Poetry for Springtime

My lover is the storm tossed sea

My lover is the storm tossed sea

And the calm after.

She is waves

Cresting and falling in nearly

Rhythmic succession.

Each mounting taller,

The sea spray

Broken from her by

Wind that curls her peaks

Down onto my decks,

The troughs between, so deep

They bear my keel,

Threaten to break me,

Bow unsupported as I

Steer my course into the

Swell.

My lover is the oasis

And the mirage.

I am mad, dehydrated,

Sun blind from her brilliance,

Thirsting for the water

She shows me lying after the next

Slipface, down the next

Dune, in the secret garden

Nourished from her hidden

Seep.

My lover is the winter mountains

And the avalanche.

She is granite feet,

Cedar thighs, obsidian

Glances, sharper than knives,

Snow and the sunlight on

Snow, movement like

Glaciers unstoppable,

Carving my world,

Cutting me asunder and

Lifting me up, her springtime

Waking my desert and filing my

Sea.

21 March 2017

A brief poetic distraction . . .

Several years ago I wrote a poem while in transit between one place and another. At least, I believe that's when I wrote it. You see, I got home, edited it some, and promptly lost it. Well, I finally found it, edited it some more and appended the date when I think I wrote it. I hope the date doesn't make it fiction, but even if it does I still think it's one of my better travel poems. Without further ado I bring you:

Information Dance

Sound.

Color. The

Air is a confusion of

Information.

Esters bunch in pressure waves as

Frequencies collide. One

Wave transmits another, permits

Passage, but

Not

Without

Interference.

Photons skim past the

Rarefied stuff of

Matter.

In the same

Space other ideas find

Transmission

Above us

Grand algebraic

Dragons bound among fluid clouds of chaos

Transposing genes through

Non-Euclidian space,

Fermenting synaptic construction and

Mixing,

Matching, giving

Passage while

Changing like

Two particles in a

Vacuum.

In this vast cosmic

Radiation of information

Our own attachments

Are both

Distinct and

Infinitesimal.

Next to unity

Beethoven measures the same as

I.

9 December 2011

I wonder if the human heart

I wonder if the human heart is like the weather.

Does it, in spring, blow hard by degrees,

One day hot, the next cold, damp, and grey?

Is it ever frozen by winter's sorrows, or

Cut off in its promise by a late frost or

An early storm leaving only moments;

Scrap paper and dried roses like fallen leaves?

Does it ever have the constancy of tropical summer,

Before the rain, hot and still, smothering you with

Patches of brilliantly colored air sewn into a

Crazy quilt of romance and desire, touched here

And there with thick thread of pungent fruit;

Of fish sauce and tittering laughter as we both smile

Coyly, embarrassed by our sudden shyness?

December 2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

I told my love I love her

One day in the late summer
I told my love I love her.
“How much?” she asked.
“I love you so much it hurts that
You're not here,” I replied.
I long for the day we touch.
The day our
Bodies mingle as our thoughts do.
I want our senses to stand
Even underneath the sun,
Smell and taste on
Equal footing to sight and hearing.
I long to feel you beside me,
To smell the fragrence of your hair, of your sweat, of
You.
To feel the rough strength of your feet, the
Smooth grace of your neck.
I long to be with you, my love.
To be you.
To be
We.

6 September 2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

East and West

Electrons colide at speeds once beyond immagination.
Eyes touch with glints of
Fire
Smiles, one subtle almost invisible, and another
Flashing with the power of a
Sudden storm.
Winds blow across an ocean
Tearing at the seals of
Fate
Set at times beginning.
Desire gives thought wings and
Hands meet
Slowly with the
Strength of continents adrift.
And where they touch
A bowl of rice sits steaming.

11 December 2010

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

Haiku

Wood knows the truth of
Growing strong to be bent and
Shaped to other use

1-24-2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

She smiled at me, bright
Summer sun poured from her eyes.
I knew myself whole.

2-11-2011

Probability Curves

The probabilities collapse when observed,
But when you see them from the corner of your
Eye, like stars, they’re bright
Burning points of

Light.
One function in
Two places.
Two states
Omnipresent only when unseen like some
Forgotten deity.

The bright eyes and freckles of a
Smiling god are scattered like those
Stars.
Intelligent in an
Empty universe.

8 January 2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

Fierce winter wind

Mist and snow, driven on parallel winds,
Swirl in front of me.
Like frozen
Fire the delicate white tendrils
Twist around my
Feet, bright in the headlights of
Oncoming cars.
Dark against the grey road. Lost in their own
Terrifying midnight shadow when the impromptu
Caravan has passed.

They burn with their intensity, these
Greedy jewels that glitter in the dim grey
Light of porches and parking lots.
They are chips of the
Eternal, shattered in some
Medieval examination and found
Wanting.

And I wander among them, one more
Fragment blown on the
Fierce winter wind.

