no one is home
no one sits in the dark
alone
no one waits for the key
to slip in the lock
and turn with a click
no door opens
with a repressed
creak
no one is left
to ask for explanations
but you
no one but you
and it is late
and the house is dark
(January 23, 2026)
In this dream,
I unfold other maps
between petulant winds.
In this place, I am known,
but not by this name,
not in this direction.
I have lost my way.
It was a mistake
to come here today.
Ignorance always wins,
because it does not know
it lost long ago.
Tracing a vein in my arm,
I find a way home.
(January 17, 2026)
I want to worry
about our dogs
barking randomly
along the back fence
at shadows and leaves
while the occasional squirrel
fusses at them
from the safety of a tree.
Instead wolves roam the streets
fur stiff with dried blood;
and eviscerated prey
muddy the snow,
while neighborhood dogs
howl through the night.
(January 14, 2026)
by
“the world is too much with us”
-W. Wordsworth
no longer the getting and blind spending
though that is still here teeming at our feet
like low-level radiation leaking
into the spongey ground we walk upon
but the powerful’s thick drooling anger
flailing curses wildly on everyone
that does not resemble their idea
of a pastoral past they never knew
this is the time I have come to live in
a time where the soft smell of hope lingers
like a dusty corpse left alone at home
when to be cloaked in ironic disdain
is to disguise an intellectual
self-revulsion that equivocates death
(January 10, 2026)
I finished “If not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho” by Anne Carson last night. This is the second time I have gone through this book from start to finish. The last time was about 13-14 years ago. I have picked it up randomly over the years reading bits before putting it back on the shelf. When I read it through years ago, I was also reading Carson’s “Eros, the Bittersweet,” which has several essays about Sappho. It helped. Anne Carson, if you don’t know, is an Ancient Greek scholar, who is also (imho) one of the most interesting writers in English today. She is probably best known for “Autobiography of Red,” but NOX should be on everyone’s reading list. As with the last time I read “If not, Winter,” I was reminded of Guy Davenport’s “7 Greeks,” because of the number of poem fragments which were translated with gaps in parentheses. The empty spaces made me think about two things: 1) the importance of silence and the use of space in creating meaning, and 2) how much meaning one word can carry without effort, and how placing simple words next to each other opens portals into other worlds which go beyond what is contained in the solitary words by themselves.
What do I do
with the I here,
with the voice here,
with an other
who is just me;
yet, not as well?
For so long now,
I have written
into my life
out of my life;
I know myself
as different,
something other
than what I write.
Someone must breathe
behind these words,
must speak slowly
to understand.
What is being
sotto voce?
Am I speaking?
Or listening?
What tight constraints
must be applied
in order to say
that I am here?
(January 7, 2026)
The full moon’s near Jupiter—
as if I can know
what someone else has told me.
I believe and see
the sky unfold around me,
each star in its place
fixed tightly with divine faith.
I know only this:
my truth is only my truth.
The chihuahua knows
he must go into the dark;
I open the door.
He barks at a Great-horned owl
who stares into the cold night.
(January 4, 2026)
by
I make our dinner—
noodles with snow peas and shrimp.
She is not hungry.
We have forgotten
how many times we’ve been here.
Decades of hope lost.
Another year ends—
Our pensions are still enough;
the night darkly falls.
We drink to forget—
Tonight we dance a circle;
again, we are here.
Again, day falls into night.
Life is inevitable.
(New Year’s Eve, 2025)
New Year’s Eve (2020)
All day the rain fell
Soaking the cold winter ground
The year ends tonight
(December 31, 2020)
New Year’s Eve
It’s all too simple—
to watch the clock strike midnight:
Dust settles to earth.
Nothing much ever changes:
we laugh, we sing, then we don’t.
(December 31, 2021)
another year
the dogs bark out back
again the wind ignores them
each to their nature
a warm new year’s eve
ends the hottest year ever
our world is burning
we live deluded
without trust in what we see
shadows form our wall
of course old leaves fall
as easy as the sun sets—
another new year
the wind is only the wind
the sun will rise without us
(December 31, 2024)
The Mundane Patterns Along the Way
another day ends
the night swallows the last light
a new year begins
the old clock rings out
ten minutes behind the time
the night knows no time
fireworks break the light
across the darkest of skies
rain falls to the sea
the morning is cold
leaves have fallen from the trees
for now the wind waits
ring out bells ring in ring out
ring in bells ring out ring in
(January 1, 2024)
New Year’s Day
Day breaks once again;
its unrelenting hunger
devours us all.
My end is my beginning;
my beginning is my end.
