Saturday, April 23, 2011

April 23

The clever can use
While the genius copy.
A handful of umber ovoids
Splitting red at the seams
Bridled long enough
Under shrouds of duff and aching ice
Now reach in yogic posture
Grounding deep and grasping towards
Their heaven
And dreaming of the possibilities
In unimaginable days and dawns
Only predictable by looking back for wisdom
Only attainable by living on in hope.

Friday, April 22, 2011

April 22

I like people who like me, don’t you? 
Even one’s who like me for the “wrong” reasons
Such as:
They like me for reasons that are not good for me or
They like me for reasons that are not good for them.
Sound familiar? Ah the heartache…
Regardless, it get’s the juices flowing
And that’s what it’s all about,
The juices
Getting the right peptides locked into the appropriate receptors.
(OK, that actually sounds dirty doesn’t it? But true, either way!)
I once had a student, slightly spelling-challenged, who left a love note
That fell into my hands, plaintively asking,
“Do you lick me?”
Cutting right to the chase, or perhaps a Freudian slip?
Or at least a petticoat.
And despite the consequences, he will likely go a long way,
With a passing grade for chutzpa if not for spelling.
Being beings of largely juice, water mostly,
Requiring procreation,
Effrontery is essential
In order to keep the sap flowing
And even without our active knowing
We are living out our sweet design
And isn’t it just so divine?
Thanks for reading.
I hope you liked my poem, and if you did
I likely like you.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

April 20

You have nicked me more than once
Drawn blood,
But I was careless and so deserving
On better days
We peeled bark from an Aspen stick and roasted
The best meal over an open fire
You were always there
To help
To rescue
To serve when needed
And to stay in reserve
Red, sharp and ready.
You unscrewed corks
Popped tops and opened cans,
And cut, long before the Veg-o-matic.
And until today we traveled
Maine to Colorado
Newfoundland and Mexico
Cracking lobsters, slicing limes
Trimming nails and a thousand more mundane moments
Until today when TSA took you away
From me
For the first time in some forty years.
I lament your loss friend,
For I am now just a bit more alone.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

April 17













  • Peace





Peace x 2







Friday, April 15, 2011

April 15

spring has drawn a curtain such
that i cannot see long or deep
into the woods
and even though in february
i long for her to unfurl
the leaves and vines
of renewal
i secretly hold dear the moments
on cold trails or searching (leering) through frosted glass
peering past the rows of rough bark
and gnarly branch hoping
to find
seeking to know
the secret of the hills
and boulders
caressing their broad shoulders
and thighs
loving them and knowing that
they will soon drop behind the green curtain
finding their flirtatious privacy
in the company of the growing chaos of the forest

Thursday, April 14, 2011

April 14

There you are (or so it seems)
A bit remote, a disconnect
From me and where
It is a pity.
You come across quite Madam Tussauds,
Buffed and glossed,
Quite rain repellant, no doubt
And tear repellant too.
I wonder what might sprout
From your earbuds,
A flower that might welcome pollination?
Or some sadly sterile fruit
Genetically engineered
That will not bruise so easily
During this transit?

Monday, April 11, 2011

April 11

I am pretty sure that I don’t know
What is right for you
What is right for all of you?
I do know that I am like you
And so
We have common causes and concerns
We have been given noble needs
And have evolved eventually to meet them.
And there is change that challenges all of this.
There is always change.
I just know what feels right for me,
My way.
It is simple, I think,
Although things do get complicated,
But when they do I test them against
An idea or two
A feeling or two,
And then if I am wise
I bend like a lithe willow
Swept by the driven rain
And grow on.

