Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Decisions


Did you ever notice
It’s not loneliness
It’s not the yearning so much
For companionship
Or even intimacy

It’s the luxury of having someone
Help you make decisions?

A million decisions
Every day
To make in solitary

What to spend the next
Five minutes doing

What needs more time

Whether to meditate
Or go for a walk

Whether to tackle the bills,
The dishes, or the laundry

To binge-watch some Netflix
Or color my hair

Whether to work on the novel
Or this poem

To be honest
I’ve always had a problem
With intimacy

Nobody gets close
And if they do
I banish them all too soon

It must be a shock
It must hurt a lot
To be let in
And then shut out

I used to rationalize it
With an artistic need for solitude
That desire to create without audience
Without critic
Without collaborator

And then I learned to dance
To co-create with a partner

Now I miss that steady hand
At the small of my back

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Kindness is a Spanish Guitar











Part I.

The light filters in from the ocean side
with a benevolence totally unwarranted.
Such is earthly life in a paradise
perpetually re-conceived each day,
in spite of all our sins.

A well being fills me
not entirely due to alcohol,
but of course it's hard to discern.

Kindness abounds,
if only in my own mind.
I hear the sounds of flamenco guitars
but are they real or imagined?

To move with fluidic essence
that lives in our bones
to move with the liquid spirit
that flows through our sacred channels.

My blood and breath unite
in the acceptance of this assignment
life's forward unitary steps.

Men laugh and jest,
and it seems universal,
a timeless riposte.

Women dance around their sharpened philosophies
afraid to spill it all.
Someone told them they were too smart.

I'd introduce them
to the jesting men
if they weren't so brittle.

Some wounds need more than laughter.
The guitars might help.

Part II.

Envy?
Who could even begin?

Bifurcation.
Its dissolving tongue
utters soundless words.

You sit on my doorstep
waiting for yourself
to arrive.

Myriads of time
stamped with arcane symbols
roll by my mind's eye
like a still movie montage.

We were young once
yet what a fallacy.
Youth is an eternal
state of mind.

I only imagine you with me
because you are.
You don't let go
and I castigate myself
for my attachment

When all the time
we cling like soul mates
to the raft of time.

Someday when we are
in our aerie watching this movie rerun
we will gaze at each other
and smile.






Saturday, May 13, 2017

I Am Such a Messy Prototype












Like children playing with their food
Creativity without a care
Things fall down
They come together
For an earnest lifelike doll
All scars and broken beauty
Anticipating the next assignment

This finger painting
Without numbers, lines or lofty aims
Mixing colors always ends up
Browny green
Nothing smooth or bright
And yet you see it and you say
Oh, yeah, I know that feeling
Well

In the end
It takes a lot of ugliness
Accidents and big mistakes
To make good art.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Bird on the Wire














It's hard to imagine
the world after

Millions of people
hunt for food
and shelter

Acts of cruelty
and kindness abound

Animals and plants
keep on course
as always

We tell ourselves
we have free will,
dominion and agency

While scrambling on
the edge of oblivion

Poems like this
are being written
in the quiet tunnels

Of the lungs of sentient
beings everywhere

I am only a scribe.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Hibernation Blinks













Pallid leaves flattened by softened sleep
Nestle among the remnants of our waking dream

Our nostalgic ruminations glisten
In the afternoon haze
As the first pioneering flakes begin to fall

Leaving snow kisses that appear
Like forgotten or yet to be lovers
Before dissolving on earth's tongue

There's something tentative about the season
Months of winter still to come

In that pause between the deep breath
Of lighted trees
And the side streets banked with old snow

We find the path we carved out
In the unforgiving past
Inhabited by disappearing longings
And inappropriate ambitions

It's there in clear, straight lines
Beneath the layer of icy leaves
That our ghost dogs love to sniff
For the rabbity fragrance of tomorrow.