this is a place
of deception
of seduction
a place where honesty
denies its existence
where people mistrust
themselves
because they can’t trust
the god in their heart
a place where
hell is ubiquitous
as wild flowers in spring
a place where words
are wrung like rags
until all our blood
has drained
into the earth
where we stand
(April 15, 2024)
by
Minnows nibble on my toes
as I sit in Clark’s Creek
where it deepens to my waist,
and runs slow a few miles
below the bridge into town.
It is spring, and the trees hang
their new leaves over the creek
like a secret green cave
where all answers are contained.
I am nine years old, and happy.
I know nothing beyond myself.
Catfish hide in the tree’s roots
that uncoil into the creek,
as copperheads and moccasins
slide past unnoticed nearby.
(April 12, 2024)
by
I saw an old man from my window
across the alley sitting alone on his bed.
A table lamp glowed softly nearby.
The room was barren, lifeless, empty
of all but the bed, the lamp, and the old man.
He sat still, staring toward a wall.
I could not see, from where I stood,
what it was that had captured him so.
It was as if I had been absorbed bodily
into an Edward Hopper painting;
he was so alone in his thickening sadness.
It oozed from his window across the alley
like an amoeba blindly frets its way
across a water droplet on a glass slide,
stretching toward its last bit of life.
Instinctively, I backed away quietly
into the growing darkness of my room,
and the silent frailty we all must live.
(April 10, 2023)
by
I, always the me now, never the we,
ask again: Where does the anger come from?
The resentment? The manufactured past?
Mine, hers: what we remember: the slights
and wounds still bleeding. No concurrent flow
of telling, not even a parallel,
contrapuntal at best; more dissonant
tales to contradict, and exacerbate
the scream, the disconnect of skewed tangents,
no parallax to broaden perspective
Just the sharp shimmer of indecision
decimating any remnants of love
like hundreds of fragments of broken glass
tumbling out of a multitude of skies.
by
“Stand by me, hold me, bind me,
O ye blessed influences!”
—Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Unrelenting and wild,
the wind tosses the trees,
ruffling their nascent leaves
like the undulating waves of the sea.
I know the course I am on:
for years — my way, my guide,
like horses from a burning barn,
my blinders led the way.
Without reason or judgment,
I trust all will be okay — yet
Hope, like Justice, is blind.
I am compelled to believe,
through thousands of soft nudges,
that I know where I must go.
by
I want to say something,
so I interrupt their conversation.
What I have to say
is not that smart,
nor insightful,
yet I say it,
because I must.
My words are protection
against my insignificance.
People are polite.
They nod their heads,
feigning interest
as if what I say adds
to the topic.
When I pause,
they pick up
where they were
as if I were dust
in a corner
of an empty room.
(March 31 2024)
by
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
—Oscar Wilde
Late at night, beneath a new moon, after too much cheap vodka and pot, a group of us, friends for most of our lives, gathered out on Tipton Road, a one lane gravel road running between two farms a few miles outside of town. The closest light glowed dimly from a farm house a mile or so in the distance. Infrequently faces were illuminated briefly like angels in old paintings as someone lit a cigarette or another joint only to disappear quickly back into the dark. We talked quietly about impending graduation, going off to college, or jobs, or the military; our parents, our girlfriends, knowing we were all losing touch as we spoke.
As we headed back to the cars, someone said, “Where’s Jackie?” He had wandered off on his own without anyone noticing. We all started calling for him in the dark. No response. We called again, then again: no response. Then faintly from a ditch next to a corn field down the road, we heard him giggle to himself, then shout out, “The stars— Man— look at the stars— look up— the stars are so close.” As one, we all looked up. The stars were brilliant and beatific, as for that moment were we.
We pulled Jackie out of the ditch, staggered to the cars, then finally back into the dark to find our separate ways home.
(March 29, 2024)
by
I have always been slow, too slow to see
beyond the eddy to the sea, too slow
to piece together the mundane violence.
So many waves to obliviously
watch as they slowly wash away the shore;
my mind turns away from soft increments.
Each new thought is an act of violence
against reality, against stasis,
toward an affirmation of consciousness.
It’s easy to believe in permanence
when the present seems so solidly here,
while yesterday clings like drowning sailors
pulling me beneath the surface of time,
until my words are swallowed like small fish
to feed an oppressive leviathan.
(March 28, 2024)
by
I read once when I was young, I believe
in the I Ching, that a tall stone tower
on a hill is a great defense in war;
except it draws the enemy’s attack.
One can run, but not hide from an attack;
nor run away while hiding. Paradox.
Yet there is a third option. Wherever
you are is the ground upon which you stand.
You stand openly, steady like a tree,
whose roots have coiled deeply into the earth.
Allow the time’s darkness to surge through you,
yet again, in long slow pulsating waves;
until the latest storm’s violence abates,
and you find yourself right where you have been.
(March 26, 2024)
beyond the fence across the creek
a woman sings— hello, hello
what’s your name—it’s morning
it’s morning—what’s your name
a voice singing, spontaneous
and random, uncalled for nor
conjured, yet present
unannounced and resonant
like a wine glass approaches
high C harmonizes
to such an extent
with the word it shatters
redefining what it means
to be only who you are
(March 23, 2024)
by
Reread this small (28 pages) book last night. I read this last some time in the 1980’s when I was binging on Pound. It is similar to the “translations” he did for the poems in Cathay, like “The River Merchant’s Wife.” Imagistic with a lot implied connotations. It made me pull two other books off the shelf this morning (not by Pound): The Poems of Catullus, and an anthology of Ancient Egyptian Literature.–The joys of having a rather extensive and eclectic personal library.
by
stale whispers and innuendo
along the margins of a wind
have risen again from the dead
hinting a time of judgement
is at hand— a time of resentment
and retribution festers anew
what is the opposite of judgement
acceptance forgiveness mercy
mercy has long fallen away
lost somewhere unnoticed
while despair exhausted clings
without solace to strands of hope
that drift listless and tattered
like cottonwood fluff through the air
(March 20, 2024)
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)
by
the desire for words
inspires delusion
the ambition
laced in envy
clots the throat
with small words
small ideas
until all that’s left
to say wheezes
past dry lips
in a final
thin sigh
no one
can hear
(March 15, 2024)
