Weakness
I have a weakness
for poetry–the kind that hides
in shadows beneath Sewell Bluff–
naked in plain sight,
fragile,
as colorless
as an Indian Pipe is
when living.
I have a weakness
for women, Venus like in tides,
the ones who strut their stuff
& own the night,
fire in their veins, no less.
They are unforgiving.
It is
no difficult task
to surrender to words.
Lust is that kind of vice
poets pursue,
& love is their easiest
weakness to lose.
The beach
used to be the hardest thing
about vacation,
particularly in returning
to the beach house,
to the phone.
With all the anticipation
of being hours away
I was desperate to see
who, if anyone,
had taken the time
to reach out to me.
But day after day
spanning the week,
that anticipation
was better left in the sun
with no shade,
left to burn.
Nobody,
always nobody.
The beach itself
eroded my hope
that never set sail,
my constant disappointment.
Fortunately,
I can sing
a new song now,
the melody of someone
I deeply care about
who is always there.
You, my dear
perfect the vacation experience
as much as you possibly can
without being here yourself.
My mind isn’t lost as it once was
in the nothingness going home brought.
If there happens to be
no message waiting,
I know it’s coming.
It’s your affections felt
across time and distance,
the sweetest anticipation.
Loneliness no longer has
any place at all
in the vast ocean expanse
or among
all the grains of sand,
for I am loved by you.
A young boy with newborn shine still on his behind
Strolled carelessly down the street
His thoughts soared like the neighborhood birds returning from the winter
To sing his favorite melody
His back ached from lack of nutrition
Stomach numb through acclimation
His folks didn’t know he had been gone for the last week
Well, they never texted or called to show they cared he was absent
He had just walked the 6 miles across town
Dazed from the smoke of a poorly rolled joint
Pondering his place in the world he stumbled over a sidewalk crack
He awkwardly stepped back into equilibrium and raised his head
The sprout was looking at a person
Possibly homeless but certainly down on or devoid of fortune
Gazing at a forgotten bike in a neighbors yard, covered in vines
Resting in the shade of weeds that had grown round it
Suspended, stoic, and statuesque
The boy looked at the man, the man at the bike
Oceans churned and boiled, clouds grew dark and heavy
The balance of justice had no-counter weight with which to measure such a moment
Suddenly, the skies parted, the sun shown and man revealed to the little boy
The value of morality and the struggle of living with integrity
He returned from his inward travels and stood as the King of righteousness
Thorny crown bestowed upon him, exclaiming prominenece and suffering
A King with no possessions was richer than most
He left the bike to its forgotten slumber and disappeared down the road
The boy has often peered from around the corners of his mind
To see if he has grown as tall
I fear for the little boy
For the world offers nothing to such giants
Gods lived in the earth.
Their anchors, like ancient trees,
tapped deep into the repetition of everything
The stars spun above,
trails crossing in complex mandalas
and faraway tides gnawed on beaches
each swelled and sank in daily sets of four.
fractal spirals curled in shells and pinecones
honeycombs and seafoam
settling into comfortable hexagons
When spring melts came
and the sky brightened with no promise of rain,
gods of blooming mountains and withering stalks
watched their people leave for fruitful plains
All things came in patterns
When the rain returned
so would they
I have so much work to do in my future,
I’ll to write papers,
Create projects,
Lead teams,
I’ll have to get up early to do my job,
Right now I’m doing nothing,
In a time where I should be doing something,
But I’ve worked hard for the past 13 years,
Hating what I’ve spent my life doing,
I believe I’ll take a break from it all,
And do what I love
Good fences make good neighbors
pure water flows from the spring
down and around the hill
gently trickles through
the neighbors pesticide scrapheap
The whistle pig warbles his truth
Azazel’s charming creature of the deep
mocks our efforts to will the barn to stand
porous tunnels of doubt
and time tugs it into the ground
And Lilith
calls, calls, calls
far from the coast
calls me to the quarries
concentration powerless to contest
feet moored in the muck
ankle deep regret
familiarity breads discontent
I once knew so much in impudence
and then not so much in doubt
and now don’t know what I don’t know
in confidence
