Winking At The Apocalypse

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Haiku

April 13, 2014

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the sun pours in on

empty bottles and stale chips,

last night's candle burns

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Mother's Day

All the strong proud men who believe they can lift mountains or blow up cities for whom we bow in praise or tremble in fear still often shed tears and always stop to smile for her. Even blowhards lower their voices, hush and listen when told to hush and listen. All the grown up little boys trying to write themselves into the record books, still playing children’s games and collecting life’s little trophies while she quietly prays for them, and waits like a mountain, unmovable and unassumingly resplendent for them to finally realize the prudence of her lullabies. No physical impairments or fleeting misfortunes can dim her light, no disagreement about what is or is not can dilute her wisdom, no amount of missteps or misdemeanors can weaken her well-earned pride in our accomplishments, no amount of years or light years can extinguish the warmth of the hug that has saved our little lives more times than all the strong p

Well Enough Alone

Unexploited muses, satisfied arrangements – the side-of-the-road chair I painted orange just to see it painted orange now decorates the patio not doing a damn thing but hosting hardened careless drips. The singular instant before poem – spontaneous, coffee-hour visualization, amorphous near-substantiation in dramatic color – was so much more than these moldy characters in black and white. As if riderless horses doubt their own alacrity or hushed secluded fields wouldn’t flower without us, wouldn’t erupt into undulating rainbows sans some asshole snapping pictures with his intelligent phone. But unwritten poems gnaw at our bones we believe, strip us of our senses, to stand naked like naïve lovers, desperate to fill the silence. And after we have spoiled the moment with syllables and limits, corrupted in with labels, we run around madly, desperate to show this disfigured thing to anyone who will pay us in pen

Thought

lucent, deliberate curtains in Cape Cod after-rain rhythmically stirring like a reluctant bridal courtesy to the strapping vigor of the seashore winds of yesterday’s glistening uninhabited early morning coastline that found us for an instant an undisturbed family of storied history and unbounded future as insignificant as the gradually warming granules of once proud-stone maybe mountain yet as whole and all-there-is as the ceaseless ocean ballet itself a graceful and potent opus as formless and original as the hysterical wave-leaping child’s imaginative steps as structured and instinctual as the simplest creatures that crawled from its belly to eventually develop the great works collecting dust on vacation house shelves because they can’t compete with breeze shadows.

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