Monthly Archives: January 2023

Kafka

All the vile things coalesce,
segmented and fitted together.
limbs – sprawled asunder,
clawing at a sky hidden
behind walls of wood and brick
the screaming bound by form
hssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ing until the mouth parts hurt,
the way the palm does-
one hand clapping;
not enough for an applause,
but enough to reprimand.

The back is not for laying anymore
one can only relax on all limbs;
on hands, legs and whatever are these.
The supine is panic and helplessness;
something the mind condemns vehemently.

From somewhere in the recesses
muffled by doors, walls, genetics;
a voice calls out to me-
Am I well?
Am I aware of the time?
Am I clothed?

Stabbing at the ceiling in six different places
in a posture that feels like death I
hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
back.
No tears will come.

I begin

I fail when I begin;
where others succeed,
I end
and the will to accomplish
can not survive this struggle.
Where others fail,
I can not,
and when I accomplish this end
the struggle to survive will succeed.
I begin
to accomplish, not survive.
Succeed where others will struggle,
and when this I fail,
the end, I can begin.
This struggle,
can not survive to the end,
and where I fail,
I will begin.
I succeed when others accomplish.
I will not fail;
the struggle can end
where I and others succeed,
to accomplish this,
survive when I begin.

Safe

The ebb and flow can tossel the soul,
leave it stranded or dragged against the seafloor.
The wax and wane can define us in shades,
illuminate our faults or hide our virtues in shadow.

The peaks and valleys can break our spirits,
emptying our lungs or swallowing our perspectives.
the coming and going can be more than the destination,
overwhelming anticipation or uncomfortable obligation.

The systole and diastole can lead us to violence,
feeding the red rage or draining from us our essence.

Peace is only in absence,
the place that can only not;
where no harm can consume you,
no fortune deceive.

Anticlimactic

There was not much to contemplate
he began to ruminate,
here at the end of his life.

He had thought these last moments
would be grasping at threads;
his mind, desperate to live on,
flooding him with thoughts,
that must be thought
before the final curtain drops.

And yet his mind was blank,
left only to think
about the irony
of that blankness
filling itself with self-awareness.

A Life Well Lived

The sunrise shattered by morning dew;
a carnival of colors dancing excitedly,
while its warmth wraps around –
like tetherball with no opponents.

The way rain feels in summer heat,
that comforting coolness, relief;
as a letter from a dormant friend
written in broken cursive.

The joy of fresh vegetables harvested,
from seeds sown of your own hand.
That long wait, the effort, vindicated
by a nourishing meal and a full stomach.

You are all these things to me,
you are indescribably more.
With exuberance, peace and pride,
a life is well lived when at your side.

Nova

Those eyes so oft transfixed
by only things they lorded over
would but on occasion dane
to dine on the extravagance above;
a passing glance at the moon,
a brief aside with the procession of stars,
the fascinating contemplations of ephemeral comets,
or the longing gaze into the darkness of an eclipse.

Long ago we could not afford this appreciation.
The stars were savage campfires,
the moon a wrathful god.
Comets would herald the end of man,
and an eclipse would end all else.
We could do no more than look away and feel safe
or look on in horror of what future we baited.

Stronger minds however were not sated,
and shackled those monsters to reality,
tearing them from the bosom of imagination,
so the world above could be a safer space to ruminate;
as long as we could make sense of the light and dark,
and still find comfort in the ground.

It was good,
until the darkness was swept away,
and all that is was light, be it day or night.
The sky, no more a blanket
but a bright bag zipped up tight
while we fought against it,
none of us ready to die.

Leaning in the Corner at a Dance Recital

I’m not sure now why it didn’t break,
beneath the days – turned years – turned decades,
beneath three children, four grandkids,
beneath a 50 year marriage that almost ended twice,
beneath two tours in foreign nations,
beneath coffins filled with pieces of his heart,
peppered here and there while he lived on.

Beneath countless bouts with viruses,
an embarrassing number of hangovers,
and one exchange with polio.
Beneath all the nameless failures;
the guilt, regrets and losses.
Beneath all the great successes;
the pride and the accomplishments.

Beneath every memory whether faded or strong,
it held…
he leaned on his cane to watch another memory made
                                                                  …it did not break;
and for a moment he even looked rested.

Anthem

“Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring.”

  • Leonard Cohen, Anthem

Old machinery languishing about,
ceaselessly producing;
billowing useless dark clouds,
sacrificed by the workings inside.
Picture gears and sprockets,
conveyer belts and boxes,
a labyrinth of pipes;
each with gauges no one reads.
Just a wealth of confidence inside
every heart, every heart.

Though – no one goes there.
Not a soul in, nor a soul out.
All the roads bound around that place
lead only anywhere else
and even so, there are no grounds
on which to drive up, stop and contemplate.
Just a large barbed fence
to keep the curious out.
But always, the aesthetic eye
to love will come.

For it is at once the landscape
and that which defines the horizon,
reaching out for the cosmos
as Tantalus for the peach;
confined in a prison of industry
crying out black sooted protests.
Giving back nothing aside what the eye can see
observed from the periphery.
It will find empathy,
but like a refugee.

None know its architect,
nor will any pursue such details.
Those secrets will die in the warm steel nails
that first hammered in all those walls;
in the mortar that bound the brick to silence.
It is known only that it exists,
the eternal workings always singing
yet growing quieter each year;
While I return its gaze and insist,
ring the bells that still can ring.

Abracadabra

Let me be a magicians hat,
where a white gloved hand enters
but never comes back;
the rabbit inside, dressed
skinned and limp to the touch,
revealed in shades of violence
that would cause a rose to blush.

The future I am, destroying him completely;
dismantling rationality,
sending that bloodied hand back in –
desperately.
Grasping at anything;
a string of flags in procession endlessly,
uncomfortably damp,
or a bundle of flowers
covered in what should have been rabbit.

No matter what he pulls out
the audience can give only horror
while I, the hat, tossed aside;
the only magic inside unwelcome,
broken and exhausted
from years of giving more than expected.

The crowd will stand,
slowly at first –
but quickly growing to a tidal force,
crashing against the exits
while this magicians hat rocks back and forth
mouth agape, unaware of what goodness is.

Let me be a magicians hat
perform this last trick and find peace.

Sunny Skies

The sky burns
while my broken parts yearn
for a downpour I’ve earned
and continue to earn, again and again.

The seasons move to music
that my ears refuse to hear
open only, expectantly, for the sound
of that great rain coming down.

The sky burns
while my broken heart yearns
mangled in ways difficult to discern.
The pieces that would not – should not fit
forced into compliance.

I need the sky to break as have I
to shatter
crashing down upon the space I occupy
until all the pleasantness is nullified
and I again can feel at home;

That place beneath the rain
where broken things are fed to grow.