A lizard moves from leaf
to fence, shifting from green
to brown, quickly hiding
from prey and predator.
Today, he captures a moth;
tomorrow, the hawk feeds.
Life and death’s a disguise
I wear to hide the present
horror: the taut skin over
bone stretches to a smile.
Without camouflage to live
within, I pass to the last
third of life: I must change
to live, must live in this change.
(November 24, 2023)
I worry
the broken bits
of my memory
scattered
across the sand
like a snake’s skin
desperately sloughed
against the rocks.
Each bit again
reshapes and poisons
a new form
into a present
truth which shatters
what was to be
believed
like dandelion puffs
drifting across
fallow ground.
(November 19, 2023)
If I confess
is guilt excised—
must I list
in detail
each transgression
by name,
or may I
vaguely hint
toward
an absolution
that I can
accept
as my
own?
(November 18, 2023)
by
he walks through his life
with a string of nows
hanging from his neck
most days slip away
from dawn to dusk
without distinction
yet some he can see
with a clarity
which is unmoving
with a cold silence
which strips away time
like a broken tomb
the past and future
vanish and the now
opens around him
like a white lotus
rising from the palm
of his outstretched hand
(November 12, 2023)
two nights in a row
the cat drops a rabbit
dead on the back mat
her throat ripped open
bits of fur float in the wind
her body still warm
the cat proudly purrs
as she curls around my feet
I did this for you
I push her away
unceremoniously
dismissing her kill
each moment deserves our trust
each moment’s a sacrifice
(November 11, 2023)
As I putter about the house,
each node, great or small,
where I failed
to be kind;
where I failed
others;
where I failed
my own measure—-
rages
like harpies
lifting their heads,
broken smiles coated
in dry blood.
(November 9, 2023)
There is always an excuse,
some rationale; but nothing
that’s not infested with fear:
just follow a line across an abyss;
just follow a tale which is not mine;
just follow the next man into time.
But there is never a reason
to surrender one’s life;
never a reason to ramble;
never a reason to leave home;
never a reason to lift my voice
and follow an unheard song.
(November 6, 2023)
by
An early November sun sets slowly
over the neighbor’s house, as I nurse
a tumbler of scotch on the front porch.
The tattered tie-dyed peace flag, I bought
as a counter to the MAGA flags down
the street, flutters in the soft evening breeze.
In her hijab, the Muslim mother across
the street marshals her children on their
regular evening walk. I faintly hear
the suburban high school band jauntily
play their fight song at the stadium
across the way. It’s Friday Night! Israeli
jets in Gaza pummel yet another refugee
camp with righteous indignation, and
none of these complicit ironies escape me.
(November 3, 2023)
by
Over time my doubts
determine the desolation
my regrets and dreams
have brought to me.
It is not a stark moon rising
over dead mountains,
but fetid rot crumbling,
wet grain by wet grain,
into a tangled swamp
from which memory
rises unbidden
like will o’ the wisps.
Foolishly, I pursue them
lashing myself
with shame and horror
at what I did or said
in the smallest instance.
Until I am tied so tightly
to the past that I am,
that I am no longer
able to do more
than lie prostrate
across the ground,
afraid and unforgiven.
(October 31 2023)
by
From a distance
across green fields,
our house appears
idyllic and pastoral.
While unseen beneath
twined ivy vines,
the loose mortar
and ancient beams
await repair.
Crowned with roses
and scented bay,
we face each other,
seeing different paths
of the world we are.
I offer what I have,
as do you, not knowing
if there is enough
in our worn cups
to sustain us
through another year—
trusting love
continually heals
the wounds it creates.
(October 23, 2023)
People mill about
with purpose.
The talk is white, sterile
like casual chatter
at a distance,
yet nearby.
One can discern words,
disconnected from sentences,
like free radicals:
isolated,
but not pristine—
muddy with clarity.
The talk is incessant,
and full of darkness.
(October 17, 2023)
Personal Fitness Program
What if it were God who was the Original Sin,
and he’s been desperate to fix it ever since?
(October 14, 2023)
Parent and Child
We rewrite their lives
to more closely fit our own;
whisper to ourselves
what we had wished to hear
(October 14, 2023)
Chop Wood, Carry Water
“what if poetry isn’t enuf?
watcha gonna do then?
—Ntozake Shange
write the next line,
float along the edge
form thought to thought
without fear of being lost
(October 14, 2023)
by
If you can
If you must
Drink from this cup
Without dying
Without speaking
With a different accent
Without speaking
Of other things
Other lives
Your life for instance
Then you can
Then you must
Walk among us
Without fear
Of the apostate
That nod of the head
That short suppressed laugh
That quick glance of recognition
In some other’s shaded eye
Before looking again at the ground
Lest you expose some other
Thought some other
Older deeper truth
That is yours alone
(October 10, 2023)
by
(8 of pentacles-reversed, rider-white)
I’m not sure
why i continue
to write,
to stack thirty years
of notebooks neatly
upon the shelf
like dead flowers
from old lovers—
But I do write,
cutting lines of memory
like a stonewright
with a chisel,
exacting
bits of my vanity
with each stroke
of the pen until
what is left
is, perhaps,
made more
by what has been
taken away.
(October 8, 2023)
by
(nine of pentacles, rider-whaite)
I wander the garden,
pruning dead branches,
pulling weeds—
Vines grow fat with grapes,
soon to be crushed into wine.
Is this all there is?
The falcon’s claws bite
into this leather glove;
there is nothing to fear.
I’ve stopped worrying
about the day’s trivia.
I know better now.
Another full moon
begins to wane in the west.
Inside, candles burn low.
(October 6, 2023)
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