I enjoy writing because it both focuses and expands thoughts at the same time. That may seem contradictory, but ultimately it makes me consider words in a more thorough manner. Too often in life it seems words (and consequently actions) are misunderstood …partially from haste, but also from careless consideration of situation and meaning. My hope is that my thoughts are laid out with both meaning and intent. That’s my hope at least.
———-
October 6th, 2009
We all cope.
The impermanence
of our existence drives
us daily.
The glimpse of
the unseen.
I once thought that
coping was a
last resort – something
done when
the natural or the
obvious had
obviously failed.
I once thought that
coping was a
copping out – a
secret door from
which the rabbit
escapes and the magician
stands to ovations.
That it was a
making-do.
I once thought
that coping was a
discarded option…
like ‘all of the above’
or a late, late
Sunday movie.
Lately I’ve
come to depend
on its routine.
Its old shirt-ness.
It’s something
where before was nothing,
and although
something is exactly
that, nothing just may
have been preferred.
Regrettably.
Coping is stagnation.
An oasis;
the deserts dessert …less
filling yet
potentially fatal.
It is scrouge-like.
A remnant. A call for
help …air-tight
and set adrift to never
once find land.
Coping is coping
and all one can do
as nothing is done.
And hoping.
———-
July 12, 2009
the tip shies away from the paper
as the heart shies away from the eyes,
the words shy away from the sentence
as the soul from the prospect of lies,
yet the sun can’t choose to play favorites,
nor a shadow to choose any flame -
so if you by chance choose to mind me,
understand that my choice is the same.
———-
June 14, 2009
So if the choice was mine to make,
to see or hear …and one to take,
how could I choose? Or sacrifice?
Yet both at once …oh, paradise!
———-
May 25, 2009
There between sounds of motorbike exhaust,
between the engines from cars and trucks and the
hum of tall buildings even taller looking up,
and between the rows of asphalt spilling heat and
all manner of accessories painting the sidewalk sides
in lamp-post greys and mailbox reds.
There between it all lay the coarse earth’s
shoulder, bared, and the stirring of my shoe prods
and claws like a child nudging a parent for attention.
And I traced those same steps to my youth
where I, upon the same shoulder, would as a kid
start and stop and slide between grass and greens and
pastures that stretch over hills and meadows that
might go on and on forever to the horizon.
I consider what has changed and wonder if I
am still naive and blithe and if what I’ve done has
no bearing, and if the earth might shrug from
time to time, annoyed.
———-
May 21, 2009
the trees are
sounding
green -
trumpeting
a sky whose
front-row seats
were booked in
advance.
season tickets -
leaving little
to chance.
———-
April 24, 2009
The world starts here…
in a nike crested track suit
on the way to a late slip
in early spring,
in a lazy amble – dog speed -
through a watery city street,
in the few eyeblinks between
the sounds of a shovel
struck hard to the earth or
in the still air of an
elevator between floors.
The world starts here…
in the quiet glances shared
among strangers scurrying
well-lit halls,
on the barren wall that
hangs a daily plan for a
day to plan,
in the dull murmur of a
cafeteria crowd somewhere
between five and six or
in a shadows blurred edge.
The world starts here…
in childsteps between
pews on a Saturday afternoon
that struggles for Spring or
in a wavering bag
wavering about a wind,
in harmonics that stray
cautiously between resolve,
in between sighs from an
over-worked hostess or in
the floor that wantonly serves
an edge to her foot.
The world starts here…
in a steady hum that blurs
its source seamlessly,
in a puff of smoke – skyward -
leaving behind its birth,
in a corner that shares itself
a yard sharing itself
a home prim and proper, or
in the flash of paint
stretching smooth over asphalt
over hills over and over.
The world starts here…
not in some big bang whose
echo has fallen,
or in beginnings that claim
heavens or cobras afloat
in seas of nothingness -
but in the eyes of a man
who trembles when he speaks -
searching unanswerables -
or in a dog who urges play,
in a friend who bids a
friend farewell and later thanks
the experience.
The worlds starts here…
in a blinking cursor,
a pencils’ etching,
in a flash of light, a glimpse
into darkness or in motion as
a wave might collapse on shores
beckoning its salty pitch -
returning, exhausted, backwater,
or in an ice that tonguemelts,
or in a moment – and in between
moments such as now and
perhaps then and in between
those still yet unaccounted.
The world starts here…
now… as soon as you finish
this sentence.
Or this one.
———-
April 21, 2009
I stepped in the shower.
