by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I worry too much,
or not enough,
yet do nothing.
Here at home
cats curl
in our laps;
when friends visit,
the table’s full,
laughter and wine
flow unabated.
Far away
along the edges,
below the ice,
cracks appear;
and, the ground shifts
beneath us.
(March 7, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I return again
and again to
gain small bits
of what she offers.
Often drunk
at her table,
I feed on
her infinite root.
Even as I am
changed, Poetry
absorbs the earth
and all upon it.
What part I am,
what part I have
become, rises
into her dance.
(March 6, 2019)
Oblivious, he scurries about
without guilt. A paper mask’s
enough to escort him through
this play. By default, self-deceit’s
a natural innocence.
(March 4, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
As any day, the cicada
sheds its skeleton
then sings once more
into the summer heat.
Each moment returns
to extract hope
from the smallest egg.
I find myself,
yet again,
at a beginning.
(March 1, 2019)
by
Slowly stirring
the cold ash,
he sifted her words
from a memory
which had drifted
softly into air,
like smoke.
Vaguely,
she danced
away in silence.
His words slurred
into darkness:
his story was
not her story.
(February 28, 2019)
by
E
“The unexamined life is not worth living”–Socrates
What’s wrong with being
happy? Oblivious,
stumbling along, content
with the morning sun
parsing the petals
of the rose’s first bud?
Under the instant and
insistent barrage
of doubt, the examined
life is not necessarily
worth living. Living
is worth living. Implicit,
joy radiates, each moment
transcendent, without
need to justify within
mocking parenthesis.
(February 26, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progressS
I sat still in the dark
on the bank of the river.
The river was rising, so I moved
to higher ground. I could not
stop the river, nor hasten
the oncoming day. Sometimes
to do nothing is resistance.
(February 26, 2019)
by
Dim light crept like rust
across the leaf’s edge water
tensed into a fall
(February 22, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
To pitch lit matches
at gasoline is not the way
to shine a light
on small irritants.
Yet, I have my tinderbox
ready to strike,
my clothes are soaked to skin,
waiting to burn.
(February 21,2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
My voice is not
enough to speak.
(February 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
I observe myself
to obscure
myself. Too
many explanations
destroy the art.
Platitudes, as these
and this, are
easy to impose—
my reader,
my brother,
myself. Notice
the time, yet
be honest
in yourself,
without becoming
the lie as well.
(February 29, 2019)
by
from “Renditions of Change” a work in progress
Hope flourishes
as spring buds appear;
My students grow anxious
as graduation approaches.
(February 20, 2019)
L
The beginning squeezes back
like a hermit crab retreats
deeper into its ever-tightening
shell. This moment opens
into and closes off the last
and next, as we each pretend
we are a cumulative consequence.
God, if extant, does not care
about time and its causes, the click
and clack of the marble rolling
through preordained mechanics,
nor the butterfly landing on her hand.
I fear pat endings’ homilies,
as if someone turns off the lights.
(February 15, 2019)
Last year on Valentine’s day, my students were working on three of the stories which are alluded to in T. S. Eliot’s the Wasteland. On the way home that day, I listened to NPR’s reporting of the shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, where seventeen people were killed, and another seventeen injured. Since the Columbine High School, Every time there is another school shooting, I think about the students I teach everyday: the joy, trust, hope, and curiosity they bring with them into the world. As news of another killing happens, I cannot avoid thinking about them bleeding out on the floor of my classroom. I am horrified at the “solutions” offered by our political leaders: arm the teachers, “harden” the schools, conduct live shooter drills as casually as fire drills. Last year, I responded personally, the way I respond to most of what troubles me by writing into the horror. A few weeks later Shantih Journal ( https://shantihjournal.org/issue-2-2/) put out a call for writing about social justice after the March for Our Lives protest in Washington. I sent them the poem I wrote the day of the shootings, which they graciously published. I would like to think that there has been a change in people’s political will to do something that will end the slaughter of our children, but I fear we are too mired in sclerotic thinking to change. Here is the poem I wrote:
Today’s Lesson
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins”
–T. S. Eliot
my students work over the abstract
idea of redemption in three stories
as a preparation for the wasteland
which we will read for the next class
one thousand miles away students
hide as their classmates are killed
and we are told there is nothing
nothing we can do except pray
prayers are useless balms for the dead
and pale recompense for the living
who must clean blood from the walls
and mix memory into the earth
devoid of hope near an open door
we are in a hell we have created
(February 14, 2018)
subtext 