by
to erase presence,
blend into dust
dancing in sunlight;
or, to be aware,
beware, constantly
of the eternal now
is not a choice
between happiness
and a lived life,
nor, life and death
for that matter,
but compromise:
to watch the sunrise,
to see the sunrise,
despite the sunrise.
(October 10, 2019)
by
The cat stalks the bed;
insomnia’s companion.
A mouse hides nearby
(October 10, 2019)
by
Brown tinges on green
grass like light dancing on wind;
I’m no longer young.
(October 9, 2019)
by
The house’s silence
echoes the darkness outside.
A wind chime rings once.
(October 8, 2019)
A dove descended
to peck out my tongue;
I gargled the names of god,
and spit blood flecks,
like splatters of ink,
into my broken hands.
I read without words-
the nuance in gestures,
rippled patterns on a lake.
Oblivious to the obvious
writings on the wall, and
without hope of redemption,
I mouthed my prayers
to any statues I came near.
(October 7, 2019)
by
I read without words
the nuance in a gesture;
her fingers touched mine.
(October 7, 2019)
I made her breakfast:
cheese, bread, and a sliced red pear–
what love can offer.
(October 6, 2019)
by
Again the moon hides,
a sliver slips between the clouds–
I have no intent.
(October 5, 2019)
I don’t want to be
just another Ramone’s song,
nor what I am not.
(October 4, 2019)
by
1.
Another day breaks;
happiness is an old myth.
There is no laughter.
2.
I wake to the dark,
drink black coffee in the dark;
today is a day.
(October 2, 2019)
Since I am
no snake
sloughing skin,
I hide my scars
in an imagined other.
Not the obvious,
oblivious sheep,
but one more wary,
who waits
along the edge
knowing fear,
knowing
like rabbits:
one step left,
one step right,
without calculation,
equals death;
and any
volition ends
with a quick flutter
of feathers,
and the talon’s
sharp pang
lifting one
toward heaven
like a song.
(October 1, 2019)
“same as it ever was”
David Byrne
Less time waits ahead
than has been left behind.
I enter the last third
of my life as if entering
a room in a familiar
house. Lasts will out pace
firsts, until the last breath
sighs into the stale air,
the last heart beat falters
to finish the room’s silence
like the last furtive shadows
flee an early morning sun.
Still, this day is my day,
until it is not, and I move on.
(September 30, 2019)
by
What is here is there
only when it is here now–
the pen on the page
(September 30, 2019)
