Like waves that break before they meet the shore, And fruit that’s plucked before the ripening; Like sonnet on iambic feet before It finds a body clear thought may bring; Like baking what’s inadequately kneaded, And tea that’s poured before the brewing’s done; Like junk a certain president has tweeted, And clothes pulled off the line still needing sun; Like words divorced of all humility Adorning an apologetic breath, And souls that think they know infinity Before they even cross the bridge of death. I think it is a bit like all of that: Insipid, dried up, bodiless and flat.
I’ve got no words to say I have no song to sing Just full of emptiness In spite of everything Now there’s a name like honey That lingers on my breath To sweeten my pathetic Remembrances of death I rush to stop the rushing It’s time I slowed up now My plans will gather slowly Altogether like a cloud I know the rains will come Just when the time is right Till then I’ll work and wait Everything will be all right I’ve got no words to say I have no song to sing Everything will be all right Everything Everything
Of all the cars that make this train I had to pick the one With broken air conditioning Beneath a gloating sun. The car feels like a furnace now, The window’s out of bounds Though all this heat must surely beat Emergencies around. It’s true we’re free to leave this car And amble over where The air is cooler than the folks Who don’t see that it’s there. But here among the grumbling few Inertia is king; We sit and fume and fret to feel The perspiration spring. On brows we thought reserved for palms And wrinkles wrought in lead By hands advancing time reminding us That Tuesday’s dead. But there’s a hidden mercy here That warns a heedless heart, One wont to stay when wisdom lies In choosing to depart.
Awakening to sounds of foremost light I feel the stories tear into my soul Of someplace where the sun fell on the night To vaporize a family once whole. I see their faces turned up to the sky And wonder if they ever wore a smile, Or had they even watched another die Yet never thinking they would. All the while The images of death and grieving drain The little melatonin left in me Until these deals of Prime Day turn my brain Away from where my heart would rather be. If only there were great discounts for peace, We’d know the real meaning of increase.
This night is so dark or have I gone blind I falter and fall left my senses behind I’m drunk on the spirits that flow through my mind This city is covered in thorn I stumble through streets of every light cast shadows of sin on this carpet of night I taste every sample of tasteless delight And die wishing I were not born I turn into Crescent And look down the lane I see many doors there’s one that looks plain I fall to my knees and I wince from the pain this journey has brought me I’m torn I crawl very slowly up into the moon Its light is so pleasant Wish it won’t go soon I feel so much better My hope’s in this June I’m through, now I wait for the morn
Twelve-year-old drew this segment of our bedroom’s prairie-facing wall with incredible ease. I’ve got to get kid into an art class. And yes, I had to write something to mark the effort. Stain glass bowl By itself Sitting on The bookcase shelf Flanked by drapes Aegean blue Sheers white All watching you Draw them Shut
Asking a poet to be humble Is an act supremely stupid In my humblish opinion For what tops in arrogance The idea that you let brain Sculpt the wretched pulp into words By the heat of spent synapses There is no humble poet Just pretenders: shy performers Ever wishing someone will Play out their craft for them Basking in the applause of their genius But if contrived verse with phrases Like “the heat of spent synapses” Keeps you from the snares of the forsaken Then you Must do Your thing Just be worth saving
All the things I think I get All the plans I think I laid All the folks I think I met All the hands I think I played Everything feels like a dream All suspended in the air I don’t hear it when I scream I don’t see it when I stare Then the I-ness of existence Hits me right between the eyes It’s the craziest inversion Of the sum of all my lies All alone with all my I’s
“Go stand behind the guy with the grey hair.” “That’s gross. Did she actually say that?” Set my buzzer on the chair right next to me Among the crumbs where a crumbled someone sat I meander out of the loyal meter Of the country-western number playing back. Egg and cheese on an Asiago bagel Verse contrived like my Sunday morning snack. And this light roast blend Is sure to send My senses into spiral With no sobering end. Fake smiles Keep them together Moods change Like the Chicago weather. Got to go.
I wrote this in honor of a friend of a friend who has entered the last stages of a 10-year long battle with Benson’s syndrome, a visual variant of Alzheimer’s Disease. This is dedicated to all those enduring the many forms of dementia out there. Peace and love. It doesn’t matter what it is It doesn’t matter why it’s there What it’s for or where it goes Or how it got upon that chair All that matters is your heart Playing softly in your chest Celebrating all you’ve got You’re so different from the rest Sweet and sinless is your breath Drawing circles in my hands Home is past the stream of death Where the sun is in the sands Let the moments come and go Each a lifetime on it’s own They don’t matter now, you know All that matters has been known Smell the flowers, grab the sky Hear the laughter, even cry God is greater than it all You will get to ask Him why As will I