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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
  • About

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  • Dad at Work Repairing Antique Furniture

    by

    art, creativity, meditation, paradigms, patterns, poetry, process, sonnets, syllabics

    There was always a way; a way he knew

    to map an idea out of the landscape

    lying before him like an unfinished 

    puzzle; some way to reshape creation

    with a simple jig. His mind danced about

    the problem, as he rose and sat, sat and 

    rose to walk across the yard cursing his 

    thoughts for not seeing it: so simple, so

    obvious. He’d lumber back to the bench,

    pick up the pieces of wood and begin

    to cast the abstract into the concrete.

    Beneath his broken hands, he would divine 

    a new pattern from the pattern inscribed 

    in the broken palimpsest of the wood.

    (September 26, 2021)

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  • Happiness

    by

    aging, broken, patterns, poetry

    Happiness

    —after Jim Harrison

    The wine and whiskey, I am certain,

    do not compliment the anti-depressants,

    as well as I wish they would; yet, “all this time

    counting the mind, counting crows”—

    I pour a new glass with a touch of ice

    to begin this conversation:

    Hell has come to us as a heaven

    we will never know, like Sappho’s apple

    dangling slightly beyond our fingers

    which grasp only at still air.

    Where do we go when things fall apart?


    In 1978, Buddha’s birthday

    was three days after my eighteenth.

    I was a crumpled bag of emotion:

    my father had died two months earlier;

    I was in love (and still am) with the girl

    I would marry. I moved, two months later, 

    125 miles to the north, leaving my hometown 

    forever, yet still trailing all my doubts and fears

    behind like crows along a fence line

    who caw and flutter, marking

    their constant presence with darker eyes.


    We think we can escape ourselves,

    ignoring the crows flying in and out

    between the twisted oaks nearby.

    We flee burning madly as we go;

    yet, we can only be ourselves,

    and, most days, that is not enough

    to keep our fears balanced tightly

    like circus clowns spinning plates

    atop long fragile poles through the night.

    (September 15, 2021)

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  • Worry

    by

    aging, existential angst, haiku, middle-age, poetry, sleepless, tension, traces, worry

    the darkness festers

    into the night, then lingers

    through the waking day.

    (September 12, 2021)

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  • So Afraid, Always Afraid

    by

    aging, broken, end, fear, poetry, worn

    “but in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself”

    —Albert Camus


    Any tremble

    through the trees

    contrary

    to the first

    wind, the

    next wind,

    or no wind:


    always afraid,

    so afraid

    to simply be,

    with no

    definition,

    with no

    place to go,


    no

    walls left to build,

    no excuse

    left to believe,

    no end;

    then again,

    no end.

    (September 12, 2021)

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  • Confessional

    by

    borders, change, communication, courage, despair, inner speech, meditation, poetry

    “what I lack is myself”

    —Susan Howe

    The door’s full like words

    in an open mouth,

    blotting out the space

    it opened onto.


    An entrance becomes a wall,

    an allowed space disallowed,

    as keys and locks

    become ritual.


    Such small sacrifice

    the tongue becomes,

    burning clear

    any lost syllables.


    Nothing’s left to say;

    everything’s unsaid.

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  • Negation

    by

    aging, broken, chance, change, despair, frustration, lament, poetry

    I’m lucky not to drown,

    second by second, as I 

    walk down the street—

    what with all the lies

    and recriminations

    I mouth, then swallow,

    like a gluttonous beast

    devouring itself wholly.

    Perhaps it’s fate not luck

    which keeps me afloat? But that

    requires some god to blame,

    and explain the curses directed

    daily over rosary beads, like 

    mendicants to a self long lost.

    (September 5, 2021)

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  • Map a Return Into the Ocean’s Lost Metaphor

    by

    abstract, aging, broken, chance, change, definition, identity formation, poetry, sentence, surreal, surrealism, time, worn

    There is no causality, no maze

    to transcribe into memory,

    simply a chance to breathe

    near the bottom of the stairs;

    and, like a mouth singing 

    arias, I crack open the bones

    in my chest to find a way

    into the warm flesh, to dip

    my worn fingers slowly in,

    to feel the heart’s contours

    define the next last moment,

    to map another return into 

    the ocean’s lost metaphor.

