I am
soapstone
unbroken
form beneath form
I am not
marble
hard work and precision
thousands of patient chisels
To be sculpted
is an easy thing
with only a little love
and subtle effort
but to be broken is much easier
achieved with the slightest carelessness
and an unyielding intent
An old fisherman casts his line
youthful testaments are biting this day
lost sentiments that keep the years at bay
and soften the pain in his spine,
“soon enough you will all be mine,”
to our detriment this I heard him say
a raspy voice like sediment at play
in the throat where it was conveyed.
He could not see – the hook was lost,
one of weathers mischievous tricks
scattered to the wind like an albatross
the lure now trapped behind a brick
far from the place it had been tossed
this cold weekend when the fog was so thick.
I approached the man from behind
having heard his empty threat to the sea
the absurd claim of dominion irked me,
“Bad luck, your hook is in a bind,”
I said with effort to be kind
though something else was stirred by my decree
as if harsh words instead fought themselves free
attacking the first they could find.
“Fish will bite brick as well as worm
if I’ve learned one thing in my life,”
as if I needed the lesson to learn.
“That must be the source of my strife
I’m sure all these fish I’ve caught can confirm,”
I conceded and returned to my wife.
On the knifes edge of gray
sirens call out through the fog
the sound is everywhere
yet always running away.
A dog barks
an angry snap to it – hunger
the pads of its feet slap
heavy rain against the concrete
if not for the nails scratching with every lift.
The siren is blaring
it drowns out the dog
save for the scratching Thick fog like white darkness
I know not where to run
Only that I must
to life – to death
my footfalls drown in the sound of that distant siren.
Thin words speak lengthy prose in the morning
each thread beset on both sides with lace
woven over of the threshold of this space
between one worlds end and another’s forming
contemplative clouds swollen and storming
one last gasp before they leave this place
with no more than a glimpse of what they face
just a glimpse is enough of a warning
On the other side the land is broken;
split asunder by imaginary lines
and named with words that are more than spoken
rather a label by which people are defined
beware the sleeper who has awoken
the world is a dream corrupt and unrefined.
Be here
be near to now
embrace somehow this time
to find the paradigm abandoned
in the midst of its prime demanded
obey the tao of crime
or here avow
the fear
Find peace
increase intent
don’t be content to dream
fantasies with weak seams will collapse
and just to end the screams we relapse
instead relent the stream
caprice is meant;
Find peace.
Its thick fur haloed by beads of water
the monster stands patient in the river
a nearby lake’s errant playful daughter
filled with light and fish to make it quiver.
The beast stares through the shimmering surface
at silver spears darting this way and that
their panicked movements desperate and nervous
in pursuit of another habitat.
She brings her paw down like catastrophe
the rushing water erupts in violence
and the fish begs the beast for amnesty
but the giant gives only its silence.
The hunger is real and evening is nigh
there are cubs to be fed hiding close by.
Opportunity
often speaks in riddles
an anxious precipice
tumbled stones
climbing wind
a sunlit valley could be a city
a city could be leveled
the years gathering together
to rebuild the valley that was
opportunity
is the vision beyond sight
a world of dreams
expressed in folds
so close to finding
opportunity
will find broken things and fix them
or break the things that are better broken
not resigned to decide
that responsibility rests on you
opportunity
passes quietly like a loved one
not seen in years
love kept safe in the closet
in a box unopened
until they are gone
The lakebed – a mystery beneath me
a raised fist of surface tension
broken by my presence
ready to snap
The bold enfold
Take hold withhold
Those treasures that a younger self might seek
buried beneath what could have been
in the hands of sunk ships
we passed at night
Be slow cargo
forgo below
Destination
tribulation
the boon of the lonely
once found grants us only
abdication
When at last the ship did
blast off
eight souls were sent
away
where they go so to
we go
to those distant stars far
above
on the backs and minds of
the earth
Wait
In shadows
the dark like water
Swimming
Against the current
a weight to the chest holding you
Down
Beneath the rot
where light is afraid to come
Out
Of sight and mind
patiently waiting for the moment
When
Will it end
or should I end it
myself
Grow Gray With Me 