Poems

HIGH PRIEST, A POEM

March 20, 2017

With world leaders now reducing history to fable and we living one and all in these new mythic lands where dragons live on borders beyond, their fiery tongues singeing our nose hairs and setting our ears on fire, lo, enter the high priest, most noble with castles many throughout the world, his retinue resplendent in the finest cloth our lands import, with jewels on breastpins to equal the honeyed words of our leader’s tales of airy woe, where lowly casters of ink cloud the glory of both sun and god with something called reality.

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THE SNACK

January 2, 2017

Who is to judge? The experts, sometime when the Writer was a boy, devised a novel scheme. The portable meal with disposable packaging. When all the ingredients as well as the conveyance were perishable, the evidence quickly disappeared. In some twist of logic, the paper bag seen here was replaced by a plastic one nearby. The coffee container is cardboard but the top is plastic. Ancestors in all the Living Kingdoms helped make this lid. It took them 360 million years to make. Humans take the credit. Human are still at war with the members of these Living Kingdoms. We believe we are separate and cherished by our gods. But only fools can destroy the other living beings to produce such a paltry waste stream. Only fools can’t see the sacred vessel they hold , in truth, are the fern forests of another age.

To begin…

BUCKET, HOSE AND CUP

November 26, 2016

So here is the pattern of the hose newly arranged, the bucket tossed aside, a discarded drum, unimportant for the moment, but the cup – who placed the cup inside the coil of hose, upside down? Does it matter? Is this the random gesture of a joker? Or is this a telltale of the celestial music Kepler spoke of? To us. A note on a musical scale we can no longer hear? The sinewy cleft of a burned out quasar with a half note minus its stem? What’s more. . .

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BOULDERS, BUCKETS AND THE HOSE

November 6, 2016

The boulders indicate the upheaval created by a front end loader, the buckets by the casual carelessness of those leaving for the day. The hose, on the other hand, may be the unintended rinceau, unfolding the imaginary tendrils of a vine along the edges of a Book Of Hours, a hieroglyph from an age of meanings lost.

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ANXIETY, A POEM

September 30, 2016

Anxiety doesn’t care about the problem itself, any problem will do. The smallest problem can make us as anxious as the largest and none may be our own. Bombing a city in Syria, an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico or just a delay in our mail delivery. A bureaucratic quagmire in a city agency, or the arrival of a new but damaged refrigerator. The face of a presidential candidate? They all can equally stir anxiety. How about the hole in your sock, the last pair in your chest of drawers, or the soup stain on your clean shirt? We can wash out socks, clean our shirts and the refrigerator will eventually be delivered sound. Even the mail will come sometime. But the bombing goes on and the oil spill has left its mark. We do the best we can, even when we don’t suffer the catastrophes of falling walls and rising seas, but Anxiety, circling above us, must land again. This is how it is now. In this day and age of solutions.

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RUBBER BOOTS, PART 3

August 27, 2016
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RUBBER BOOTS, PART 2

August 26, 2016
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RUBBER BOOTS, PART I

August 25, 2016

We are busy building things. We upend something old to build something new and the transition area is called the construction site. What better place to look for evidence of our habits.

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AT DUSK, A POEM

July 16, 2016

Always around this time, July, the fireflies or lighting bugs begin drifting through the evening space flaring up ever so gently. It’s festive, yet quiet. A mystery, still, that an organism so small can be seen from so far. They bring down the stars in the universe to settle for a time in the intimate night air we walk through, the cosmos brought down to a size more familiar.

To begin…