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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Poem: It’s All Down to the Floor #NaPoWriMo

When you do a good job,
people say the floor’s so clean
you could eat off of it,
but no one really eats
off the floor, so what’s the point?

Everything we shed goes to the floor:
viruses, old skin, loose hair,
mucous, spit, parasites,
and random would-be nourishing
particles dropped through
slovenly food preparation.

So the floor fills fast with refuse,
and something has to be done about it
from time to time with care and precision.

It’s important work this scrubbing, this tedium,
but I never feel threatened by the floor
unless it is rising to meet my falling corpse
at a rate sufficient to be alarming.

Though I use the standard mop and bucket,
this task brings me to my knees every time.
Is everyone’s floor covered with such
persistent sediment demanding severe scrubbing?

Or am I the only one grinding old bones
into hard tile while bleaching my skin and
cursing the damned and damnable
to leave me in peace once and for all?

In the end, this sparkling masterpiece is something
to behold, and I stare at it in minor amazement,
imagining briefly the pleasure I could have
eating off the floor for once, until the first steps
into the sterile field remove all illusions of safety.

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Poem: Weather Alert–The Dirty Side Kills #NaPoWriMo

She said,
You don’t want
to get on the dirty side
of a hurricane
because that’s what
kills people.

And that became
a central metaphor
for our relationship.

Don’t get on my dirty side,
she’d say, or I’ll mess you up.

Or I’d say,
The dirty side is moving in,
so you better back off.

And we always talked like that,
the way people talk about the weather,
but we never did anything about it.

(“Everybody talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it.”–Mark Twain or possibly Charles Dudley Warner)

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Poem: The Epistemology of Indifference #NaPoWriMo

I hadn’t really noticed
You had stopped calling
Or coming around
Until a mutual acquaintance
Mentioned you were struggling
With unspecified issues.

I was curious, or course,
But didn’t really ask much
Or follow up in any way,
Because I have other things
weighing on my mind.

I don’t worry too much
about your health,
job security or children.
I haven’t checked to see how
your business is doing.
I am confident your life is flourishing,
Though it sometimes seemed like disaster.

No, I’ve forgotten that I once relied
heavily on your trust and confidence
while fretting constantly over your
well-being and safety. When I have
some success or crushing failure,
I no longer immediately think to call you,
at least to the best of your knowledge.*

*Apologies to Kenan and Kel in Good Burger.

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Poem: On the Significance of Triumph #NaPoWriMo

Some people are never satisfied.
I swear, if they won a Pulitzer Prize,
they’d complain it wasn’t a Nobel.

Sometimes the small triumphs
mean the most,
like not re-reading the hateful email
your ex sent to all your mutual friends.

Or when you didn’t leave the crumbs
on the counter after eating the
last slice of key lime pie
from your hands.

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Poem: On the Fine Art of Collecting in Aid of Mental Stability #NaPoWriMo

Some of us get lost in details.
Minutiae absorb our minds.

I could never,
perhaps because I never wanted to,
find myself so lost in statistics,
dates, patterns, smells, and materials.
I never really cared who signed what and when
or what colours were used in any particular year.
I didn’t have the focus.
Anyone who ever tried to teach me
complained that my mind wandered off,
and I could not be present.

So, I envy the others who are so lost
in learning and remembering exactly
what shades of blue were in use in 1872.
They seem so untroubled as they delight
over the 1919 edition they found on Ebay for
only $35, less than dinner at a mediocre restaurant.

They get such pleasure from harmless hobbies,
while I stay shackled in the torture room,
collecting nothing but my own thoughts
of eternal suffering presaged by infinite dread.

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Poem: On the Relativity of Badness and Things (in the most general sense of the word) #napowrimo

It was supposed to be ironic
to say bad things will happen.

You were thinking of things like
an unauthorised charge on the credit card
or a stock broker dating your daughter.

You felt so secure that you could laugh
at the anxiety and insecurity of your peers.
Hey, we all have problems, you’d chuckle,
But it all works out in the end.

You’d accumulated both assets and insurance,
and you planned carefully for an uncertain future.
You had lectured others on the importance of savings,
healthful living, and sound investments.

But the history of the world is nothing
if not a lengthy narrative of people
experiencing the unimaginable
unaided by immaculate preparation or
salvation from a merciful God.

Sinners suddenly remember God
holds them over the pit of Hell as
one might hold a spider over a fire.*

As they emerge from the ashes,
anxiety cripples them until,
slowly, they become steadily
more complacent, even arrogant,
until vengeance meets them again.

*Thanks to Jonathan Edwards.

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