Saturday, December 16, 2017

THE HOUR OF REDEMPTION

The clock on the wall was almost dead.
Trapped at a nightmarish distance
from things defined by action,
Fallen helpless through the crack
between impulse and motion,
An occasional twitch of the limply splayed hands
alone betrayed its horrific suspension.

Across its frozen face were etched the symbols of its purpose
In twelve redundant dictums:
"I. TELL. TIME."
But now, each failed iteration thrust a burning poker
Through the case and towards the innards,
Burning away, like so much chaff,
all structure and meaning and mystery.

I alone witnessed its torment
And resolved within myself
To proffer absolution.
For what had driven it to such anguish
And now prevented termination
Was the edict of its makers:
That a clock should run until it dies,
With no consideration for what falls between.

The involuntary power which had compelled
Each former movement,
And entrusted Time's vast burden
To straining metal hands
Was become wearisome,
An artificial incentive.
With the decaying battery, then,
I removed all pretense
That life and work are permanent,
Or that Peace is constrained to either.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

When worldly cares and troubles weigh
Thy sinking spirit down
And all life's sad and sinful woes
Do threaten thee to drown

If yet thy struggling head alone
Remains the waves above
Tilt then thine ear in desperate hope
and mark the mourning dove!

Mark the mourning dove who flies
Beyond earth's binding snows
Mark the mourning dove whose skies
Share space with Heaven's throne
Mark the mourning dove who sighs
For suffering borne below
Mark him, mark him, as he cries
"Thy sorrows are My own!"
a tree is spiritual

in a book
a tree is god

behind each knot
within every bole
hide universal secrets

the shadow of a book tree
is long and significant
it withdraws not
it bends not
and every toadstool touched
turns a wild rose

timely snow lights mystical
upon outstretched limbs
limbs bearing majestic sweetness
in their easy levitation 
and lightsome span

in books
a tree bends
and there is shadow
a tree stoops
and there is fruit

true to see
like thoughts in three
books and trees are meant to be

tree
shouts the oak
what tree
screams the aspen
standing stark in sunlight
naked
shaven
raving 
without honor 
country
kin

wild with touch
cold to see
real in color
russet beards swooping low to brush the 
leaf-cluttered pavement 
mad 
utterly, freakishly mad
not to mention fringe
in their inestimable sobriety
the trees howl
caring nothing at all for books
or fantasies contained therein

Saturday, November 4, 2017

on Saturdays
the skillet used to turn
five pieces - exactly five -
from livid scent to sanguine flavor

and we drew runes in the fat
tracing the oily patterns of our future 
with fingers
on the back of blue-rimmed diner plates
while we stacked cups and silverware 
in the sink
for Mom to pardon later

somehow the oil always washed away
scrubbed off, we supposed,
by the efforts of a tireless immortal who 
lived, breathed, and washed dishes on a higher plane of existence
than we ourselves could ever aspire to reach
even seated in a high-chair

but now the fat is gone
and with it all the flavor
rinsed clean by that immortal,
tireless effort
which eventually stymies us all
that housewife rule of nature which dictates where to set the dishes
and sometimes undercooks the future
though it never burns the past.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

above our world
clouds sit like skin
clumping into white sheets and flakes
dry and cracked
where the sun has baked them too long

and over the surface of this skin
a cold wind is always rolling
there to be felt
though it cannot be heard
since its motion is not one so much of sound 
as of sight
and a vague stirring of the dark
that dims distant starlight

God's hand is in that wind
for he watches over each of us
big and small
and from time to time
stretches out his heavenly arm
with its long black fingers
to grasp us in His icy palm
shielding us from the harshness of unstable nebulae
which might otherwise dazzle or destroy our fragile condition

though we rarely thank Him here
down below the epidermis
where things are warmly lit 
and the blood of rivers running downhill
gives us joy 
to sit and ponder inmost beauty
without counting the magnitude of galaxies
or gripping smooth cold stones.