(January 1, 2022)
A Few Days Past New Year’s
Searching for something else,
a honey bee dances around my head,
Once, I would have jumped up
waving him away; now,
I shake my head,
and he floats away,
as I will eventually. Now
with less time than I’ve had,
there are no new beginnings
just a slow unraveling.
(January 3, 2020)
by
I finished The Wonderful O by James Thurber this afternoon. Thurber is so silly and delightful, while being deeply profound. The Wonderful O, like the other fables of Thurber is marketed as books for children, when they are far from sole audience. The Wonderful O is about two pirates who sail on the ship Aeiu, and hate the vowel O. They are searching for hidden treasure on the island of Ooroo. When they cannot find what they seek, they ban all words which contain the letter O. Cnfusin and Chas descend. The pirates become more and more oppressive with their hatred for O. The people resist, and eventually win out by holding on to four important words which contain O—Hope, Love, Valor, and what is seen as the most important word—Freedom.
It is obviously a fable for our own times although written 68 years ago.
by
Memory is all that we are,
and all that we are is what
we remember. These days
I often forget why I enter
a room as I enter. I’m forced
to wait on the blurred past
with its dead possibilities
to catch up to my present.
We sit comfortably couched
about the room. We confess
our stories again, shifting
scenes to allow for shapes
which differ, to be polite,
from others in other rooms.
(December 28, 2025)
“So many of us use when at our craft/of transmuting our life into words.//The essence is always lost.”
I have read three other books by Borges over the years: Labyrinths, The Book of Sand, and Ficciones. They have all been thought provoking and strange. I first heard of Borges as a fictional character in Umberto Eco’s “The Name of the Rose,” which makes sense as I finished “Dreamtigers” this afternoon. In “Dreamtigers” one of the themes Borges causes the reader to think about is identity. Specifically who is the real “Borges” (and us by extension) the one created by us that we present to the world as us, or the one that created the presentation. “Dreamtigers” is divided into two sections. The first comprised of parable-like reflections revolving around themes of memory, identity, creativity, and mirrors. The second section made up of poems, which touch upon similar themes and images. One of the ideas that have lingered with me after finishing the book is the thought that our unique experience of life which each of us possess and create though our life…vanishes as we die. “Events far-reaching envoy to people all space, whose end is nonetheless tolled when one man dies, may cause us wonder. But something, or an infinite number of things, dies in every death, unless the universe is possessed of a memory, as the theosophists have supposed.” I know that this is obvious, but also profound. Nietzsche said that in the end we only experience ourselves. And Borges extends this with the thought that this individual experience dies with the life of the person. Unless as he says, the universe possess a memory. And even then, that memory is changed and erased by the future which remembers us in their own individual experiences. “There is not a single thing on earth that oblivion does not erase or memory change, and when no one knows into what images he himself will be transmuted by the future.”
by
memory agitates into vision media res: the precise moment of peak self-revulsion, the inaction, the cowardice, the lie inherent in regret— when nothing more could have been done, nor anything now retroactively applied which can act as balm to the shame carried for decades through the day in those quiet moments on the way to work, waiting for the light to turn green, or some phrase, or song on the radio which tumbles memory’s cascade through the spongey canyons to again reconfigure itself into this contiguous present as some other story without static cause
(December 25, 2025)
by
There is a difference he implied
between what you do— (write
your poems), and this book—
which had been published
and which he now held out
(like a capitalist Eucharist)
before him as empirical evidence
of his claim’s veracity; the attention
toward profundity, cannot simply be.
Cannot simply happen. As if
there were no luminescence
inherent in the creative act,
no value to the happenstance.
Yet it does happen,
as we happen. The ineffable silence
fills in what cannot be said—
no matter the credentials, or what
god waits to make the first move.
The writing, the process, the evolution
of the text opens the word into light,
and power, and even glory
as has been done forever and ever.
(December 23, 2025)
I guess I am just a cold hearted humbug. I finished reading Brightly Shining by Ingvild Rishoi over the last couple of days, and found it to be a sad little retelling of the Matchstick Girl. I went to the internets to see if what I saw was not just my bitter heart. Most of others opinions loved the book for its Charles Dickins-like Christmas sadness. It just seemed all so predictable and pat. One reviewer compared it to Barbara Kingsolver’s reworking of David Copperfield in her Demon Copperhead…but I don’t think Brightly Shining holds up to that comparison. There is just not that much there. It is just a sad story about two young girls who have to deal with an alcoholic father during the run up to Christmas. I have to admit when I first picked up the book for RFB (my book group) I though it looked like a Hallmark Christmas Rom-Com. In its favor it wasn’t that, instead it was a sad tale about being poor and caught up in troubles larger than a child can handle. I’m sure it makes many shed a tear or two. But not me.
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