As the water began to fall
against the curtain and the coolness
of its first drops reached my feet,
I suddenly thought that if I wasn’t
there, perhaps the world would
go on? Perhaps the next day sun
would find the sky and the traffic
still rumble past my small house.
People would move along,
Spring would spring,
meetings meet,
bread would still rise – laying
itself flat for a $6.95 luncheon special.
I stepped out of the shower and
hoped that I might save a glimpse
of what it was that crossed
my mind. My feet have dried
as I creep near the end of this
page and the traffic still rumbles on…
and how would you know?
———-
March 27, 2009
void:
an
emptiness
without
even
the
notion
of
itself.
luck:
a
void.
———-
March 15, 2009
Winter is Spring’s bedding,
cold and virgin white,
tickled by a glowing sun
whose elevation’s right.
Spring’s the hurried lover,
youthful – green in sight,
stealing Winter’s desperate tears
then vanishing by night.
Summer’s common senses
reign in Springtime’s flight,
held – reduced to one still breath
that stretches mid-day’s height.
Fall is Summer’s note-pad,
crisp and fresh to write,
colored ink for tracing dreams
that Winter will unite.
———-
March 3, 2009
with the snow came
a blurred horizon.
nowhere between the land
and sky was there anything
of worth found. details
obscured. beginnings and
endings erased. in place
of it all was just the
sense of it all.
a feeling had descended
where before stood none -
grabbing away from sight
that food the mind so
craved. an imposed
yet welcomed diet.
———-
February 22, 2009
I thought I
might have
something to
declare.
I thought I
might convey
in words some
captive thought.
I thought I
might share with
you some
important idea
that has survived
in some hidden
recess deep between
synapses, neurons -
within cells and lobes
- that dreams of
its release as a
convict an appeal.
But sleep, like a
thief, has stolen
these from me.
An inside job in a
criminal mind.
———-
February 16, 2009
old age brings old ways.
that’s the frightening part…
that I might find what I’ve
already found and having
found that, sweep it aside.
that in a breath I’ll expel
that recklessness I had
once measured out a
future by. the mirror now
reflecting shallow eyes.
dreams scattered. hopes
dashed in a rotting stew.
the direction of ways is far
more clear, but the cost is
non-conformity. lethal.
somewhere between it all
rests. it always has. the
illusion was movement -
the illusion was a trail that
had both a start and an end.
but like a man on a bike
I’ll persist. relentless. change
comes in an instant, and
an instant resides along the
arc between pedal strokes.
———-
February 2, 2009
I watched it go by.
It wasn’t in a hurry per se,
but it did have a persistent,
somewhat pedantic
stride. It was inviting,
but at the same time it was
rather routine -
and although I didn’t ‘bite’,
I am quite confidant that
another opportunity
will soon appear.
I’m sure of this,
after all …it’s not exclusive.
Anyone can participate, at
anytime – it’s just a matter
of motivation. I can
join in! And if it is what I
desire then I can, as easy as the
next rube, grab hold the
tether, collect myself and
drag my being from its
shadow …careening haplessly
along its wake.
If I desire that is.
But that’s the rub of sorts…
desire. That’s the single spice
between the content pallet
and the bland offering.
Between tedium and intoxication,
or of an insomniacs dream.
Desire… that rests in a
cadence then darts off
in a counter-points’ flurry -
noise to those not wanting.
But if I were to find
persuasion …could that
be the difference? Perhaps.
So the question soon begs; how
does one persuade desire
when at the heart desire persuades?
Where, in the shape of all things,
does one extract one from itself?
Starting points, it seems,
are as useless as a name
for a God. Self-
serving …pointless.
I’ll watch it go by though.
I’ll stand, bitter …proclaiming
to my last breath its
foolishness. Through but my own
sightless and narrow perch
I’ll drag that in my proximity
as a dying star its light.
My Kingdom for a dream! My
kingdom’s kingdom for
a dream’s dream!
My life …for life!
———-
December 20, 2008
What if I lived a million what-ifs?
What if I lived but two?
What if I changed my what-ifs mid-stream,
or steered a what-if to you?
What if my what-if had made a big splash,
or what if it slipped down the drain?
What if it simmered like late morning eggs
that simmered like late morning rain?
What if, upon, a late moving bus,
my what-if had fallen asleep -
and what if it woke a moment too late
and failed some what-ifs to meet?
What if I’d thrown my what-ifs aside;
contented, cemented in fear -
and opted for something a bit more risque…
would that make my what-ifs more clear?
These what-ifs are fickle and strange little gaffes
who thrive like an ear to a name,
and when you think what-ifs have taken their leave
they’ll soon reappear – much the same.
