Hubris hangs thick
like funerary flowers,
redolent in disregard.
Like burnt yarrow stalks,
the dead know us
for what we are:
inches from the earth,
we gnaw on fear,
only to drown in dust.
(May 1, 2019)
-
idealistic pronouncement
truth is without trust
it speaks without proof
is known without belief
it harbors no amity
towards any who hear
nor makes promises to keep
one does not play safe
with what truth offers
for each day is at risk
each moment opens anew
toward a hope unfolding
into some better world
my truth I trust
my ideal and my damnation
(June 26, 2013) -
Coming to Meet
by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
It’s always so simple to trust
an Iago’s words to lift
a bland darkness over
the light like a veil
to hide a leper’s face:
I allow myself to degrade
myself, ignoring my better
angels as if they exist
only as shallow hubris.
(April 26, 2019)
-
accents shift
from one neighborhood
to the next — one town
over– no more sounds
like yours or your friends
at the corner pub
where even the odd
and unloved fit warmly
at a table in the dark
where the fog follows you
home into a darker wood
until your voice tangles
among incestuous roots
and a knife draws
a line along your throat
at the possibility
of a misunderstanding
(April 22, 2019)
-
Coupled
At home, they sit across from each other
like a pair of stone-silent gargoyles, when
he sighs to himself as if with remorse.
Looking up, she asks, out of politeness,
“Is something wrong?” He shakes his head, and says,
embarrassed that he had spoken out loud,
“Oh, Nothing, just thinking, at least nothing
important enough to say: just thinking.”
They watch each other with a quiet calm
like the still center of a raging storm;
each happy enough at home not to stir
up any conversations to avoid.
Slowly, they fall into their silences,
starkly alone with their thoughts together.
(April 18, 2019)
-
Motion
by
one stands always at a beginning
a new door opens to a passage
which leads to another door
which opens wherever you are
there are no keys no locks no doors
only you standing within time
in motion without moving
yourself a passage a sluice
through which apparitions slip
taking on your form like robes
then quickly cast away replaced
by yet another without end
each moment embraces death with a kiss
each moment finds your self reborn
(April 16, 2019)
-
Turn
a turn toward the other
whether in body or spirit
a turn toward some other
than myself to complete myself
a turn toward the other
like the horizon turns east
always seeking after light
a newer day to exult in
the earth’s curve the curve
of your breast silhouetted
in dawn’s light slipping
through our bedroom window
I turn to you from the dark
seeking your warmth in turn
(April 15, 2019)
-
Just Another Name for the Devil
Perhaps the thousand-thousand
unpronounceable names for god
wait to burn your tongue,
if, by chance, your babbling
could bring you to the brink
of intelligibility. The thousand
monkey’s theory of Macbeth
could prove true given enough
time. Yet, we’ve been at this
for so long now, one would
assume our relationship
would be stronger somehow,
that I would know your name;
since, I know you know mine.
I’m unsure where you are, or if
you are, or, perhaps, I’m speaking
to myself—all those years gone,
as I puttered randomly about the house,
pulling books off the shelf, reading
a passage, thinking someone nearby
was speaking directly to me, but
only within the context of that moment;
never a sustained conversation,
as between long-time friends.
What can be said, when there’s no one
to hear? If you are not here, then
what consequence can I be, beyond
these words I speak only to myself?
Unless perhaps, what I speak, and to whom,
are enough of a signature, a singularity,
to pronounce, with clarity, if only
for this moment, my name into the dark.
(April 12, 2019)
unpronounceable names for god
wait to burn your tongue,
if by chance your babbling
brings you to the brink
of intelligibility. The thousand
monkey’s theory of Macbeth
could prove true given enough
time. Yet we’ve been at it
for so long now, one would
assume our relationship
would be stronger somehow,
that I would know your name;
since, I know you know me.
I’m unsure where you are, or if
you are, or, perhaps, I’m speaking
to myself—all those years gone,
as I puttered randomly about the house,
pulling books off the shelf, reading
a passage, thinking someone nearby
was speaking directly to me, but
only within the context of that moment.
What can be said, when there’s no one
to hear? If you are not here,
then what consequence can I be, beyond
the words I speak only to myself?
Unless perhaps, what I speak, and to whom,
are enough of a signature, a singularity,
to pronounce, with clarity, if only
for this moment, my name into the dark.
(April 12, 2019)
-
Three Poems from “My Book of Changes”
three poems out of 250 from a series of poems I wrote in the mid 90’s
-
Breakthrough (Resoluteness)
by
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Speaking truth to myself
is difficult—as to power,
just more dangerous: no
compromise with evil,
nor abatement.
(April 10, 2019)
-
Increase
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
It took me more
than a decade:
to realize
my students were smarter
than we let them be;
to stop being
such a martinet
prancing upon a stage;
to listen to their minds
as they translated
their world out of ours;
to finally be silent
and step out of their way.
(April 4, 2019)
-
Without Mirrors
I hold up mirrors
as shields to reflect
what I’m expected
to be: brother,
father, teacher,
lover, friend.
These apparitions
flow through
me like fish
slowly nibble
the bait clean
from the hook.
I’m only myself,
when nothing’s left.
(April 3, 2019)
-
New Normal
Trouble pulses, like cicadas
along oak branches through
summer’s heat: pervasive
and cold. It permeates
my blood like a poison.
I worry the times — for nothing
can be done – How does one
take on more than one self,
yet again? Don a new mask
to project a calm certainty
when fear’s fires rage and burn?
I have no place to stand with
surety. Answers are simple
without people’s constraints:
the constant tug and shift,
like the tight tectonic grind
as ground slips over ground.
(April 2, 2019)
-
Cliff Face
by
Too near-sighted to see
a larger view, he holds
close to the present.
He has no memory
beyond now; but
with tight-curled fingers,
it is edge enough,
if only for a moment,
to hang a life upon.
(March 30, 2019)
-
Decrease
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
The harvest is hauled
to the castle; birds
and peasants glean
the fields for bits
left among the chaff.
It’s all very simple:
one’s heart’s strength
adheres to us all,
and must be endured.
(March 29, 2019)
subtext 