11 December 2010

Hard Rain

I am like a summer storm that's lost his way.
I would bring sustenance to parched land but
Over eager, I surrender everything at once.

All my hopes, my dreams, my
Love
Hammer down upon the delicate earth.
They wash away leaving a trail of
Longing, of
Need.

I have satisfied nothing.

My tears fall and leave the ground
Empty.

3-10-2010

To Kelly

Life as Art

This one's been sitting around a while, and probably needs more polish, but it expresses the mood I'm in right now.


Life as Art

Life is a bit like a piece of music
Where the chords in the middle,
The ones which seem uninteresting,
The little ones, twos and fours that
Resolve nothing
Predominate.

Things move forward for a long time without
Tension, without
Resolution.
There is no cadence to it.
No phrase, no meter, no
Meaning.

But then miracle and
Tragedy
Collide.

Some little chord gets flipped on its
Head.
Notes begin to stack up like
Calls in the middle of the night.
No good ever came from a call at
2 am.

The first notes become crushed under ever higher burdens of
Unresolved dissonance.
And the piece ends there.
Three, four, flat two, five,

. . .

Nothing.
A head with no body. No
Feet.
No foundation.

We laugh, if we get the joke. Maybe we
Cry out.
Or maybe we scratch our heads and wonder what we missed.

Would that life's final cadence had the glory of
C Major
After the wild hunt interrupted our
Recitative.

Would that life were
Art.

The Song of a Laundry Gnome

What's the percentage in
Folding other people's
Underwear to the
Hip-hop beats of
Fast R and B?

What's the arithmetic of
Fluorescent lights, cheap
Beer, and
Laundry soap?

Do the fragrances of stale
Sweat, spilled
Perfume, and yesterday's
Dog urine
Multiply to a sum
So closely approximating
Zero as to justify
Discarding them?

But
The
Boy
is Pretty, and

I am young, so I'll
Spend my salvaged minutes on the
Dividend of
Stolen pleasure

While mechanisms spin and whir
Washing away the
Iniquities
of
Strangers' pasts
To the tune of a buck sixty a pound.

November 2009

October Light

Heavy skies dance over my head
As a brittle wind whispers
Tidings of more expressive weather
Lurking past the spiral fold of my
Calendar.

The breeze lends an ominous energy to
This twilight season of the year.
The grey weather washes away the
Contrast painted on the foliage.
Expectation hovers all around me, turning the
Thin atmosphere viscous, like cold gravy, or my own
Blood of a December morning.

Red drops congeal beneath the cold heavens.
A cat pauses near me. She preens herself
And watches the blowing leaves, looking for some
Drab mouse, whom she might make bright
Beneath the sunset; whose hidden colors she might spill
Garish upon the brown earth and her own
White jaws.

There is no season like the autumn. More
Desolate than the frozen marrow of winter,
More alive in its decadence, the
Frenzied tarantala of a dieing year.
Seasons come, pass, and change,
But on a crisp October night, paralyzed in
Fading light,
Autumn is always the same.

10-2008

I drink to you

My landlay died today. That’s not quite true, actually. In all probability, she died several days ago or more, but I discovered it this evening. This has precipitated several events. First, I find myself wishing I had done more. I wish I’d acted sooner. I wish I’d talked to her more often. I wish I knew more of her stories. And wishes can neither breathe nor swim, and thus they do me no good. So I move on to the memories and the drinking. I remember her patience, her tolerance, her love. I remember her hobbies and those that she herself loved. And I drink to her memory. And of course I find myself wondering why it is that we drink to the dead.

In the memory of Dottie, my dearly departed landlord I drink to you my living friends and lovers. I drink to you Kelly, my beloved partner in this brief span of artistic endeavor. I drink to you Ronald and you Sandra who reared me and gave me all that I am and all that I know. I drink to you Milton and you Juanita who sacrificed so much to preserve my freedom, even though you likely agree with few of my decisions. (Rest assured that I decide based on what I believe is right. I do not expect you to agree. Nor do I in any way think less of you for all our differences. I love you. I respect you. I hope that I am worthy of the sacrifices that you have made on some absolute metaphysical scale that neither of us may read.) I drink to my sister and my brother. They have weathered much. They have found good. They have pursued it. I am proud to be cut from the same cloth as they, and I pray that they may find all that they seek and more.

I drink to my friends. I drink to Ali and Pat. I drink to Sidhebaap and Chellery. I drink to both of the Rachels that I have known, and Debbie, and both Joes. (Both are dear to me. The UrQuan lord and the author equally.) I drink to Kelly Ludwig and Ryan Gozer and Jeff Cole. I drink to all my friends: new old and unmentioned. I have known many people over my life. Many good friends. I cannot hope to name them all here, but I drink to all of them as might hope to read this. I drink to a variety of Cats. I drink to an Elizabeth or two. I drink to all my loves: past, and present. Elizabeth, Avril, Amy, George (girl George, you perverts), Tonya, and indeed Kelly, whom I have mentioned before, and should mention again so often as I have breath.