For what-ifs are what-ifs …as simple as that,
and what-ifs are here for the ride.
And those who profess to be ‘what-if free’…
they profess, but what-ifs they hide!
———-
December 1, 2008
it greets me in an arc that stretches wide upon the day.
it greets me in a wind that whips the tallest grass in play.
it greets me in a glow that blurs the distant earth to sky.
it greets me in the clouds that paint against a bluish dye.
it greets me in a shoot that dreams a dream in vibrant green.
it greets me in a crowded wood and holds for me that scene.
it greets me in the feather’s edge that hangs a bird in flight.
it greets me underfoot; grounded and firm into the night.
it greets me in between the moment now and moment past.
it greets me in a warmth and stirs a sleep to ever last.
and though it greets me everyday, my words still grasp in vain
and offer but a brief repose; for I still greet the same.
———-
November 14, 2008
we own not of
a blade of grass,
a fallen leaf
or day surpassed,
yet there between
the first and last
we look for victory.
we look to grasp
that measured light,
a colored sky,
an endless flight,
and with a grip
that’s all too tight
we claim our victory.
we steer our fate
in green and gold,
through magic scribes
our stories told,
and when they fade,
remake them bold -
prolonging victory.
such is the case
with man’s refrain;
a lifetime search
for truth. inane?
and hope? …a race
among the vain
for immortality.
———-
November 9, 2008
Heart,
Sorry for screwing things up.
Sincerely,
Mind.
ps – polyester sheets are
not only quite comfortable,
but far superior when it
comes to heat retention.
———-
October 14, 2008
A moment of truth is that.
Once past, history’s talons rip and
shred that singular beauty, leaving
truth but a carcass of itself.
Its frail bones hoarded away
in ideals, clutched in desire and
reshaped as monstrosities -
as glimmers of what was.
A moment gets ignored or placed in haste
when man cares of himself …and sight’s misplaced.
———-
September 17, 2008
If it calls, I deny.
If it rushes in my ear,
and haunts between
counterpoints -
I still deny.
If it bathes me in dull
light and hides my skin
from age -
I deftly deny.
If it paints a trail
in reds and yellows
and nests them
comfortably,
speaking the obvious
in soft tones -
I again deny.
I deny loudly!
I deny with full breath and
laugh …unconvincingly -
behind pale words,
pale in structure and
remiss in voice -
I deny I cry!
I deny!
To the end of all I take that chance,
for the end of all …a stance. A stance!
———-
August 18, 2008
eternity lies on my arm in a black ink
that carves along my skin as a blade.
it finds its shape in a manner of
light, and dances to the twitch and
stroke of my pen as I look to
to expose its intention.
it was convenient – and at a time
when I thought less of it. But now the
irony thickens as the mark is
reclaimed, for all intensive proposes, by
itself …in a sun.
———-
August 3, 2008
to be right there must be wrong,
to be still there must be song,
to be joy there must be hate,
to be chance there must be fate,
to be life there must be death,
to be One there must be breath.
and the choice is man’s to make…
but is it choice that’s man’s mistake?
———-
May 6, 2008
what pulls a life forward?
what purpose lies in the steps
we take – in the choices we
discern when we have a moment?
what questions lay camouflaged
among those yet unanswered?
and what of answers?
are they too hidden among the
fabrics of so many tales – glimpsed
at times like a shadow that
trails in the corner of an eye?
I wish I might trace her skin
with my fingertips – her
nature with my gaze. and I
wish I might find answers in
her breaths – follow them
as my own heart lumbers on in a
shared cadence.
and I suppose, much like the moon
to the earth to the sun that I too
chain myself – propel myself
forward purposefully.
do all the stars between themselves create
an apogee that knows its natural state?
———-
March 11, 2008
there’s a still growing
that fills the spaces
we leave behind.
a flowing in between,
absorbing all we can
place, all we can
create.
the still growing is
us – minus the arrogance
and left alone to
fend for itself.
abandoned to its
fears – its voice obscured
by its own chatter.
as a patient parent
in waiting, the
still growing waits -
waits for us to find our
way home.
the direction is in us -
and we’re still growing.
———-
February 24, 2008
she lay dying.
we both knew this fact,
her and I, and we both
would carry on
silently aware, and yet
strangely silent to dare
speak of it.
her cheeks were bruised
from her fall, and
a feeding tube kept
her left arm’s attention -
I.V. and all.
her voice lacked any real
strength. her teeth could
no longer give words shape,
and a sound was called
from pure desperation.
