Insect

Today
I killed
A cockroach.
A subject we are loathe
To broach:
Is God the sidewalk
Or the shoe?

Is faith in an unseen future
The glue
That binds the suture
Tight,
That joins all things
In futile fight
For survival?

The image, primal,
Of the crushed insect -
I shall remember but soon forget.
We kill the small and worthless
Without regret.

Hourglass

I grow tired
And the hour is getting late;
The time withers for youthful dreams
I hoped would make life great –

Too late to scale the highest peaks

Or swim the widest channel
Or other wondrous feats;
Too late to take a child in hand,
Raise a fine woman or a man.

If still left to me were one hundred years
I still would not find the courage or time
To conquer my fears -

Still the manuscript would lay in tatters,
Still I’d dwell on what doesn’t matter,
Still the trip to that distant land
Would be just talk with a drink in hand.

And as I drain my glass with somber face
In a clean, well-lighted place,
I know my love tonight will not appear.
Perhaps, if time should still remain,
I will find you here, this time, next year.

Grace

This is the boon of time;
It creates a distance in the mind,
A space of grace
And possibility:
That you may not be a slave
To the past,
That your pain is not obliged to last
But fade by grades,
And the tell-tale tears
Vanish in the years.

Torn Veils

Winter takes the warmth from everything.
And the lush veils that hide
The eternal mysteries
Wither and fall.

The dark, jagged shape of the trees:
The monsters that walked before history.
The winter sky gray and wan:
The smoldering glow at time's dawn.

The people of the city, puppets of the stars:
Indifferent as the winds of Mars.
The people of the farm, keepers of the faith:
The lonely miles of outer space.

All the souls surrounding me await,
Like nurturing vultures,
My untimely death;
Every boon, every kind gesture,
A gentle prod on the plank at the chasm.
Your trouble does not concern us,
They imply, sly fangs dripping:
Not your aches, cares,
Fears or nightmares.

In the dream I am falling, hurling
Down the chasm filled with millions
Of falling souls, all wrapped
In a mantle of cold, and the voices
Whispering, shouting, calling:
Choices prisons make;
Memories shimmer and break;
Long days of brief sleep-
Fitful, ungrateful -
Your fury is silent and deep.

The eternal mysteries knocked and hissed:
As you failed to forgive, all those chances you missed;

As long as the days are the lines on that list,

Down the chasm of time as you tumble,

With the weight of the sadness you stumble,

As you fumble to shoulder the rock of regret –

The sentence of days that you cannot forget.

Moon Clouds

Summer moon,

Your face blurred behind clouds

That move with a soft white glow,

Your quiet splendor lost

On the faces below.  

Embroiled in the heat of revelry,

The abandon of night,

The exhaustion of forgetting

What could have been,

What might -  

Souls turn to one another

With eyes that barely speak,

Worn by intoxication

Of sound, and light, and drink.  

The mind can barely think.

The nose has lost its sense.

But the mouth moves

In the hopeful present tense: 

You are beautiful, the most beautiful.  

Let us love tonight 

And escape the sight  

Of our memories.  

Summer moon,

Time is late to feel regret.

Don’t look upon my yearning.

Better yet that you should set

And make my shadow die.

 

New Year's Eve

December is the cruelest month
When the old folks, impatient
For their children's plane to land,
Wrap themselves in cloaks of memories
And sink into the dead land;

When I examine my intentions
By the weakened winter light -
What was a January hope
In the embers fades from sight.

What I could have done
But I never did,
As the year has come to end,
I carry to the new year still
Like a sack with my back bent.

But it is true, that we two
Did walk that summer night.
Hand in hand, we took our stand
Against time's relentless might.

For you and I gazed at the sky,
At the twinkling light of dead stars,
We our hallowed moment vowed to keep
Bright like our beating young hearts.

Though you have gone
At year's cold end,
The memories I take with me.
Into the future new hopes I send
That you may yet await me.

Knock

I don’t sleep well, torments at night –
The soft kind.

(small noises, moving, rustling)

What can might,
What could should.

Without sight,
grasping, touching in the dream closet:
dream silent children playing in dream coats –
or smothering?

(small noises, scratching, muffling)

In sleepdark,
always misplaced, the keys I cannot find.
The hooded man ate all the light switches,
electric smiling, switching back and forth:
now lamplight through my window pane,
now sleepdark.

(small noises, tapping, tapping)

In the hallway stands the hooded man
waiting for the knock on the door.
Am I coming home?

Suicide

Of all life on this planet,
Only Man
Can see his death –
And plan it . . .

Socially unacceptable,
Financially impossible –
Yet morally defensible.

Mother was saying on the phone
One Saturday afternoon –
“I’ve fixed your room.
We can have your favorite beans and rice.
Just wait until you see the garden;
The new plantings are so nice.”

All those years spent howling
In the black box, in the office.
But no one ever hears:
Just sign here, and here, and here.
And we need that revised report
To include the budget cuts next year.

The books show me all the things
I will never live to see:
The heroes yet to greet,
That princess kiss, so sweet,
The castles left to climb.

Silent the symphonies of the mind,
My days laid out to mine
A life for deeper meaning.
But the truth bubbles up, streaming:
I was really mostly dreaming.

Never played the piano,
Never sang in choir,
Always saying I was This or That;
Drawing breath like any liar.

Never married,
Hardly tarried
Over sunsets past a certain age –

Now I know that all the rage
Is to die screeching, laughing.
But pardon me, if in my passing,
I sit and tell the truth – for
I did so love the dancing.
I did so love your silly looks
And the passages from certain books
That we read, as if romancing.

Passenger

When I was a young man,
I was an old man,
Watching the world with wary eyes,
Though not yet capable of sighs.

Backstage I curled up in solace
With ancient tales of a golden chalice,
While the other dancers with silly stares
In laughing poses brandished their hair.

In summer sitting beneath a tree
My father explained divorce,
Returning home to my room to flee
Where I found my childhood corpse.

Years of tragedy sundering
Family, friends, like lightning a tree,
Over a cup of tea last week wondering:
What became of you? What became of me?

A ship on the horizon dwindling,
Headed God knows but I know not –
While I on the sand sit mingling
What I could have done with what I did not.

Wretched

Every moment
Has the potential
To be a wretched moment
Like walking home
In bitter cold
And the moon shining, quiet -
Still
It shines on you tonight
Wherever you are.