there's got to be more below the surface
if i move too fast then details
which get lost in the blur
tumble away from me as I fall
grasping desperately at roots
protruding from the rock
or seizing bits of grass
that rim the edge of the whole
yet if I move too slow
then the larger view decays
into each profound curvature
of stone I step upon
until i clinch my teeth
in anticipation of intercepting
the wall with my jaw, then
watch my blood follow in slow arcs
behind my shattered teeth
so i stand still
risking nothing
(March 18, 2024)
after he retired
my dad worked
repairing old furniture
people called antiques
he used his skills
gathered over time
to make some money
to give him purpose
after thirty-four years
of teaching reading and writing
I read and write
poetry without money
but a purpose
nevertheless
(March 16, 2024)
I finished Prophet Song by Paul Lynch over the last couple of days for my book group (RFB). It is hard to put down, even when you want to look away. An intense, disturbing read. Great lit! Ireland turns toward fascism and civil war. The story follows Eilish and her family as she struggles to keep her family intact and survive. I was paranoid inside of the first 30 pages, and stayed that way to the end 275 pages later. I was always expecting the worst. So many echoes of our current political situations, as well as genocide around the world. I imagine it will stay with me for quiet a long while. Read it. Seriously.
From the back porch,
with a few winter evenings left,
a small flock of starlings,
perhaps three dozen or so,
murmur quickly above the trees,
turn above the park
as in a parting gesture,
and vanish without a trace.
Aching from yard work,
no matter how small,
I sit on the back patio
and slowly dissolve into the sky,
where the moon follows the sun
into the west trailed by Venus.
(March 13, 2024)
I let the dogs out to play
as someone knocks on the door.
The dogs run to protect me.
Our grown children have arrived,
unannounced with warm pastries
stacked neatly in a white box.
They came over just to talk,
and hang out. I make coffee;
they say they have some concerns.
The children tell me what’s wrong
with my life. They have a fresh
vision with a narrow view.
What can I do? They know more
than they did, but not enough
of the daily rituals
which have coalesced overtime;
the compromises, and fears
one negotiates for love.
I’ve been there. My mom was old.
I had a grasp on my life,
I thought. I wanted to help.
My tired hubris, like theirs, waits
for the cold ironic turn,
when we’ll both know it’s too late.
For now, it’s much too early.
I pour a cup of coffee,
and watch the dogs play outside.
They yip and nip through the weeds,
tumbling in the back yard,
obliviously happy.
(March 12, 2024)
I see what I am
no need for a glass-smooth pond
to listen for my own adulations
I am the circle’s center
existence I know
is only what I feel
these eyes this nose this tongue these ears are all
that will ever be for me
we all die alone
at the edge of a black hole
everything is crushed to us
(March 11, 2024)
“Don’t dream me into someone else”
—Fernando Pessoa
perhaps outside
the speaker’s range
the assumptive you
at least by custom
we follow from reasons
no one still knows
old maps decayed
so we listen to voices
turn right soon turn left
we are lost now
together as before
in some one’s dream
I trust this other
as I trust you
in the dark to hold hands
(March 10, 2024)
Even in late Spring as light grows larger
the shadows deepen and stretch from beneath
the twisting Live Oaks. Hope’s a tricky thing:
We cling to it like dust motes in sunlight,
ever afraid it won’t be enough.
Later, the inevitability,
so obvious, stuns us into silence:
All the signs were there waiting to be seen.
Yet, we did see them slithering beneath
the lightest shadows, only pretending
what was there was not truly there at all.
And there lies the rub, our willful blindness
allows us to believe our world is safe,
and Spring brings endless fields of daffodils.
(March 9, 2024)
subtext