The days go by unnoticed:
wake, feed the dog, make coffee,
drive to work, move the kids
through some bit of literacy,
drive home, cook dinner, eat,
read, watch TV, then sleep
restlessly through the night.
Then suddenly I find I am old,
not that I’m surprised;
it’s been happening for years.
(April 25, 2022)
by
four haiku with a tanka couplet
Old rock and country
play on the jukebox inside.
Song blends into song.
Men slouch at the bar,
vaguely watching the Astros.
Once, they were children.
The volleyball teams
serve, set, and sweat in the sun.
We watch from the shade.
Beneath the old oak,
I talk with friends over beer:
“Life is but a dream.”
The afternoon drifts like clouds;
seasons fold into seasons.
(April 24, 2022)
As if in a Renoir painting,
shadow and light pulse against
each other across the tables.
Beneath the infinite hush
of traffic, people quietly talk.
The worries of the day loosen
and fall away unnoticed.
Waitresses move like dancers
under the oak’s dark branches.
(April 23, 2022)
by
A blood-red thread extends
into the dark. I’m lost
and cannot see the walls
until I walk into them.
I am cold and hungry,
but cannot eat my dreams.
I must lose my sight
before I can escape.
Here is the problem:
I have so much to say,
but desire’s not enough.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Each moment’s ripe with terror;
a bull bellows in the dark.
(April 22,2022)
by
Next to the whorehouse
is a bar. How many desires
drown within another?
the sky grows dark in the rain;
I straighten my hat afraid
I will be misunderstood.
Somewhere in the distance
a monk sings without remorse
about the end of love.
Nowhere exists a river
deep enough to wash away
what I must now give up.
In fire passion’s refined;
a body does not leave a mind.
(April 21, 2022)
by
between regret and worry
the delusion is infinite
we spin centuries
in love
in tears
we try not to judge
to not say right
to not say wrong
to find a still point
in the flickering moment
to see the flower
in silence
smile
and shatter the mirror
forever
(April 20, 2022)
by
As I cut onions for dinner,
I listen to Lisa complain
about a fellow teacher
who loves drama more
than teaching. I wonder
why we make things
so complicated. I stop
chopping, and listen
to the stereo where
Allison Krause sings
of love and heartbreak.
(April 19, 2022)
by
I am a skeleton wrapped
in failing flesh; I wheeze
and my skin bursts open.
I dreamed I was some
other, then woke to see
it was true. Heaven
is too far way to lean
against. I am no sword.
Even upon reflection,
no such fame awaits me:
too many complications
settle to the ground like dust.
(April 18, 2022)
by
four haiku with a tanka couplet
The moon in the trees
tangles between the branches
and the budding leaves.
Last night a small owl
hooted in the chinquapin
to the dogs chagrin.
A hummingbird sits
at the top of the burr oak;
the breeze barely breathes.
The brief Texas spring
moves quickly into summer.
Heat holds the air still.
The dogs lounge beneath the trees;
a squirrel fusses from the fence.
(April 17, 2022)
“One must cultivate one’s own garden.”
—Voltaire
Scootching along on my butt
as I weed the large bed out back,
I hear my mom, dead now
these past fifteen years,
as she sat near her flower beds
pulling weeds. She complained
how she wasn’t as young as she
was anymore. I laugh to myself,
because neither am I anymore
as I pull my weeds forty years later.
(April 16, 2022)
by
“the descent beckons”
——- William Carlos Williams
Despite, or maybe because of,
my meds, I can feel the fall
as it begins. A slow drift
like a leaf, or dandelion,
it lifts for a moment, twirls,
then stumbles, and falls again
into a dark silent lake without
a ripple to disturb the surface.
There is little to do, but wait.
Wait without despair,
for despair is a weight which
drags one deeper into the dark.
So, I wait for a new light to break
across a horizon I cannot see.
by
to kill
without love
without hate
(the mother,
the father,
the monk,
the god,
the city)
is to burn
(nowhere, and
everywhere) and
then be free:
one’s mouth filled
with bloodied words
(April 14, 2022)
The moon behind the pines
through this window
nestles my pillow.
I still plant trees, knowing
I will not see my grandsons
reading beneath the branches.
A mist rises from the creek,
its soft motion mocks
my idle dreams.
I stare out the window,
until I am startled
by the cat, vomiting.
(April 13, 2022)
by
The students used to be enough
of a balm—
their curiosity, their light.
Today the ephemera wears me:
the pointless testing,
the political demagoguery.
It becomes harder to ignore
the razor thin insults,
the slow bleed.
This should be the end—
yet inertia pushes me,
slouching towards another year.
(April 12, 2022)
I feel my life tonight—
the weight, the textures.
There is no wisdom to create
an escape, no simple design
to relieve the recurrent terror.
Outside the wind grabs the trees
by the hair tossing them about
in an ecstatic frenzy.
I step into the growing night
and listen to the trees whip
the pale sky into the dark.
What control I thought I had
flees from me, abandoning
the promise of the light to come.
(April 11, 2022)
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