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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

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  • (events in a field of light)

    by

    fragments, interrelationships, obsessions, poetry, ways of knowing



    events in a field like light 
    from a star bending about the sun
    each affecting the other in infinite exchange
    a bee drifts with lackadaisical precision
    linking flower to flower before heading home 
    across an open meadow covered with dew
    the sun the flower the bee you me
    bending toward each other collapsing
    in a field radiant with life
    in a field radiant with life
    bending toward each other collapsing
    the sun the flower the bee you me
    it’s all so succinctly repetitious
    another day, like the orbiting moon
    its tidal force pulling on the sea
    (no thought or will to dissent
    the current catches all like a net)
    then releases to wash freely along the shore
    water light time you me flows
    quick slip twirl and fall
    slow meander to merge with all
    water through water air through air
    events in a field suffused with light
    separate yet bending toward each other
    like the sun hurling toward a point
    a somewhere beyond the center which holds
    nothing but all in a twirl we turn toward
    like a bee in a meadow covered with dew

    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001-April 2003)

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  • Hints, For Example

    by

    communication, meaning, metaphor, mythic, poetry

    He drops innuendo like fairy tale
    children, a bit more to allow
    for a deniability —  No, those
    were just crumbs – really
    not signs for you to follow –
    than for the realistic hope
    that she would find him here.
    (August 18, 2013)

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  • Implosion

    by

    dissatisfaction, existential angst, poetry, sonnets

    I’m drawn toward doors and stairs:
    ways away (through out up down),
    ways toward some place other than here.
    My shoulders cramp against these walls;
    the ceiling crushes down from the weight
    of the sky.  I can no longer stand here,
    but walk bent double like pack mules
    over-burdened too long upon the trail
    until their legs snap cleanly beneath them.
    Doors snap shut at my approach;
    stairs bend back upon themselves
    like ever-twisting moebius strips,
    leading me into deeper corners,
    into rooms collapsing upon themselves.
    (August 18, 2013)

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  • if dreams die

    by

    dream, life, metaphor, poetry

                apologies to L.H.
    Silently askew
    the bird lies
    at the bottom
    of the cage
    the thin wires
    distorted and bent
    as if broken
    from within
    like the snapped
    ribs around a
    failed heart’s
    transplant
    nothing left
    to do but mourn
    (August 13, 2013)

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  • (space between)

    by

    borders, community, fragments, language, obsessions, poetry, social construction



    In the air
    between trees
    below the grass
    between light and shadow
    before dawn and dusk
    between thought and word
    There
    it flows:
    not pyroclastic
    engulfing
    not truth
    with its myriad meanings
    nor our tales
    fraught with interpretations
    the observer
    the observed
    and the space between

    (August 2001-April 2003, from Primogenitive Folly)

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  • sufficient’s dissolution

    by

    communication, dissatisfaction, hope, poetry, sonnets, thinking

    the last consonant crisp echoless
    as if a rock dropped down a well
    clacked once against stone walls
    then arced into black silence
    empty you suggest and I see
    but that answer does not seem
    sufficient enough to satisfy
    so I stare down the well waiting
    there must be something there
    deep within the earth’s crust
    yet the dark silence dissolves
    any hope clinging to the night
    the words do not matter now or then
    what was heard what was said vanish
    (August 15, 2013)

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  • (nodes of meaning)

    by

    community, meaning, memory, poetry

    . . . edge;
    Tracing a finger slowly down the skin of words,
    crossing scar tissue, nodes of meaning left behind,
    I determine the depth of what I have to say.
    Yet, the surface contains more than I can handle.
    The storm rages across the Atlantic, waves clash
    like mountains into continents, while below fish
    swim aware of the air only as an absence.
    A foolish thing to rely on memory thus:
    I scream when alone comforted by echoes
    that return altered enough to seem no longer
    a part of me.  The difference between myself
    and the world balances upon a nebulous
    fulcrum.  The words I use provide the scale’s arm
    with indecision:  an agglutination of
    views, shaping my sense as a rasp drawn ‘cross the grain
    rips the natural inclination of the wood.
    A foolish thing to rely on memory thus,
    so we call out one to the other hoping that
    what we say will transcend our ephemeral trust:

    (from Primogenitve Folly, August 2001-April 2003) 

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  • (say it three times)

    by

    community, fragments, memory, poetry, social construction, ways of knowing



    a foolish thing to rely on memory thus
    for when one repeats oneself so one forgets
    just what was said when, if at all, and then by whom,
    or if the story, you embellished so, was real,
    or simply a way to hold the listener’s ear
    then repeated, like the beating of a drum, or 
    a ritual chant, inspiring the teller – –
    you , me, some other, to believe in what we say 
    to the exclusion of all that would contradict
    a foolish thing to rely on memory thus
    the words were written in order to preserve them
    beyond the attention span of the listener
    distracted by lunch or what he saw at the bar
    the night before he sat to listen to your tale
    with all of this gravity spinning his mind off
    along tangents unrelated to what you say
    It is a wonder he can gather any sense
    from the mosaic of words that catch in his ear
    a foolish thing to rely on memory . . .
    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001- April 2003) 