Friday, October 27, 2017

pentecost

it was the peak of summer
and they were all gathered in one place
the trees
and their leaves
by the stream
waiting for something
out of heaven
a star
perhaps
or a sign
waiting
as he who waits upon the Lord waits
green and immovable

when the sudden moon rose
and a chill fell
and with it 
a rushing wind from beyond
roaring
in a thousand distant tongues
the secrets of another sky
and the breadth of unknown spheres

and fire danced in the trees
ignited by the holiness
the otherness
of an unworldly speech
cold and empty
dry and bitter
unpolluted in its abstractedness
and nothing like a wheelbarrow
red or not
but the effect was still the same upon me
for the trees spun one thousand images
through every spoke of autumn color
and each was
indecipherable in its completeness

though none of them were drunk
as it was only noon.

epistemology

all that matters is
and what is
is beyond us
us
in our asphalt forests
surrounded and impossibly removed
from granite or ether
or either

for now that we are grown
to such great and terrible heights 
we stand worlds above 
our hallowed roots

and yet
still slip softly down
to empty air
on stillborn shorelines
down
through the thick and throbbing swell 
of blood-flecked waves
down down
below the foaming surface
ghostly in thought
down
ever softly down
to listless twilight grey
and shadows half-projected
by stars we’ve never seen.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

i rise electric
a sunbeam introspect
fabricating bright vistas
to please the derelict 
inside

no, my walls aren't true blue
but snake green shame
can fill a room too

so I keep it this way
like a box for things hidden
silenced
unwanted
forbidden
suppressed lest what beguiles my eyes
be less than what's the very best

that's how I am
just like all the rest
i fear to conjure any test
to what gives life its zest

but I digress!
i rise electric
and shock the world to color
and the gray of truth subsides to me
the iridescent other

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Yellow leaf, don't fall far.
For in your decline,
So swift and so soft,
We witness the death of a star.
A lifetime in a novel, the universe in a poem.
and so i lived

tumbling down a catacomb tunnel,
such as slips and slides
blindly, sandy and sinuous
without sacrificing
loud new york angles

no streetlights

sharp and extra
no grip
just an eternal truth
of falling wooden blocks

Tuesday, October 3, 2017


the moon in a man


the 
moon
they say
has a man
inside her but
we know better
each man actually
has the moon in him




Tuesday, September 26, 2017

bitter folding over and over and whoops there she goes against the odds but our sanity greater is love.

Friday, September 22, 2017

White as youth
And flapping joy
A butterfly

Across a field
Of purple fruit
A tattered rag

Drifts like life
Like weeds in the wind
A flower patch

The green ones grow
The brown ones die
Like butterflies.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Squeeze out the hour like
Damp from a cloth
Make the time last
As you drain every drop
Purpose is precious 
And night's all you got
Daylight just proves
You're not at the top.

Monday, September 11, 2017

I bought a bird with a broken wing.
Yes, I bought a flightless flyer.
I saved and saved
For the pricey thing
Flashing flowerbed colors
In a pet shop window.

But I bought him,
unknowing,
And I brought him
Not knowing,
Home to prep school standards,
And for all his filled-in style,
His Joseph's uniform,
He still failed the final,
Leaving it blank.

And I ask you:
Of what worth
Is a broken handle?
Of what value is a 
Needless knob?
What can it turn,
Alter, or open?
And since it can't,
Then why should I?

Why should I turn?
Why should I alter?
Why should I,
The buyer,
The owner,
The *consumer*,
Why should I open my heart to receive
The tattered garment,
The chipped glass,
The creaking gate
When
It
Drives 
Me
MAD!
Knowing what I never know.

I will never know
The rounded vase,
The curving statue.
I will never know
The well-tuned lyre,
The swelling chorus.
I will never know
The softest look,
The welcome whisper,
I will never know,
The friendly breeze,
The floating birdsong,
I will never know
The perfect peace,
The grateful slumber.

