Poem: The Other Side of Nigel

Dominic’s parents took him to
church and warned him to sit still.
Of course he had a fidgeting fit
as all boys his age will.
He sat for eternity in a state
of seemingly suspended frustration.
He tried against his wont to focus
on redemption and abomination,
but he couldn’t get his mind off
Susie’s note, better reading than the Bible.
But it slipped from his pocket when he took
his seat and fell on the other side of Nigel.

Poem: The Infinite Inefficacy of Adaptations

I always thought Christians would
have to accept Leibniz’s dictum that
this is the best of all possible worlds.

Otherwise, believers would be saying
their omnipotent God could
have created a better world,

if he had wanted, but here we are,
trapped in this heap of chaos
and pain, but it is no easier

for atheists. After millions of years
of adaptation, we have nothing
better to show for ourselves

than greed, war, and vanity.
We’ve had all this time to improve,
and I still can’t find the glasses

that are resting on my head.

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Poem: Refusing to Look Away from Death in Dying Light

This guy once refused to mourn
a little girl who died in a fire,
and we were shocked,
but here we are,
and mourning is forbidden.

We already had distance from death,
sending the dying to hospitals to
negotiate their final arrangements
with eternity in solitude.

And now we wrangle with loss,
alone, muttering final farewells
into wells of wine and beer.

We’ve got this far apart,
and, somehow, drifting
in starless night has made
us realise, against all odds, this
is community. God is in
the limen between me and other.

At one moment, this penumbral
light marks an opening, an escape,
and the next it marks the infinite fading.

I will forever whisper, “I love you,”
as a torturing tic of Tourette’s
until darkness muzzles the
motoring mouthpiece of my mind
and peace kills what remains of desire.

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Poem: On Times When Light Breaks Your Back

I was frozen in some fragmented reality,
fearful, frayed, and in flight when Dylan
reassured me that after the first death,
there would be no other.

And sure,
we knew that others would die,
but mercifully each only once,
only one agony to go around,
and that’s how it always is
when the sun stops shining,
light breaks and thighs warmed by
candles thrust toward new beginnings,
new horizons, even as skin drops
from bone, even as hope sizzles
on hot pavement.

But there’s pleasure
yet in the death spiral, the free fall
into summer, or spring, or winter
where we are always surprised
by the break of light, the answer
from the dark, and my boy Dylan
grinning under the shroud of
some, well, maybe it is just a
literal shroud.

Maybe this time
a halted dawn is literal,
and we will only limp
to the last break of light.

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Poem: Word Jazz (for Ken Nordine) #NaPoWriMo

There’s a kind of poetry
that sounds like jazz
dropping beats on you
as you read, but I don’t have
that kind of rhythm
and I never quite
find the flow
of staccato, pause,
repeat, and crescendo.

I don’t even have the
anarchic cacophony
required for free jazz,
random sounds
on raptor wings
swooping to make sure
your ears have noticed.

But the words find their
way in a unique
improvisation each
time we speak in
a veritable word jazz.

Ken Nordine knew.

And the words blew blue
all the way back to you.

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Poem: The Anti-Climax of Radical Freedom #NaPoWriMo

“But can you imagine a worse fate for your declining years than being read aloud to by Simone de Beauvoir?” ~Elizabeth Bishop

Other people were Sartre’s idea of Hell,
but Elizabeth Bishop’s idea of Hell was Simone de Beauvoir.
And somehow these three, brimming with radical freedom
and unconventional relationships, illuminated my way
to my own path of mediocrity and obscurity punctuated
by poor, if unconventional, choices in lifestyle and relationships.

From their inspiration, I was driven to write sporadically,
love without enthusiasm, and live quietly on the fringes
of a friendly but disinterested community surrounded
by an interested but hostile society of blame and recrimination.
In some unjustified fantasy, I sometimes imagine that Sartre would
approve of me or that Beauvoir might wish me greater freedom.
Elizabeth Bishop might mourn my dim light but not think it a disaster.

But still, I imagine myself in their shoes, standing on a balcony
overlooking the Montparnasse Cemetery before writing in a cafe
on the ground floor. And here I am, just like them!, sitting with my lover,
writing in a notebook, drinking Beaujolais, and munching quietly on a fresh galette.
The words neither flow nor drip but must be pried out, singly, and with great effort.
But still, you can feel the energy, can’t you?, where fertile minds spawned the
great works, and I have spawned faint evidence of mental effort, in their shadow.

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Poem: I’m Sorry You Feel #NaPoWriMo

I’m sorry if you feel,
under false pretenses,
I took your energy,
your youth and beauty,
your love and trust,
your boundless affection,
and unquestioned devotion.

I’m sorry you feel
I betrayed you with
with a deceptive sense
of subservience and spinelessness.

I’m sorry you feel
I emerged as someone
different from the person
you thought I would be.

I’m sorry you feel
I should have been
more malleable and
grateful for instruction.

I’m sorry you feel
I never should have wanted
more than you could give
or needed more than I had.

I’m sorry you feel
your fears for the future were fulfilled.
I’m sorry you fear you will walk
alone when the lockdown is over.

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Poem: Prophylactic Salute #NaPoWriMo

She didn’t witness black and white wings dropping in the tree.
No, she didn’t see the magpie, but gave a prophylactic salute.
Her superstition never fell into complacency.
She didn’t witness black and white wings dropping in the tree,
but she was alert to danger in every contingency,
and her intuition was always alert and astute.
No, she didn’t see black and white wings dropping in the tree,
but even without seeing a magpie, she’d give a prophylactic salute.

Poem: Mindfulness as Moral Instruction #NaPoWriMo

The lotus blossom represents enlightenment,
but most people take it as a symbol of relaxation,
an icon of a religion of indifference,
but Buddha told us to let go of desire,
not to be pacific in the face of suffering.

Loving kindness and limitless compassion
motivate us to relieve suffering as we
recognise that all suffering is our responsibility.
Desire is destructive and separates us from others
while compassion joins us to all life.

Mindfulness is shilled as a tool for corporate success,
but such success is only an element of ego
and can never be a byproduct of mindfulness.
To be mindful is to be aware of suffering,
and to suffer is to be filled with desire.

Buddha didn’t want us to be free from distraction,
he wanted us to be focused on suffering.
To imagine a universe free from suffering
is only to imagine a universe free of life,
and desire is nothing less than a life source.

Late one afternoon, I sat and watched a beautiful
wave crash against the rocks on the beach.
Finding such beauty on earth, of course I wanted
to find it again, to relive my joy and enlightenment.
I followed the wave out to sea, only to be consumed by water.

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