    (August 25, 2021)

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  • Teaching in a Time of Covid

    by

    anger, covid19, education, fear, pandemic, teaching, work

    Tomorrow I go back on contract for my 33rd year of teaching. Last year was one of the worst years because of distance learning and the lack of contact with my students. The Students are always the best part of teaching, and for the last eight years (starting my 9th) at Ann Richards, I have had the best students ever, every year. Last year it was important that we teach remotely. The students, their families, my fellow teachers, my family and friends were at risk to this horrible deadly disease. We stayed at home and did what we could through a screen full of little boxes, because we had to. This year there is a more deadly, more virulent version of the same disease, and even with the vaccine, which a too large group of people refuse to take, and with no vaccine for the under 12 group…. which means ELEMENTARY CHILDREN….. It is more dangerous than ever to go back. Yet, here we are.. going back into the classroom. Cases are already being reported at my school, and the district where my wife teaches, and across Travis county.  I fear for what will happen over the next few weeks and months, as we go full bore back into the schools.I fear for my students.  I fear for my grandchild who is starting in a pre-k program. I fear for my family. And all of this is not necessary, we could stay remote. At the very least the elementary schools should stay remote, until the under 12 children can be vaccinated. I don’t understand what is the end game of the politicians like the Texas Governor, who seem to want children to die. What is the benefit to them? I want to believe in a hell, so the people who are forcing this to happen have some place to go.

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  • Always a Model Nearby

    by

    aging, difference, irony, meditation, poetry, tired, worn

    “Props and other disinherited

    paraphernalia are never enough.”

    —Susan Howe

    My hands cradle my face,

    covering my dead eyes. 

    Worn thin like ragged cloth,

    I am tired of my life:

    Before sunrise I wake,

    slowly move down the stairs,

    and start again. Morning 

    rituals of coffee

    keep the old dramas near,

    private. I want to wail,

    long howls into the dark.

    Instead, I feed the dog,

    whose tail wags happily

    as she eats her kibble.

    (August 9, 2021)

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  • Campfire Story

    by

    change, control, critical theory, poetry, process, social construction, storytelling

    A nostalgic old man,

    whose whispers adhere

    to the flames’ tongue,

    tells his one story again.


    You are charmed.

    So the chains slip

    into your veins,

    your heart, your lungs.


    The air thickens your breath,

    until every song you hear

    is the only song you hear,

    then you can no longer dance.


    And the fire burns down,

    for nothing’s left to say.

    (August 6, 2021)

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  • After Image

    by

    broken, change, doubt, existential angst, poetry, sentence, tired, worn

    With disdain,

    he turns

    from the mirror,

    leaving

    himself

    behind

    like a cicada’s husk

    caught

    on a tree’s bark.

    (July 29, 2021)

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  • The Fire Consumes Us All

    by

    critical theory, difference, life, meditation, paradigms, poetry, sonnets, writing

    Yes, poetry burns in feral anger—

    a knife flash fast at the shadowed church door

    cuts through a dank cassock’s folded black cloth,

    twisting quickly below the priest’s fat rib.

    Yet, the mundane’s slow-etched eddy of truth

    leaves its testament in the margins

    of the more violent rush and tumble

    relevance churning in the crowed streets.

    My life is easily enough dismissed

    with the trivialities of the day

    dropping their dead petals across my path

    like roses in ecstatic agony.


    Yes, poetry burns in feral anger—

    and burns and burns throughout the dullest day.

    (July 26, 2021)

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  • Night Terror (a reading)

    by

    borders, breach, broken, dream, fear, liminal, poetry, poetry reading, response, sleepless, video

    Night Terror

    “When are we not in a dream?

    …when are we not skeletons?”

    —Sy. Hoahwah

    I don’t remember 

    the dream before,

    I cracked my head hard

    against the wooden night stand;  

    the fine grained ephemera, 

    which held the dream together, 

    burned like flash paper into the air.

    A lightning ball exploded 

    my darker vision, as the dream,

    too agile to cradle, threw me 

    deftly from sleep onto the floor.

    Not existing fully in the fluidity

    of sleep, nor the concrete warmth

    of the morning window’s light,

    I held my head in my hands,

    eyes shut, as the lightning flash

    faded, leaving only the muscles

    in my neck to burn like trees

    broken during the night’s storm.

    (July 16, 2021)

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  • Metaphor’s Comfort

    by

    borders, Language and Literacy, life, liminal, lit theory, poetics, poetry, social construction, storytelling, ways of knowing

    Flying free

    through the blind night,

    bats,

    with their high lyric cries,

    justify

    the walls around them.


    (July 19, 2021)

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  • No One Sees Us as We Are

    by

    poetry

    She said

    I can’t imagine you young

    in school

    a time when you didn’t know

    everything—

    *

    I know less and less each year

    he thought

    so much confidence and verve

    years ago

    now only anxiety and doubt

    (December 18, 2019)

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