4 Poems On 1 Photo

In moments that matter,
Other people’s feelings become
Matters of moment


I see stories everywhere,
So I don’t go out that much;
Half-unfinished tales crowd in,
Daughter’s tears and mother’s touch,

Signifying — Daddy’s gone?
Signifying — Hunger? Thirst?
Speculation, all the time:
Writers: we’re the very worst


In autumn, tears, like dew upon the ground
Unbidden come to cover mulchy leaves;
The air grows hard, and little space is found,
Though paths be wide, for one who sees, who grieves —

But love, a blanket, warms us when it can:
A moment’s pause, a word, two hands to touch
That close the distance, whate’er be the span,
That’s caused by what’s too wrong, too hard, too much,

But still lets tears maintain their gentle flow.
This is connection’s secret, to respect:
Each other’s cares to care to truly know
And neither to obscure, nor to deflect.

  There is a time for each of us to fall,
  When only loving kindness helps at all.


When you can love someone
More for the love they give others
Than they give you,
You will understand

Posts

I give you what I have in posts
For we are poor in other ways;
We walk along the waterside
And dream of nights, amid these days,

    Of multitude, and lassitude,
    And attitude, and power:
    A sun that shines on shoulders cold,
    A view atop the tower —

I give you what I have in posts:
To walk in joy, to sleep with ghosts,
To hear the water, as we should,
And try to make gold out of wood —

    For augury, and penury,
    And apathy, and yearning
    Are how we’ll have to warm ourselves
    With not else left for burning —

I give you what I have in posts —
To climb upon, to walk beside,
To mark in passing as you ride
Toward what you want and need the most,

    For everything and anything
    And all the things that bind us,
    There are still posts that mark the cage
    That formerly confined us

    And we are waves upon the sea,
    A wave within a larger host
    To lap up on eternity
    And brush the careful dawn

    In posts

Schrödinger’s Cat

So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat,
Now it’s both dead and alive:
How it has managed this, I do not know.
Somehow, though, it did contrive

So both to be and to not-be at once
Putting poor Hamlet to shame:
So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s
Broken, and I am to blame.

So in the middle of Animal Rights
Physics, and Theater too —
I’ve violated immutable laws
What’s a poor blogger to do?

 

Flotation Device

Reality’s not what she wants it to be,
And so she makes her own
In the virtual pages she fills each night
In her study, all alone,

At a place and a time and with people there
Who speak to the ears of the wise;
For the thoughts that she spills through her fingers and hands
Serve as a flotation device.

For everyone learns that this world is a swirl,
And each day, and undertow —
That the ropes we may don when we’re very young
Can keep us from where we want to go.

So she casts her words widely, for anyone
Who may read to cling on to:
For kindness, it seems, is in short supply
In a world that misvalues the true.

  At a tiny old desk and a darkening room,
  In a “you’d-pass-by” surrounding —
  Comes a world that serves as flotation device
  For all of us
 
  Who’re drowning

On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage

And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity

He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once


 

(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)

Spent Manic Blossoms

The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –

Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder

A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long

Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing

It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –

I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder

The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold

How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity

Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her

Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder

Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –

But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight

Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –

It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot

I Wandered Into Poetry

I wandered into poetry
Since little else made sense;
For all the clots and retinues
Grew steadily more dense –

But here, in this reality,
I’ve found it to be true
That where our finest speech does naught,
The slightest touch
Might do
 


 

(“I Wandered Into Poetry” – 7-17-2015)