by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
At nine I wrote a poem
to a girl in my class — a love poem.
Today fifty years later,
I still write poetry.
Like a small bird flits
between branches, poetry
and love intertwine through
my life giving shape and succor
to even the quietest moment.
(June 30, 2019)
by
Blood spatter slurs
on wet tile:
rorschach blots
without interpretations
(June 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
somewhere, nearby
vague, yet pervasive,
like these whispers
which define all
as some other than me,
some other voice–
always here
not just an echo
of myself
(June 24, 2019)
by
A room carved
into his heart–
no door,
but a room
without a candle.
His heart
a hollow room
without a candle.
He desired a candle,
to watch it burn,
but there was no match,
or he would burn,
the world would burn,
the house would burn
into ash,
into ash,
into ash:
ash
and wind.
(June 20, 2019)
A scintillant dust
shallows his breath;
memory hovers above
them both, a ghost-
vague, yet resonant,
like tattered filament,
shrouds, or tendons
lifted slowly from bone.
Even shaped to reform,
nascent affirmation’s
echoes are just
echoes blurring whispers
into silence, like wisps
adrift between gravestones.
(June 20, 2019)
by
Not the one, or the one,
but one:
Humility
strikes down
even gods.
I am who I am,
but without
the silence to kill.
I forgive us both
the slippery hope we shared.
Together we were more
than one discordant circle.
Wrapped in dry mouth’s
slow-tongued kiss,
we blurred beneath
late autumnal leaves.
(June 16, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Random borders set blurred forms
to contain apportioned bits
of chaos. He accepts these
chains, like religion, to free
himself from the infinite.
(June 10, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Without god to save us,
a breeze slips through
the sycamore’s leaves
slightly sifting the heat away
from the shade beneath.
We must find ourselves
within ourselves, or perish.
Light dapples the grass between us
like butterflies over flowers.
(June 7, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
In various taverns
around town,
we have spoken tegether
for years, gathering strength
from our gentle laughter
over beer, books, and beatitudes.
Each of us offers what we can,
then part renewed.
(June 6, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
To be there. To bear witness:
one tells one’s story— That’s all!
That is how evil falls— Again
and again— tell one’s story.
(June 5, 2019)
by
He wanders
from wall to wall,
turning tightly
at all the corners.
There are no doors,
nor windows,
only walls;
no light
outside his dark.
(June 4, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
At home, I cannot move on.
I have few friends here,
but I am content:
I am myself with myself.
Each day, I wander alone
through a foreign land,
where I have no tongue:
no tumblers click
within their conversations,
no prison bolts drop
within their conventions.
(May 31, 2019)
by
Go down the occasions:
the tally marks of days,
weeks, months, years
ago when something
was said, or not
said, or done, or
not done– enough!
What happens when one
no longer has anything
to say; when language
has outstripped
one’s desire to speak?
I’m at an impasse
and fear my words.
(May 31, 2019)
each day I revise
and renew the dream
if not into now then
some other when
where I want to be
becomes possible
for the moment
in which I’m in
dream dreams
dreams too until
all the seams
between seem as
if some other were
only what is here
(May 30, 2019)
He spits bits
of fat and flesh
into the fire–
to conspire,
with a smile,
something for you,
something askew:
a new line,
a new charm,
or warning hiss;
some new distress,
some fatal harm,
like twined snakes
upon a cross.
(May 27, 2019)
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