And I will never know
No, I will never care to know
At what price I was bought
Or ask
whether I, too, 
am broken.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

The day they moved my pencil was the day they took it too far. 

It had all started with a few curious stains immediately to the left of my keyboard. Dark and strangely linear in pattern, they caught my eye one Wednesday morning when I went to set down my mug after returning from a water and bathroom break. Normally, a landscape of ochre swirls located in the relative vicinity of my left elbow betrayed their designers' rather intimate attachment to coffee, but on that day my mug was filled with nothing more than good old fashioned H20. I had been catching increasingly sudden migraines at the time, and just that weekend had made the fatal decision to wean myself from America's favorite beverage before it became - like most things American - too engrossing to be healthy. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my desk, I should (like a withdrawn crack addict) apparently hallucinate a mirage of my so recently divorced mistress - the same one who in times past had so persistently threatened to become my master. From what I could see as I stood behind my swiveling chair, these unknown markings were still wet. Fresh. Glistening, even. I set my mug on the unaccustomed right, and bent over to examine my desk. Blue. Shiny, beaded droplets. Opaque. It was ink.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

five glittered streaks
smeared on black felt is
the skyline

an empire city
fabricated against
a backdrop of
redundant nights

a rubix cube
drifting across unlit oceans
ever and darkly lapping
"I AM."

five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt is
the skyline

an empire city
fabricated against 
a backdrop of
redundant nights

a rubix cube
drifting across unlit oceans
eternally lapping
"I AM."
five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt is
 
a city skyline

pasted against
the backdrop of

redundant nights

an unsolved rubix cube 
drifting across unlit oceans 
the multitude forever signifying
"I AM."
five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt
is the skyline
of an empire city
fabricated against the backdrop
of redundant nights
a rubix cube adrift
oceans of
"I AM."
five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt is
 
a city skyline

pasted against
the backdrop of

redundant nights

an unsolved rubix cube 
drifting across unlit oceans 
the silence forever signifying
"I AM."
five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt
is
 
the skyline of an empire city

fabricated against
the backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube 
adrift oceans of
"I AM."
five glittered streaks 
smeared on black felt
is the skyline
of an empire city
fabricated against the backdrop
of redundant nights
a rubix cube adrift
oceans of
"I AM."
five silver streaks smeared on black felt
is the skyline
of an empire city
fabricated against the backdrop
of redundant nights
a rubix cube adrift
oceans of
"I AM."
five silver streaks smeared on black felt
is the skyline
of an empire city
fabricated against the backdrop
of redundant night
a rubix cube adrift
an ocean of
"I AM."
five silver streaks smeared on black felt
is the skyline
of an empire city
fabricated against the backdrop
of redundant night
a rubix cube adrift
the ocean of
"I AM."

Friday, June 16, 2017

this just in
the beginning
and the end

studies show
a 5 by 5 cube
is really a
bottomless well 
from which one might 
ostensibly 
draw up a million years 
of the same bitter draught
which watered the roots be-
neath
the part of the park
god labeled 
"no pets allowed"
lest he reach out his hand 
and take also of the tree of life 
and eat
and live forever.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

i woke to see
the trees of oak
lined in rows of
orange islets
and birds like boats
floated in bursts
seeking harbor
on arboreal beaches

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Contemplation 1.1

I wish my words would sparkle bravely,
Bronze emblems blazened bold on fields of blue
or evening clouds underlit with citrus sun.

But I look up to see my phrases
hang swollen, charged with fire from fearsome skies
that glowers dark and explodes in darker thought.

