I felt a certain poignancy
seeing that old and peeling
faded yellow wooden hull
rocketing motionless
over churned up clay breakers
amid the flotsam of cut-over debris
discarded with careless indifference
in what was,
not so very long ago,
a vibrant and vivacious
ancient hardwood forest.
It seems a fitting metaphor
for what we have lost,
or tossed,
in our headlong rush
to progress.
Ink black letters
fall hesitant at first,
marking naked page tops;
Droplets unconnected yet,
by purpose or intent.
In time, their presence there,
calls others to befriend them
adding to the depth, the weight,
pressing down upon the page
until it can’t contain them.
Now the words collect
into tiny rivulets,
scrawling narrow, crawling paths
seemingly at random,
As they come together
deepening their paths
like magnets on the march,
they gather others to them
weaving into deeper streams,
memes, ideas, and images.
And their power, thus enhanced,
they carve deeper furrows,
altering the landscape.
Flooding dusty fallow fields,
nourishing their blooming.
Onward, broader, faster now,
filled with surging portents,
deep with hidden meaning,
challenging all in their path
overtopping every bank
undermining old foundations
sweeping clean all obstacles
built by aged machinations
leaving clear and fertile fields
for future generations.
At last this surge comes to merge
with the vast and loving breast
of that bottomless expanse;
the never resting endless sea
we name our deep subconscious.
Again, I find myself
Standing at a crossroads,
Pondering directions.
Unsure which path to take.
Should I? Could I? Perhaps?
~
The sun is overhead.
At the roadside, flowers.
Birdsong lilts from afar.
Wheat heads rustle nearer.
~
It’s been a long journey,
Full of rush and bother,
That led me to this place.
~
Beside these thoroughfares
I shall pause, breathe, relax.
~
There’s time for a siesta.
Unnamed Politicians!
Can you perceive the irony,
As you march in this parade,
On this public highway,
Closed today by state police,
Between county fire trucks,
And city rescue squads,
Past these public schools,
All the while waving
Your banners proudly claiming,
“I Fight Socialism”?
Today I walked alone,
Silently, among the fallen.
Snowy cold, standing stones
Basking ‘neath the setting sun
Stretching to eternity.
Here among these Legions,
I came across the one
Bearing my mother’s maiden name.
One of many, stretching back
To our very founding;
Fathers, grandfathers and greats.
Not all of whom retired here
To this, once, grand old estate.
Another found, I know, his rest
In a distant mountain stream,
The place he lived his later life,
The place he loved, by far, the best.
I honor them, those grand old men,
My few, among the many,
Not only for their sacrifice;
I honor them, out of love,
And, I suppose, that must suffice.
Shrill
Inarticulate warbles
Muted in passage through walls
And woods.
Anger
Understood by tone
And cadence long before
Any sound clarifies to coherent
Words
Heat
Beat
hasty
Retreat
Words
Pulse
Thrumming temples
Dread descends with every step
Upward to that door
Where home fires burn
Doorknob
Chill beneath palm
Hand lingers
Warming brass
As crass language
And rage harass
His tired dragging ass
Inhalation
Exhalation
Knob turning
Welcome
Home
His smarmy tongue waggles,
weaving glowing gossamers, clouding hearts and minds
with mists of glittering unreason.
His garbled glossolalia
explains inexplicable,
defends indefensible,
justifies vast injustices.
Before his words, miasmas
of fecund decay shift,
begins to resemble aromas
of lavender and roses.
Venomously,
crass caresses
of slimy snake oil
conceal cuts of serrated steel.
Hope and reason succumbs
to resignation and despair.
Luminous hope drowns struggling
in seas of gilded sludge.
As growing thick dark shrouds
envelop all, he pauses,
draws breath, smiles.
In that instant his spells shatter!
Plug your ears, Ulysses!
There are no second chances.
Noisy Docklands denizens
Heralding their new found riches
Like so many frigate birds
Fighting over ample fishes.
Among the many of some note,
In all my local ponds;
I built and sank many a boat,
The toys, of which, I was most fond!
Under watchful eyes they stand,
Poised upon a precipice,
Regarding the plunge ahead.
Quietly, they watch,
Sitting on, perhaps, a bench,
Nostalgic, proud, and yet, afraid.
Not too long ago, they stood,
Upon the lips of similar brinks,
Regarded then, as now,
By men in quiet contemplation.
Twenty nine years!
An eternity to a child;
Not even a breathe to the world.
And yet, to me,
An endless drawing of fleeting breathe
That is my marriage to my love.
From snowy Vermont woods
To sunny shores of Venezuela,
From Rain soaked Thai jungles
To bone dry sands of Arizona,
From mountains to beaches,
From Virginia to Hawaii,
Along the bank of the Blue Danube,
And many places in between,
These eyes have seen much,
This heart has soared and broken,
But mostly these feet have slogged.
From driftwood log
A seahorse rises
To hide among the Bloodgood Acer
Beside an unused garden path
Her invitation came
Addressed with snark and fury.
“Welcome to my chaos!”,
She offered as her greeting.
“Swim awhile, here with me
Among this drifting wreckage,
Floating fragments of dreams and plans,
Hopes and wishes for my shattered life.”
She served this raging petit four;
Smallest sliver of her misery
With a bitter aperitif, piercing my heart
In its acrid headward rush.
Did she hope to whet my appetite
With her caustic bread; cordial bile?
In truth, I find her burden
Shared is less a burden lessened;
But more a sorrow spread.
“Here is my vast, crass repast!
Will you savor with me?”
Aroil in Pain 