Tag Archives: writing

Tom Waits

The keys greet his fingers like an old dog
and together they make music,
strung along by a leash
though neither know who holds what end.
He speaks to his companion as he plays
an ancient fable that carries them away
to a far off place
filled with vagabonds and dreams
while we all,
                      the all of us
sleep better
with beautiful maladies painted
over the canvas of our fears.

Sympathy for the Living

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
No amount of water will see them grow
they rest now comfortably in our memories;
living only in the brightest moments
and spoken of only fondly.
They have no due dates
no responsibilities
they need only absorb eternity
and to be absorbed;
embrace their greatest good.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
They will be more than we could
see more places than we will see
within and beyond this humble earth
a line without end
confined only by the scope of time
and the nothing that came before it
to briefly play with life and die.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead.
The horrors are only for the living.
That tragic awareness
a font of possibilities
crashing against clumsy hands
like an ocean seen from a prison window;
the air oppressively humid,
a square of light,
projected against a locked door
framing countless specks of mist
that float away – freely.

Let’s not shed tears for the dead;
only the living can experience loss.

Borders

There is a line.
On one side calm
the other tension
an invisible wall holding them back
because someone told them
there is a line
that no one can see
but all must honor,
like gods, ghosts, or mythos.

Violence lines up in its name
fearful eyes hoping the line will hold
bricks of faith – mortar of tradition.

When they fall
the world quakes
beneath the weight of our imaginations
violated.

A Gathering

The sound the shovel makes against the earth
feels like a baseball caught in a glove,
it feels like green lights or a found quarter.

The dirt looks like moist brownies
fresh and rich with delicious darkness
a curated destination for well off worms

The broken grass looks no worse
a verdant shag of carpet deep and vibrant
a parade of party poppers exploding green.

A good place to bury a friend
though they’ll never know it.

The Forest Through the Trees

Approaching a House in the Cool Evening
I’m caught, mid step, by the lattice work
tiny wood planks interlocked
holding hands, passing over and under
form and function in tandem
drowning in green chaos, unaware
of the waxy verdant tendons
               strangling them.

Desperately those vines climb
towards a sun they anticipate
but cannot know in this darkness,
the ambitions of the young – the restless
trapezing over the dormant dreams
of the old dead gods that once stood
tall
proud
fierce
and free
that once reached for the same sun
               for a life that could never be.

Flagellation

The sun rises.
From up there this must all seem vexing.
We imprison ourselves
torture ourselves
all for the glory of our future selves
a version of ourselves that won’t want to manifest
with all that we’ve done to ourselves
just to get there,
reducing the distance a little each day
becoming more realistic
spinning tires.

The sun sets.
with its head low to the ground
wondering why we measure ourselves against it
when it is the earth that is spinning
kicking up history
sinking deeper into the void.