Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

Today

Seeing the stars and the sliver of moon
as the sunset fades into the wildfire
of creation's night sky, I am aware:
of obstacles overcome on the way and
the greatness of beauty expanded
in a few relationships, the time
where negotiation standing on a side
with a firm line collapsed into an embrace,
a new perception of beauty walking towards
me in all of its ostentatiousness and
rolling swagger and the cathedral of limits
opening its doors and declaring, Today,
and perhaps tomorrow, the necessary
and the good will become one.

Junk Drawer

On closing the kitchen junk drawer
I said, "I wish I were an expert
in industrial-strength organization."

She said, "Even in death accomodations
will be made for everybody."

I turned and asked, "Where does your
desire come from; to be a part of your
own creation story?"

Smiling, she said, "Probably when
I last added an orphaned black button
to the drawer you were just mulling 
through."

I replied, feigning hurt, "So you admit
that eating the last warm pretzel gave
you sweet, strange delusions?"

She said, "The power of illusion calls
one to make premature judgements
about something one knows nothing,
absolutely nothing about."

Greatest Satisfaction

I said, "Sometimes the greatest satisfaction
comes from the two words, 'File Uploaded.'"

She looked up from her notebook.
"A good conversation about the lack 
of intellectualism in modern society
can stir the spirit as well."

I thought for a second, closed my computer,
and said, "Perhaps knowing three days out
that one will soon be comfortable is enough."

She replied, "Looks like someone needs 
to go on a six-mile run after pressing <Send>."

"Sounds good."  I went on, "To be followed
immediately by some smart media coordination."

She said, "Remember to never let go of the mind
of the oppressed and of those who suffer from
never accepting their lack of compliance."

What then are we to say about these things? – Romans 8:31

Word that dances 
from mouth to mouth,
bringing sound to silence
and silence to sound,
inquiry remains on our lips,
like the divine smell of lilacs 
in the spring air, lightly lingering;
share an answer we can live with
and make it fierce
because the fragrance
of the questions stuns us
into quietness.
Amen.

Butterweed

Once again I am at my little writing desk
that belonged to my grandmother,
originally used for a sewing table,
asking the wisps of air that dance before me.

Only, questions come slower than they
did just the day before.  Is it the pollen
that befuddles?  Age?  Or the moon not
being in proper formation with the stars?

Whatever question is asked, perhaps
the answer lies in the yellow butterweed
I see on the forest floor across
the valley from where I sit and wonder.

Completion

In a time of great debt, slowly build 
a reserve of a bit of extra.  Respond
to those demanding a response.
Do so gently.  And, while others carry 
hell, devote yourself to a fairly 
weird act hinting at satisfaction 
though completion lies distant 
around the next unforeseen turn.