by
a turn away
from pursuit
from a life
from himself
an escape
from others
from definition
from self-immolation
a denial
of projection
of supposition
of expectation
a purge
of arrogance
of shame
of the soul’s anger
a belief
in the present
in hope
in simplicity
a meaning
in the chaos
in the day
in himself
a direction
toward difference
toward laughter
toward each other
a movement
toward trust
toward friends
toward love
(December 9, 2025)
by
a soft drought-ending rain
falls overnight
and into the morning
one lives
within the moment
only
when one understands
there is nothing
to stand under
and lets the rain
without metaphor
wash over you
(December 8, 2025)
by
then there are the dreams
you do remember
not just wisps
which vanish forgotten
at fingertips’ ends
but the ones that cling
their razor tipped claws
toying with your heart
late into the afternoon
at the end of winter
(December 6, 2025)
another bleak day
what autumn color there was
has returned to brown
(December 2, 2025)
by
No blood splatted rubble
no violent clashes
between blind love’s
engendered hatreds
no screams
nor whimpers
of the dying next door—
only a silent room
is left to clarify
another day’s first light
as it expands
through an open window
(December 1, 2025)
Today as I do most days
for the last fifty years,
I write the life
I have left to me.
Most days I have little
to say of consequence;
yet, I continue
to rattle along
with a naive trust
tomorrow will arrive
trembling with nascent rage.
(November 28, 2025)
by
I suppose I should
be grateful for all
the people and events
of which and of whom
I am usually unaware
who are daily doing
deeds without awareness
of me yet enable me
to go about my life
oblivious and happy
(November 24, 2025)
“The heart lies to itself because it must”
—Jack Gilbert
What fragments have been lost
along the way? What holes filled
with other’s dry detritus?
other’s bland conjectures? These limits
become, over time, tattered as well—
perhaps more comfortable and loose,
easier to disguise time’s misgivings;
easier than telling the truth.
(November 21, 2025)
by
My father’s ghost has returned
to haunt me after decades
of silence. I only knew
his decline; now, I’m learning
my own, a slow remembrance.
I’m no Hamlet; to avenge
his death, I would kill myself,
there would not be a question.
Telling that story once more,
I am what remains of him.
At night looking for water,
not as broken as he was,
I see him in the mirror,
frowning at me from the side.
My body reflects his own.
My mom used him as a threat
even after he was gone:
If you could be half the man
he was…if he could see you…
what do you think he would say?
She has been gone for years now,
while he hangs on the edges
darkly brooding as in life,
a storm always eminent,
on the verge of violence.
I saw my future at eight,
and a clearer past today:
his presence was an absence
always nearby, yet distant
like a shadow on water.
(November 16, 2025)
Silence is silent.
Except it is not,
just ask John Cage.
He’ll look at you
for four minutes
and 33 seconds.
In Vermont
I met a man
from Boston.
He could not sleep;
the forest was loud
compared to the city.
In zen, the goal
is to still the mind
into silence:
to be aware
to such an extent
to become extant.
In an anechoic
chamber, one hears
one’s bones,
and the thrum
of one’s blood
beneath the skin.
(November 14, 2025)
by
The wind gusts in bursts
rushing leaves down the street
in a spasm of seasonal ritual,
as if a pattern’s repetition
creates a meaning separate
from our own simple noticing.
I have a hard time hearing
these voices of the world
through the constant clatter,
through the daily dazzle
and flash of the spectacle
playing in the wind’s
petulant laughter.
My screams are too loud.
To maintain my illusion
of safety, of purpose,
I whisper stories to myself.
I know stories are stories
and how they move through
each other like incestuous ghosts,
or confluent rivers, shaping
one another as they change.
I know change is incremental,
so I listen closely to my heart.
I notice a difference, but
am unsure what is different—
my notice, or the angle
of the wind through the trees.
(November 13, 2025)
by
and soon enough
your last tomorrow
will arrive
you will ask after
the time, then shrug,
“that can’t be right”
but it is
and it has
and you’re not
(November 7, 2025)
these wounds will not heal into darker scars
these words will not heal into darker scars
they will burn forever on tongues of flame
they will burn on lecherous tongues of flame
what slow darkness grows in from the edges
what slow darkness reaches in from the edge
there is nowhere to go but further in
there is nowhere left except what is here
caught in this spiral as vast as the sea
the words shift along incomplete circles
what songs can be heard in this vast darkness
what old music must play against the night
unformed patterns shatter into fragments
like laughter breaking across an old fear
(November 4, 2025)
I finished There are Rivers in the Sky a couple of days ago. Usually I try to respond as soon as I finish a book, but this time it had to ferment a bit before I could respond. Not that the couple of days more has made it more clear what I am thinking. We read one of her books, 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World, for RFB last year. I really liked it, so I looked forward to reading Rivers in the Sky. Like 10 Minutes, Rivers is built around multiple story lines which by the end of the novel converge nicely without sounding forced. Both books stress the importance of community, 10 Minutes on a small group of divergent friends, whereas Rivers weaves a broader tapestry across centuries if not millennia. The connecting thread across time is the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, the earliest written piece of world literature arising from the earliest civilization. Which of course, is significant to the novel as a whole. One of the story lines is set in Victorian England (the height of the English Empire), when England is pillaging the past Empires of relics and putting them on display in the British Museum. One of the relics they find is the before unknown Epic of Gilgamesh. It is found in fragments, over time, mainly in the abandoned ruins of the once great city of Nineveh. Another story line involves a small group of people, descended from the Sumerians, considered to be devil worshippers by the dominant religious groups. While the third story line, also descendants from the region of Mesopotamia, Iraq, who have immigrated to contemporary England. Through all three threads, the importance of story, the written word, tradition, and change flow like the rivers,(The Thames and Tigris), which dominate the imagery in the novel. The pollution, re-birth(in the case of the Thames), the destructive and nurturing aspects of the rivers and water in general are constantly in play. Overall it was an enjoyable experience.
One quote out of dozens I underlined: “Hatred is a poison in three cups. The first is when people despise those they desire—because they want to have them in their possession. It’s all out of hubris! The second is when people loathe those they do not understand. It’s all out of fear! Then there is the third kind—when people hate those they have hurt”
The ghosts have returned.
Along an edge, they tremble
into view, then vanish,
if I turn to look.
It is best I ignore them,
as they roll and tumble
near my hesitant feet.
I fear to step on them.
They are soft like kittens,
but with longer memory,
and a sharper clarity.
Details bend, slowly feel
their way, to insert tendrils
along darker fissures
to occupy spaces reserved
for conflicts of the present,
but now quiver gently
with decades of regret.
(October 30, 2025)
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