Before I was a Penguin
I float humbly as a cosmic
entity reeling enormously
over the milky way.
Seeking comets to breach
perception & to light my heart
aflame.
I float humbly as a cosmic
entity reeling enormously
over the milky way.
Seeking comets to breach
perception & to light my heart
aflame.
To be honest with you, I have no clue
if it was starry during the night.
I was doing my best to end the day
with the woman I’ve given my heart to.
Forty-eight starry-night years before,
you insisted that all men are bastards
but wouldn’t share the secret that you kept,
preferring instead to say you might love me.
You spoke of finding an empty field
tucked out of sight behind a thick windbreak,
of wrapping yourself in snow, and sleeping
until spring released you once again.
Sitting on a bench by the grayed town square,
I couldn’t disabuse you of those thoughts.
Still, by morning I felt you were, if wounded, safe,
at least for the time being. Death is patient.
Over the years, and the miles, and the changes,
one and another of us talked you off the ledges.
In the end, we were outnumbered by that one demon
you never gave us more than glimpses of by night.
Your favorites saw you off the stage, beyond us:
A bottle of the finest Irish, the pills to be chased down.
I lean against the car, while my wife gives me space
to set a flame to memories, to fill the sky with stars.
Closer.
look closer.
when the damp & dark of summer night
melts heavy, humid,
I am flashing,
flickering,
desperate yellow-green light
like Gatsby’s distant beacon
mixing the very breath I draw
with alchemy, and life blood
butterflies & luciferin
calling to you across fields
begging you to see
my love my love
& one little beetle, breaking ground, breaking
my body, burning & incantatory
one of a thousand, yes,
but one of a thousand, hoping
my dance my song my flash
might convince you
above & falling
I am a star, too.
Sitting in Meditation
Occasionally I open my eyes–
look at others in the group.
They sit erect and silent
with the dignity of noble purpose.
Not once have I seen other eyes open–
each engrossed in their own inner world–
each a microcosm of the whole.
My steadfast loyalty to this group–
part of who I am.
What I seek is insight–
listening through the heart,
the crown
the pineal gland.
What I find–
the stillness
of the bubble
in a carpenter’s level.
The Buddhist prayer:
May I meet this moment fully–
may I meet it as a friend.
A lone utterance.
The figuring and sums added.
Ashy elbows – iridescent –
Ancient dragons.
The castle crumbling,
Overtaken by
Ivy, kudzu, honeysuckle.
There are no castles left
Unless you count
The pawn shop variety
Or that relic
On Versailles Rd.
It’s the realization
Of failed dreams.
No knights left –
Barely any brave souls.
Things once certain
And felt in the blood –
GONE.
Everyone quaivers,
Prickly and precarious
Have become
The new order.
tanka
wish I could paint
chiaroscuro lightning like
Midnight Butterfly
Joan Jet & Black Hearts
silver studs leather jackets
Poem 6, June 6
Life in Columbia
Early in the morning
I write words along lines
in my mind,
a young woman,
a beauty,
full of romance,
& wishes
becomes the poem.
I write the poem
as quickly as thunder rattles dishes
after lightning does its dance
down the tallest tree.
The poem ends before love began,
love being undefined,
tasting of sweet white wines.
After all, it was only a one morning
stand.