Oh light that crowns the highest treetops
Sweep down to save me from this cavern speech!
and lead me blind by the hand to thy sweet source.

at first,
the smell of stone,
next,
the sound of waves,
before

thousands of rippling atoms 
coalescing into 
shiny, round, grey beads they
glisten and glimmer
each reflecting
the raised circle
upon which
I stand,
caught
in the
pure
unsourced light
which surrounds me 
and obscures them 

everything whirling.

white breeze,
soft scent,
and then
it
hits. me. hard.

i taste cool water and warm rock and dry space.
infinite empty vista that
leaves my tongue somewhat sandy.

here i would introduce a change but there is no quality of self-governance in this shimmering molecular curtain i find myself confronted with (by?) - looking toward (towards?)  - facing.

this
is
fabric.
this is 
what moves under
all the rest.

hand me 
the silver needle
dear
and thread it
only
with the 
finest
gold.




Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Contemplation 1

I wish my words would sparkle bravely,
Bronze emblems blazened on a field of blue
or evening clouds underlit with citrus sun.

But I look up to see my phrases
hang swollen, charged with fire from fearsome skies
that glowers dark and explodes in darker thought.

Oh light that crowns the highest treetops
Sweep down to save me from this cavern speech!
and lead me blind by the hand to thy sweet source.




Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Aaaaaaaaaand–
                    Ripple.
Light and lost,
as though upon the water's face
A thousand mirrored deeds recall the one
–Plunk! that fell,
Itself the product of a breeze
(Such breezes sometimes ease the leaves
to loose their grip upon the trees–
those leaves then fall to prick the seas
or ponds)
without point or plan.

Silly me.
Afloat, adrift, a washed up drip
Dropping down to stir the pot
–and ignoring the recipe!

Oh, was there ever such a thing?

Sunday, March 12, 2017

A Highway Ambulance

red lights
a rocking clip
alarming drivers near
to shy away respect or fear
ignored I stare inside the windows rear
enraptured racing right beside the siren scream
within the while a wavelike mountain surges up and down
again again again the gurney shrinks beneath the blows of life
as reaching in and grasping out the drama beats itself to senseless black
and I speed past
because I had somewhere
to be.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Brantley, Byron, Bennett, Blake, Boden, Braden

Brennamae, Brynlee, Blodwyn, Brandalynn, Brooklynn

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Life is:

Sad, red and green bulbs floundering in the lukewarm rain, struggling to conjure up Christmas on someone's front porch. On January 12.

The moon – is that really the moon? A dim, diffused luminescence, spayed of clarity or myth, hovering sickly on the fringes of a sympathetic cloud.

The stripped square of land which promised to be the site of a home. Promised, never delivered. Broken, crumbled clay, tufts of horse grass, terminating in a blank wall of trees. Just like life. Rocky, unvaried desolation which ends not in peace, but complete, impenetrable unknown.

Indefinable lights in the hillside opposite. Windows? Porchlights? Garages? Streetlights? A nuclear power plant lends its characteristic charm.

A stretch of silvery road – a thin sheet of liquid patina on soft, crumbly ridges, everything given a moonlight sheen. He who enters here learns the miracle of walking on water.

A teacher becomes invincible, because he is expected to be.

The apparition. Sudden, silent, stalking. A shadow? A shade. Less to be feared, more to be pondered. Is it me? Am I it?


Saturday, January 7, 2017

A rich old fellow walks from his village into a nearby graveyard at sunset and sits upon a bench. Looking at the copper silhouettes of the headstones against a smoky red sky, he astutely observes: "Though he may try again and again, night after night, the devil's fires will never consume those who sleep safely hid beneath-ground." Sure enough, as he rises to leave, the sun's ember glow impotently slips below the horizon, and the grave markers immediately escape the smoldering light, like a household's evening windows all-at-once darkened into secure oblivion. But, as the satisfied fellow turns to go, something catches his attention. He starts, then gasps. A single edifice still burns with reddish lustre. Looking up, he beholds it: Perched high upon a marble mausoleum, caught in the calculating sun's last persisting rays, languishes the weather-scarred shape of a stone cross. Immediately, the man cries out, falls over dead, and the village's six church bells each toll six knells, re-echoed once apiece by the hill upon which the now-dark graveyard stands.