The Ugliness of Life

The ugliness of life, it waits
Around the corner, in the dark;
For all we might procrastinate,
The ugliness of life will leave it’s mark.

For long with patience will it seek
The moments we are down, or weak,
And scour down the shores and docks,
The country roads, or city blocks,
Or happy pathways in the mist
That we might hap to walk upon.
The ugliness of life, it sits
And from its hiding place, it won’t be drawn.

Until the moment it might choose
To show itself, to our regret:
When all we seem to have, we lose,
And our few certainties, upset.
Yet still we travel, as we must,
Our meagre stock of hope and pride,
With ugliness around, we trust
It’s sister, loveliness, is just outside…

The ugliness of life is there,
Around the corner, every day;
In all we seek, for all we dare,
The ugliness of life won’t
Go away

Aware

Half-frozen mud, cold bracing air
A wind that makes my neck aware
That leaves torn from the tree will die
These poor gray strays who tumble by

And like the ghostly light I seek
The morn recedes behind the line
Only of chance to risk a peek
At drifting lives
Like yours

And mine


 

(“Aware” – 11-19-2014)

The Hallowing of Hollowing

The hallowing of hollowing,
A process I know well:
I filled myself with nothingness,
And grew too proud to tell –

I thought my sorrows justified
The moments that I stole;
But then, the truth intruded on
What was left of my soul —

I know the emptiness I’ve lived,
I feel the keening lack –
But now, my eyes have seen the truth:
There is no going
Back

Into the Stars

When I was still a hopeward boy,
I’d often dream of flight
Out past the clouds, into the stars,
And everlasting night.

I dreamed of beauty pure and cold,
And music in the spheres,
But destined I was not to be
Among the rocketeers.

The sun now bothers tired eyes,
The night I hold at bay;
The cycles of the earth go by,
I miss them, either way.

For now, I float in metaphors,
And live in seminars —
But cannot, even in my dreams,
Get back into

The stars

Torn and Leaking

Her world is torn and leaking,
Every cloth and flag and pall —
She lays down on a bed of leaves
To think about it all

To think about it all, and find
She’s on a beaten track —
The world is like a carousel:
It always just comes back

It always just comes back, no matter
How far she goes, seeking:
And there’s not much for her to hold,
Her world is torn
And leaking