their words almost fit what I say. They speak in the footnotes as unacknowledged experts to cite variations and caveats. Although no one has time to read their comments, their soft attention to others’ details reshape the shadows until memory begins to cling to their faces like stone veils, or muscles to bone. They no longer belong to the story they once were, anymore than I know the end of mine.
(April 16, 2025)
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