“Are you behaving?” and
as a smile forms from
her eyes and spreads across
her bruised face to her
desperate mouth…
“No. We had a big
party and I called you
but you weren’t home!”
her eyes smiled
again. I returned
it, then looked away
to her room. like an exploring
child I’d scan her machines,
her walls, the ceiling
that held the curtain tracks
and divided the room in
sight alone.
I scanned her bed, her
small frame that I know
at one time had been
bigger. her thin legs
gave shape to her quilt,
and her hands were
vein blue – skin finally
giving way to the secrets
it kept for 80+ years.
when I reached her face
again, she met my eyes
and we spoke without words
for but a few seconds,
then she turned her
head again to a more
familiar voice calling
for her attention.
I stayed there, standing,
and she would visit me
quickly in between sleeps
and dreams – in between
her thoughts that
would surely prepare her
for all that’s yet to
come.
she would have thought
of such things earlier -
when she had time to
think she would prepare,
like a recipe that
waited only for the
ingredients.
she rehearsed it all, and
in her mind, time was
finally returning control
to her. finally.
after being slave to
the whims of life -
after being but a puppet
she was now the puppeteer.
the sun was setting.
the cello was singing
legato. she would finally
have that which
was beyond her grasp -
and time would reluctantly
give back to her all
it had taken.
———-
February 15, 2008
these words you read are
the same words that others
read. your eyes focus upon them
in exactly the same way – your lips
part if you choose to speak
the words aloud,
again, like many others.
though it is not my book or
my pencil you see – the words
are still the same. my paper -
like the paper screen
before you. flat. white.
energized.
there is really nothing more
to it than this. the words are left
alone to your appetite.
you ingest them, commit
them to yourself,
shape them to your needs and
if allowed, they become you.
they are alone with you – as with
me. Simply an after-taste.
bitter or sweet.
we: 1) after-tastes from a
greater menu. 2) shared recipes,
flavors, sprinkled
in portions accordingly.
———-
January 31st, 2008
I saw my death in his grey hair,
unsteady gait. It held me there
and shook me as if I cared less.
But I did care …but won’t confess.
I saw my death – his weakened sight,
drawing the skin in folds. Delight
did jitter once, past eyes, in haste,
to memories …such sweet re-taste.
I saw my death – the calloused skin
and weathered face receding in
disturbingly, as if the cold
had found the bone and taken hold.
I saw my death not once but twice -
the first I found not quite so nice.
But on a second glance appeared
this other death; a death – unfeared?
I saw my death, this final time,
across his seat. A boy but nine
or ten, beside dad. Toe to chin.
Such simple plans in death. Begin!
———-
January 22nd, 2008
fashion feeds the soul,
somewhere in between collides
the sum of all we know.
escape is more than wanting,
contentment; never lasts.
a generation claims success
yet failure’s never past.
a waxwing’s taste is sudden,
and startled is the tree -
so there behind, its berries lay
discarded – errantly.
———-
January 4th, 2008
it hangs on you like that -
such thoughts …such hopes?
like a thick air it weighs
you down – congesting.
you toss it off for a small
piece of freedom, but it soon
settles back as dust in
a sun’s beam. it drifts
down – and under your
skin it grabs and holds tight -
wanting to become that very
part of your life you so
struggle to dismiss.
———-
December 31, 2007
we mark our lives in haves and nots,
in do’s and don’ts and gives and gots,
with markers, mark with lines and dots
upon the face of time.
we share our joys and certain bliss,
uncertain times, a certain kiss,
a passing death or thoughts remiss,
etched on the face of time.
we close up doors to shut in hate
and find the key sometimes too late -
yet finding’s such a fickle fate
if on the face of time.
and time defined is like a color;
if I said blue you’d say another,
so life, it seems, is like no other -
this life …the face of time.
———-
December 24, 2007
I like the sense of silence.
It’s never around like it used
to be, and I miss its strong,
noiseless embrace -
engaging me, the clock, and
a halogen hum in the far corner
of the room …like an old friend
stopping by for a visit.
The fridge interrupts our
conversation, but its ranting -
as always, falls on deaf ears.
The same goes for the furnace,
whose timed arrival was more
than coincidental. Bla, bla, bla
and on they go like clock work.
Silence just waits off toward
the side – smiling assuredly like
the inevitable – the confident.
And we both wait, silence an I,
and then as predicted
the chatter fades and, once
again, we find ourselves alone.
Strangely though – Silence
had little to reveal this night.
It’s as if it had been waiting
for me – lurking in a sunless
sky, waiting to hear what I
might have to say – waiting for
me to take that first step.