Friday, April 8, 2011

April 8

He was tired,
Heart sick really.
Raised a scientist
Rational, empirical…
The data was startling, jarring:
There is big change coming the data said,
And it will be bad, worse than bad,
Calamitous, Catastrophic.
We can kid, or ignore or deny
We can avoid, place blame, deny blame.
It doesn’t really matter,
For nothing will likely change the course;
Positive climate feedback, academically
Apocalyptic, in reality.
But raised and awakened in the Sixties
He also carried a flame
Kindled in passion
Which ran parallel to,
Not necessarily counter to what seemed
Obvious and apparent.
The flame was hope.
Hope immeasurable but highly observable,
Hope for the future,
Hope that hardship, fear, and uncertain change
However challenging, however frightening
Could be mitigated through good works
Could become the new world
Different but also beautiful
A strange new age of Aquarius
Adaptive and unifying
Where one love, with such great power,
Crossing borders and oceans,
Could still find a way.
And then he heard the voices of
A thousand-thousand
Singing their songs of hope,
Singing his song too.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

April 7

Sitting by the compost pile on
Buddha’s birthday.
No sweet rain or blossoms
No swooping dragons like on that day
Just a moldering orange peel
Brown leaves and memories,
And deep down
Fungi and earthworms,
Turning and turning
The world in motion
The world in this moment,
Change that the Buddha would recognize
And regard as right.

April 6

They are tiny time machines,
Some flat, some round and wrinkled
Some so small that they might lodge under
My fingernails.
They remind of the summer past
And their time as ova and pollen
Blossoming and then drying.
Or perhaps hidden deep within
A fruit ripe
Tempting a bite from a passing jay or doe or gardener.
Now coiled within
They are the future
Certain that some will fall
To the soil
And bear the winter to
Bear the secret of millennia past
And hold the brilliant hope of another season.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

April 5

It is not complicated
Being a little man
Do the plan, drink the Kool-Aid
Avoid confrontation and dissonance
Be the cog
Avoid cognition
Live and love the tyranny of the mind
Flinch when dharma is revealed
Cringe and cry at dukkha
Be little
And wear the right shoes
No one will notice
If you play by the rules
And don’t go big,
Don’t even think about it.

Monday, April 4, 2011

April 4

I knocked on your door
Stepped into the slip stream of your
It required me to shift gears, mind and body
More than once
Required me to dig into my bag of Acme devices
To catch you Roadrunner
I wallowed in your footsteps dreamlike
Knowing that you had slowed,
Then pleasing.
Somehow, we have learned to do this dance.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

April 3

I’m feeding the squirrels.
I used to believe that I was
Feeding sunflower seeds to the birds,
But not so much anymore.
They usually just wait and watch from a nearby branch
The front row seats, filled with Chickadees, bills gaping seedlessly
No concession snacks for the meek.
I swear that the squirrels used to come disguised:
I liked the blue jay outfit.
The faux feathers, tufted crest
Gaudy like turquoise jewelry, or an Ocean City miniature golf course.
Their bad ass attitude would trick you on a snowy morning.
Now they just put on a gluttony show
Hanging upside down
Legs akimbo, a Kama Sutra of dexterity
They Buddha-belly up all day to the all you can eat for one price table.
Their big dewy eyes hardly flinch
When I run out waving a dish towel and yelling.
Eventually they trot off to a nearby tree and watch, smirking.
Hey, they enjoy a show with their meal too.
And they’ll be back for the second show.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

April 2

I just couldn’t help myself
As I paused to glimpse at the show:
I’m having your brother’s baby or
The woman you’re dating is really a man…
I only meant to just watch for a moment
To see how preposterous
But they were having an all day marathon
And it was rainy and cold outside, anyway
And I…
So I took the phone off the hook
And watched all day,
Like I thought I would live forever.

Friday, April 1, 2011

April 1

The snow is raking from
April skies
Composed of slate-bottomed texture-less clouds,
It is shearing the morning light with its
Tongue scratching edges
Cast down upon us by some merry prankster
On a less than creative day.
And truly unappreciated,
It neither coats the ground nor
Taunts the frog,
Cratering with silent percussive thuds
Rushing to a splosh
Delighting in a deviously conceived assault
On my selfish vernal dreams,
As if to demand my pointless surrender
And to stipulate a
“Let’s get this over with.”
Before sliding down the hoary horizon.