Indeed, I drink to all the living. No, we are no more worthy than the dead. I would drink equally to Kenneth and Jane, to Elizabeth Parsons and to Vernon, George, Ellah, Raymond, Esther, Fred, and all that have gone before. I would drink to all my dead friends and forbears. But we the living poses one special trait that the dead no longer share. We can appreciate the love of our fellows. We can feel the lack of those whom we miss. I drink to my honored dead, yes, but I drink also to the living. Let me not wait until you are dead to tell you how much you mean to me. Let me tell you now. You are wonderful and special. All of you. You Zenkas and Cats that I know only by virtue of mail, and you Michaels and Christels that I know in person, but have not thanked nearly often enough. I drink to you. The wonderful people in my life. And if by misdeed or mischance I have left you worthies that might see this out of the list of accolades, know that I would have included you were I better than a flawed man. I drink to all the living that have affected me. All that have shaped me and helped me. I drink to you in the name and memory of my honored dead, but also in your own names and honors, as you have honor and your memory is cherished. I fight that it may not erode so long as I live. Thank you.

The Flesh

What exactly does one do
When one hates the flesh?
It’s difficult to comprehend
Why nothing seems to mesh,
All broken crags and tortured ground.

The devils of psychology
Let loose upon our souls
Run marathons with energy
Borrowed from our goals
Wreak havoc, leave us bound
To with’ring limbs and useless pounds.

How do we win redemption
From the demons of the mind
Whose cold compressive tentacles
Round ‘bout our egos wind?
We’ve lost our way, our corpse unsound,
With failing sight, our key unfound,
The tumblers rust, the lock froze shut
We’re trapped within our mound.

19 December 2004

The way you like it

You hit me. I’ll hit you. You like it that way.
The cat’s in the cradle, the hog’s in the hay.
The horses were starving so they’ve gone away.
You hit me. I’ll hit you. You like it that way.

You Hit me. I’ll Hit you. You’ll Like it that way.
I fear our dear daring white boy is astray.
Let’s Beat him! Let’s Hit him! We’ll learn him someday.
You Hit me! I’ll Hit you! You’ll Like it that way!!

18 December 2004

Towards an ending

How shall I recall the Spring
When on one Winter’s day I bring
Not more than half of anything
To conclusion?

When all the spittle that I write
Flys back upon my face in spite
Reminding me no words are right.
There’s no illusion!

It seems the old year has ended
And I’ve not my fences mended.
All my words have but offended
Through derision.

I hope one day I might afford
To call upon some risen Lord
That he might offer a reward
Against division.

Untill that time I know I’ll find
That all my words, though they might rhyme
Cannot repay one lonesome dime
Through incision.

Here I’ll pause, though ending be
As always was, a mystery.
Nothing lingers here for me
But more questions.

17 December 2004

Westward through September

The grey sky opens above the street and my thoughts fly West.
Ever Westward. Westward ho! I pass over plains and mountains
Into the frost of the Northern winter.

The wind racks the car as my fellow travelers sleep.
Every turn has been greeted with wonder.
Where will we pause tonight?

October 2004

What is it?

What is it dead children say
To the coming of the morning,
When all their love has gone away
And mothers gave no warning?

Come say to me, I’ll say to thee
That all that’s lost is gone,
And all that’s left of worth bereft
Since we ran out of corn.

I’ll say to thee, you’ll say to me
That all that’s here remains,
Since we’ve no need of cattle feed
When we can drink our grains.

17 December 2004

You cannot know

You cannot know

Just what you mean to me.
Or how I’d hurt were you to suffer me
But see me not, unless of course you feel
Much as I do.

‘Tis no small thing to heal
My heart’s regrets with a sigh, to reach
Across the gap between our skins and teach
My soul to cry

Again. But then you’ll cut me.
That which heals also hurts. So flee me,
Fly from me when storms about me reel
Like ants drawn to a broken seal
On some great cask.

I hope that we two might each
Lean anew to hope and love. I beseech
You, stay if I am food to help you grow . . .
But if I’m poison, I pray that you will go.

October 2004

Walking

The open gate beckons my soul
into its dark solitude.
The warm sodium glow speaks of
sepia and fairies.
Victoria where are you now?
Do you look down upon your
subjects with mirth and
amusement in this later day?

Do the foibles of the people reflect or
reject the foibles of your court?

Once through the gate, that iron gate
in its limestone arch,

I choose the left-hand path.
It’s habit now, but this is the path of
darkness and mystery.
I follow it to its inevitable conclusion in
picturesque ruins.
Where else could such a path ever end?

How many paths lead this way?
How many gateways lead here?
Whose is the unmarked headstone in the West,
Past the stags and stables and gates?

October 2004