Yet I suppose, as with other friends,
I have only myself to fault
for the miscommunication. If
blame is to be laid at all, then
make me as the stone who crests
the water’s edge – and lay sins
upon me like a thick moss -
growing with the distant oceans
ebb …stretching with time.
I offer my apology, and as
sleep overcomes, I bid Silence
a silent farewell. Such a
friendship as ours is worthy of
much more than I’ve afforded of
late …and I eagerly await its return.
———-
October 9, 2007
today a small cloud appeared in the morning,
spread itself thin into the blue sky and
spurred my doubts from
behind two friendly panes of glass.
why friendly you ask? simply because they are -
deserving acquaintances more than eighty years
ago, and now best friends of sorts. and that
is what time does …it merges the unknown
to the known, the weak to the strong and the
strong to the old. it merges friends from
foes and carves dreams into reality into
dreams again. time does all this
without second thought …it paces our lives in
emotions and colors, separating our needs from
our wants while gently allowing our
needs to want again.
time does all this from behind two friendly
panes of glass – fading small clouds into
blue once more. and in the manner of itself -
calming my doubts …again.
———-
October 3, 2007
in but a few seconds
a breath exhaled
is cast and caught -
condensationly cold it
collapses,
leafing behind
whispers of itself
in browns and grays and
cinnamon tinged
hues that dance playfully
along the forest floor between the wind
and then among my shoes. can life rescind?
———-
September 14, 2007
gloriously expected,
naturally viewed,
urgently persuaded,
regionally hued,
perpetually extolled,
sensationally hung,
nervously decided…
unsprung.
———-
September 5, 2007
To pass the hours I’ll often gaze
upon Her building blocks -
and find within myself unease
in seeing all we’ve wrought
in such short time. Our confidence
has peeled, stripped and bared
the simple treasures that emote
from water, ground and air.
Reshaped, transformed, the concrete webs
reach out for our applause.
And though the world keeps record pace
with man of record flaws
I’ll carry hope – that in the time
it takes to find ourselves
we stumble into common sense…
refilling empty shelves.
———-
August 31, 2007
it’s been asleep for eighteen years…
in one marvelous spring it stirred
and life overcame it like a rogue
wave that breeched an old dam -
flowing freely upon the parched
and dry desert-like floor that held
its contented existence beneath.
the sleep that was nearly forever,
grasped at the passing flood and
drew from it a life anew!
a marvelous spring was sprung, and
life breathed in fresh lungs, tasted
the touch of a water – sweet with the
moisture and promises of youth.
It took all it could …and when the
waters receded it still took – it stole
like a thief, without concern or remorse
it grabbed and clung and strained and
desperately tried to hold on to that which
was passing surely from its grip.
and as this spring made a slow retreat,
desolation was sensed and limbs
finally loosened their feverish hold and
resigned. they ached again for that living
web as fingers upon fingers – but it was gone
and they too turned in on themselves,
commanding others to retreat and return
to the dry familiarity of home.
if eighteen years have passed with but one sign,
is spring to wait again till fifty-nine?
———-
June 23, 2007
lost is not knowing.
holding on to shadows while
wishing or dreaming or hoping.
thoughts springing only
from thoughts.
lost is perceptions rather than
facts – and facts left to
imaginations becoming perceptions.
lost is an unreal.
an after-taste in the mind and a
craving that hangs loosely.
lost is a four letter word.
a flavorless taste.
lost is a vision warped – a rough
outline of previous sights now
blurred and hazed and clouded.
lost is a dissonant harmony,
a feeling that has no touch
like a skin without a sense.
a scent left dormant or
a breath unreceived.
lost is a gaze in silence,
unbroken. a laugh unheard.
a longing that arrives yet again
unfulfilled.
lost is an echo.
lost is the space between unisons,
a chance that was taken
but never returned. a color faded
and an opportunity unseized.
lost is a love untested – unspoken.
a kiss only promised and an
embrace imagined.
lost is 1 rainy morning,
2 minutes to nine on the
3rd longest day of the year
…and not knowing.
———-
May 12, 2007
Tradition drapes its cloak upon
the nights, turns days inside and out
exposing life. Brimming through doubt,
the crowd cheers that hope not be gone
…reliving dreams that they once knew
but simply lost. Her eyes (though still
cautiously fixed) are lacking will
and submit reluctantly to
hypnosis by means of spotlight.
While captured there you might detect
longingness; or you might accept
the stare for nerves – simple stage fright?
Regardless the cause of such fate
she gingerly retreats. Applause.
Revelry. Are these token flaws
that will persuade the heart to wait?
Tradition brings about the means to last
while dreams recede between tradition past.