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  • the words

    by

    language, life, poetry, writing

    such sounds
    float around
    us as if
    we were
    inconsequential
    as a tree
    to air
    which
    shimmers
    the leaves
    like distant
    audiences
    applauding
    a constellation’s
    coincidence

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  • saftey’s risk

    by

    life, poetry

    “say fear is a man’s best friend”
              –John Cale

    Caution’s warm fear

    provides comfort
    against the fire
    she foresees
    if set free;
    risk promises nothing
    beyond the possibility
    of not failing
    into a procreant world
    urgent with hope:
    stay safe, sit
    down, stay home;
    or
    ignite
    into life.
    (August 11, 2013)

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  • vanishing point

    by

    acceptance, poetry, sonnets

    to disappear
    from the sarcophagus
    I have built of myself
    to float like dust
    from the demands
    of friends and lovers
    to fall between the flux
    of dark and day
    free of time’s measured grasp
    to fade into light
    as if standing
    at the edge of dawn
    as if nothing mattered
    as if I were not here
    (August 10, 2013)

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  • Subject Object Dilemma

    by

    borders, liminal, paradigms, poetry, ways of knowing

    “Subject and object are not as distinct as most people think. If the boundary separating the two isn’t clear-cut to begin with, it is not such a difficult task to intentionally shift back and forth from one to the other.”
    ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
    of course the poem is about a you
    not necessarily you but an other
    not I although perhaps me
    in disguise as a she or he or a you
    who needs someone to address other
    than a me since talking to yourself
    only leads to a narcissistic echo
    where anything said is believed
    for why would anyone lie to someone
    unless to hide the uncertainty of who
    spoke in response to whose antecedent
    points back to a first gasped syllable
    the divide between my mind and not
    particles flow in waves from all stars
    (August 10, 2013)

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  • what a poem can do

    by

    language, literature, poetry, storytelling, writing

    not a story
    with a simple plot
    laid out precisely
    with all markers clear
    nor any plot
    for that matter
    nor symbol
    as a guiding star
    across the desert
    of your life
    but yes always
    metaphor
    to move you
    even just a little
    from complacency
    to leverage you
    from your broken thoughts
    to translate you
    like a transubstantiation
    into a new world
    perhaps
    if you’re lucky
    enough
    to cause
    a shift
    so miniscule
    as to derail
    your destiny
    as it were
    unremarked
    for years
    and years
    until
    it arrives
    too late
    to change
    and you
    are no longer
    there
    (August 9, 2013)

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  • It’s Not About You, or Even Me

    by

    creativity, essay, life, poetry, process, thinking, writing

    In a graduate class with Walt Litz on the Modern Long Poem, he said that there was an occasion which caused Wallace Stevens to write each of his poems, but that did not mean that Stevens wrote occasional poems.  Obviously, there is always some event, phrase, person, occasion which causes a poem to begin in the poet’s mind, but that does not mean that the poem is about that event, phrase, person or occasion. As an undergraduate in English, we were taught “New Criticism” (although, at least, at the University of Texas in the late 70’s, it was never taught as a named form of Criticism). It was frowned upon to bring in biographical information when writing essays about poetry. The text itself was enough to write about, outside information was unnecessary if not unwanted. When I write, there is also some initiating push, which sends me chasing the words to the end.  I rarely, if ever, know where I am going in a poem. One of the thrills of writing is the discovery of the poem as I write it. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to write a love poem” or “how about a sonnet today?” I just write and then find the heart of the poem as I fall into the flow of words.  Of course, the poem is my thinking, whether I am conscious of the thinking or not at the time of composing the poem; yet that does not mean my thinking is tied the concrete of my daily encounters with the world. For the most part my daily encounters with the world are sparks which ignite my thinking into the abstract which then cause me to try to recapture the process through the language event of the poem. Occasionally, I find a poem about something more than the occasion through this process, and my world is widened as a result.
    (August 9, 2013)

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  • I Am. . .

    by

    desire, doubt, identity formation, metaphor, poetry

    (a self-portrait)
    watched as the mirror distorts the page
    through which I observe as I write these
     words in this notebook before I sleep
    my escape as a rationale for dissection
    from angles askew to a direction I’m in
    the relative motion deploys my illusion
    so yes and yes and yes again is given
    to questions never asked aloud only
    imagined in conversation not allowed
    parallel trials’ debated possibilities
    enacted within inner questions
    which reflect back answers I desire
    a refracted notion implied by minute
    intricate inlays between convulsions
    of my mind and yours and hers and his
    (August 8, 2013)

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