deipnosophist deficit
the family sat around
the well-set dinner table
every evening
erect
shoulders back
elbows tucked
forks held correctly
in the right hand
mouths closed while chewing
mouths closed unless spoken to
mouths closed
mouths closed
mouths closed
no wonder they never knew
FYI: (daip-NOS-uh-fist) noun: One skilled at dinner-table conversation.
I’ve been having dreams
where you and I commune
Apology’s are exchanged in peace
Me for airing a laundry list of grievances
You for the wounds you punctured out of pain
Your face is different than when your mask slipped
It’s kinder and softer
How I remember you being
How I wanted you to be
I wanted to save you
With willpower alone I’d get the outcome I want
Knock down all the walls and forgive every slight
I’m no saint though
The log in my eye blinded me
Without boundaries all that was given was hurt and enabling
Driven by pride and my own will
We are all here.
Familiar haints in familiar haunts,
iterating as best we can in
this human form and showing
our chains as jewelry.
“I picked this one up in college.
That there is an heirloom –
I’ll never let it go.”
Materialistic materialization
shimmering in and out and
rattling our bones together
to make a new song every time.
Angels Among Us
As a child I once was walking
And I held my grandma’s hand
Up ahead on the corner
We saw a beggar man.
His clothes were dirty and ragged
You could smell him for a mile
He sweated as he held his cup
He’d been there a long while.
“Here’s a dollar, son.” Mammaw said,
“Go put it in his cup,
So that tonight that there man
Might eat a bite and sup.”
I said, “Why mammaw, he’s a drunkard
He’ll just spend it all on wine.”
She said “well I’ll just tell you
If he does that’ll be just fine.
Perhaps that man you see there
Could use some joy in his life
A chance to escape
From this world of pain and strife.
Perhaps some day, I tell you
When you’re as old as I am
You’ll not judge too harshly
His need for a dram.
You can’t go by appearance
To judge a man his worth
For you may be entertaining
Disguised angels on this earth.”
As I’ve gotten older
I look back on what mammaw said
And I no longer ask
“Do I give for wine or bread?”
And now I understand
A new dimension to the test
It’s that it doesn’t matter
If I’m feeding bum or blessed.
I reckon what really matters
Is that we do the best we can
And that we share with love
When we share with our fellow man.
‘Cause love, you know is worthless
Unless you give it away
And generally it comes back
To you again some day.
So, don’t bother searching angels
And wondering if “ he’s one”
Live so that someone may call you an angel
When your time on earth is done.
What gift to buy
for the ancient aunt
who wants for nothing,
not because she has so much
but because she wants so little
,a Christian Buddhist
who knows nothing of eastern religion?
Years have taught her that a good life
depends not upon things,
but upon loving relationships
and virtuous living.
Such wise ones once sat at the city gate
talking quietly and dispensing
their wisdom and judgment
to those seeking to find it.
Not now.
Buffoons and shysters
have driven them away
and taken their place.
Old, but without the wisdom,
intellectually, morally, and spiritually stunted in youth,
seeking to acquire those things
that they should have long since outgrown.
Like a grown woman playing make believe with dolls
or a man obsessed with toy blocks,
they might as well be wearing diapers
for all of the maturity
they have attained.
Twas the turning of the century, and we
were making maps of the world. Times
had changed, and the lines drawn by our
fathers’ fathers had been altered a thousand
times over. But there was a familiarity. There
was an air of tradition. The winds of change
would come and lift our sails again, and
states would morph into regions, and countries
would disappear for a moment. Empires
would rise and fall, and we would no longer
be here. Our maps will find their way into an
old museum that smells musty and damp.
Historians will speak on our behalf and what
they thought we meant when we wrote
about our “Roman Empire” that somehow
existed in the twenty-first century. We will
cease to be ourselves, and our maps will be
the only thing left of us. Stories of conquering
and succeeding. Conquering and falling. One
day a child will dare to draw a map of their
world, and that map will join ours in that
musty museum. A historical collection of
worlds that we couldn’t imagine living in, and
only time will tell us about the next century.
Together we nest,
onslaughts fended. We’re safe. Still:
never enough time.
petty arguments over
dishes left
unwashed.
half truths and
full lies
thrown with
four seam velocity.
things that were said
that were best left
unsaid.
actions that were done
that can’t be
taken back.
a girl is a gun.
a boy is a bomb.
nothing more to talk about.
set your primer.
step back about thirty feet.
and watch me
explode.
click across grass, hopping
so as not to signal full ascent.
those beaded neurons
wet with tradition, slick with practice.
one thing seeks another. summer fire
holds. we dream danger and the air
is so gentle, the sun unbearably
compassionate. i am plush stone fruit.
i am waiting for something to happen.
at the raised hand nature enters
with a toolbox and plies away.
i held a human brain once…so heavy.
hands everywhere you look.
solitary bows. bright orange
bellies. pollen.
insistence. shying.
mud. the arrows
that eat each other.
