Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Rewind
past tapes replay inside
my head; each whines
and grinds as I lie in
bed; TV and sleep, my only
reprieve; and I am unable
to still;
to still;
still, you’d call me silly
or a ninny, if you
truly knew how grueling
this cyclic whine
is; if only I were not askew;
if how I am were untrue;
if only a rewind was ever new.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Intellectually Existing
intelligence is in each anchor that holds
each foot firmly to a cold stone wall
as if glued permanently, and in each toe
clenched tightly to the edge, and in each heel
entrenched in granite, immobilizing,
where rock is flesh is not distinct
intelligence is in each insight that sears
into the darkness and the void
from which light and creativity
and everything is born out
of each step taken whether with hope,
with faith, with fear, or without
intelligence is in each dream wooing
each possibility of what might spring to real
as anew, as change, as opportunity,
as loving, as respite, and in the simultaneous
inevitable knowing never
what has not yet come to be
intelligence is in each witness that bears
what hindsight undeniably divulges
as irrevocable past actuality, and in living plainly
in reality, and in each moment, and in now
as if trapped in avoid, as if nailed to air, as if
rooted in nowhere, as a chimera always is
each foot firmly to a cold stone wall
as if glued permanently, and in each toe
clenched tightly to the edge, and in each heel
entrenched in granite, immobilizing,
where rock is flesh is not distinct
intelligence is in each insight that sears
into the darkness and the void
from which light and creativity
and everything is born out
of each step taken whether with hope,
with faith, with fear, or without
intelligence is in each dream wooing
each possibility of what might spring to real
as anew, as change, as opportunity,
as loving, as respite, and in the simultaneous
inevitable knowing never
what has not yet come to be
intelligence is in each witness that bears
what hindsight undeniably divulges
as irrevocable past actuality, and in living plainly
in reality, and in each moment, and in now
as if trapped in avoid, as if nailed to air, as if
rooted in nowhere, as a chimera always is
Monday, May 4, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Taught
Hope is a rope
a noose upon a neck
deftly strangling.
Hopeless is loss
a snap within a neck
lonesome dangling.
a noose upon a neck
deftly strangling.
Hopeless is loss
a snap within a neck
lonesome dangling.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Skin Deep
Steel in a sharp edge peels
back each layer of skin — slices
of truth — to reveal moist
options, flimsy perception. Thinking,
the onion stink can make you cry,
try again and again, expect
that in the end that truth will lie
exposed. Yet, you know nothing.
Wallowing, lingering in why,
entrenched in the wet
of confusion. Sheer
desiccated recourse pauses
in now; leftover shavings
shriveled up in why not — just spit!
Flesh out and enable; hydrate
the unspoken possibilities
persisting, warming the womb
of relativity. You stand
without, stilled, whim
wily, stripped stark, in dark,
in a graveyard, seemingly
left out in life; always forever
with actual choices, whenever
uttered, if ever given a voice.
back each layer of skin — slices
of truth — to reveal moist
options, flimsy perception. Thinking,
the onion stink can make you cry,
try again and again, expect
that in the end that truth will lie
exposed. Yet, you know nothing.
Wallowing, lingering in why,
entrenched in the wet
of confusion. Sheer
desiccated recourse pauses
in now; leftover shavings
shriveled up in why not — just spit!
Flesh out and enable; hydrate
the unspoken possibilities
persisting, warming the womb
of relativity. You stand
without, stilled, whim
wily, stripped stark, in dark,
in a graveyard, seemingly
left out in life; always forever
with actual choices, whenever
uttered, if ever given a voice.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Growing Older
Poetry slices through me
Molts fight and insight
Captures a moment — a truth
And I cling to it. I breathe
Its air so as to feel
My substance
As though through its beauty I am
More real. Carved into rock
With each day I jell
Into crystal and no matter where
I write light filters through me
As though entombed in mirrors shining
The same reflection. Words
Rebound and welter and I shun
The din. Emerging
Hope shatters me
Into shards piercing
The heart of my fog morphing
Me into me and relief
And blessings are in sight. Wishes
As innocence and possibility flourish
And blunder forever wanting
To be what might
And so I write.
Molts fight and insight
Captures a moment — a truth
And I cling to it. I breathe
Its air so as to feel
My substance
As though through its beauty I am
More real. Carved into rock
With each day I jell
Into crystal and no matter where
I write light filters through me
As though entombed in mirrors shining
The same reflection. Words
Rebound and welter and I shun
The din. Emerging
Hope shatters me
Into shards piercing
The heart of my fog morphing
Me into me and relief
And blessings are in sight. Wishes
As innocence and possibility flourish
And blunder forever wanting
To be what might
And so I write.
Irony Of Public
as boredom reigns
as sleep silences
as dreams drench
in despair
let me out
free me
categorize me
write me off
let me walk unnoticed
as unnamed
as I know pain
is not a public place
as sleep silences
as dreams drench
in despair
let me out
free me
categorize me
write me off
let me walk unnoticed
as unnamed
as I know pain
is not a public place
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