Peace

There is a peace in trees
for we are quick, and they are slow
and doing very little, we can trust
their will, their intent, their motives,
the slow trunk and core
of their wooden hearts.
Quickly, we turn; we pick up
the saw and axe, we turn upon them
but they in peace will fall, slowly
the only fast motion caused by us.

July 2019

Naps

Afternoon naps end like water
balloons slapped against the street
—you can’t put it all back in.
Laying on the couch wondering
why I said—they weren’t so bad,
in fact I’m usually very proud;
but there it was, and cannot be
unsaid. The globe spins slightly
and I rustle in the blanket;
the room is empty when I wake
and too quiet.

July 2019

texture

I like your texture, your
gentle dimensionality,
ridges pressing up
against the void of air.
It is the way of truth
& holiness: the bones
of our world, to violate
the empty peace of
Nothing with solidity, with
brutal textured Existence
itself.

July 2019

Play

Eventually we forget how to play
on random objects scattered in our world
instead smoking cigarettes at parks
and laying with no adventure in
the childish embrace of playgrounds.
Take your time, on your journey there:
there is a different joy in the time
behind me: not more, or better, but
unique in its color and timbre.

July 2019

Noise

Through the noise &
static, stifling spheres
of chaos inflating,
suffocating—pierces
one clear note, familiar
and pure. Without triumph
it defeats the cacophony
from underneath: we hear,
made Human once again
and turn our heads
in the direction of this
one true sound, this
thin line of beauty
amidst the storm.

July 2019

Days to hide

Some days are days to hide:
the skies for bureaucrats
are the only shred left
of our humanity. Or are we?
Do hearts still beat inside our chests
or who are we, out from these desks?

July 2019

Letter from the dead

Do not blame yourself
when clouds like eyelids close
upon me, to drape too soon
the Earth with bloodless dark.
The sullen rain gives life,
although it stings like violence
cold and sharp upon your skin;
it thins the gloom for sunlight
patching through in mindful joy.
I journey onwards as it rains
upon you. Behind me, generations
stretch up from the sodden dirt
as I once did. We did not expect this
sudden grayfall cloudburst, not now—
but curse not the rain, nor yourself.
These are the ways of Earth:
you have only what has been,
and promises, undelivered.
To hope is to be laid bare
as the dirt; you know this, now
carry on with hope. Wash in rain
your body of unthroned hopes; part
with me here, amid dark clouds:
let your open eyes behold the light.

July 2019

Rockets

Silent calm befalls
belligerent crowds
floodlit in vision:
a common purpose
burning our divisions
in a rocker’s roar.

July 2019

Insistence

The overlap is insanity:
three voices crowding
out my own, louder than
myself, insistently trivial
and self-convinced. Vying
for my attention, forcing
interruption, breaking
in on every thought:
“Daddy, dad, daddy—“
but when I snap around
impatient and defeated,
you pause, unperturbed:
“I love you,” and carry on.

July 2019

Fossils

Sometimes we are nothing
more than fossilized
remains of what we were.
The shape is a memory
you can knock your knuckles
on: structure but no heartbeat,
no tissue, no give, no breath.
It makes us sad to see what
isn’t—but this is an illusion.
Matter and energy cannot
be created, or destroyed.
And we are matter and energy:
we die; we change forms; but
our molecules remain, passed
body to body down through
eons and millennia. So when
we are nothing more than fossils—
we are never only this. Our bodies
change forms, and remain.






July 2019

Oh Child

Oh, child.
Oh, my child,
be still, child,
be still.

There is peace, child.
There is joy, child.
There is love, child.
There is hope.

Oh, child,
oh my child.
Be still, child.
Be still and
sleep.






July 2019 - When Charlie was a few months old, I wrote a little lullaby for him that I sang at times when he needed to hear my voice quietly—bedtimes, or when he was fussing, or when I’d feed him a bottle. Almost five years later, it is a part of all three kids’ childhoods and still calms them down when life is scary. I think there is tremendous strength in just remembering, at dark moments, that light exists: there is joy, and peace, and love. And even if we do not feel them now—there is also, and always, hope. Hope for better things, hope for change, hope that love and joy and peace—which cannot be destroyed—will visit again soon.

weeds

These dishonored weeds
exploding in a hothouse Spring
are tendrilled veins sucking air
into the hungry metal Earth.



July 2019

Legos

Sometimes I wish
like LEGO men
my head could be removed
or an arm snapped off
to make an easy change.
But no, real change is
hard: plastic teaches us
the wrong lessons, as kids.
Anyway, I’m not sure
what all I’d change.





July 2019

Growing

When I was small
the Earth was tiny
the sky was friendly
and I saw it all.
But as I grew
the universe
expanded with me
and taught me truth.
Now I’m older
the skies are colder
horizons darker
and untrue;
but richer are we
between the shadows
for having known
Earth bright and small.






July 2019

Waiting

We wait for
years, usually
not knowing
why or what
waits for us.
It is both courage
and cowardice,
but more so:
it is human. We
declare mortality,
our complex joys
and devastations
—waiting, still, an
eddy in the current
of life all around us.
This is life; we wait
and at the end,
we stand up, and
walk away.




July 2019

Joys

Wide-eyed, soak in the joys
as they happen all around you:
each is a passing gift, meant
to be seized and held forever.

July 2019

Shoreline desire

Desire is a shoreline house 
built below the tide.
When the water’s high, passion 
rushes in, flooding every room; then 
empties out again, pulled by the moon.
Like inlanders, we cannot discern 
the patterned rhythms of the sea;
so we wait upon the muddy shore
wondering of the mysteries 
we haven’t learned.



July 2019

Grapes

Here’s a little mystery:
in the best years for wine
the clouds starve the vines
for water, making grapes rich
in subtle flavors & making
men rich who sell the bottles.
Perhaps it’s not true
of everything, but—
how often have we found
we, too, bear better fruit
when starved; when demise
of some kind seems to sulk
nearby.





July 2019

Liberty

Liberty is a scar
on Humanity’s body
of indifference
towards humans.
We shall cover it
with make ups and masks,
avoid and diminish it—
but never remove
the memory and reality:
Individuals have been free
before; still are, sometimes;
and will be again, forever.







July 2019

Tree tips

Before a storm, tree tips
light green with promised growth,
become wind-whipped fragile beings
chased this way and that
by a flippant heaviness;
an urgent irreverence.
In the melee, many tips break
free of their sisters and fall dead to Earth.
The tree remains, and some lost tips
become saplings.

July 2019

flowers for the road

flowers for the road
: a gift i wish i'd given
sitting in an empty room (
zoo tiger in his faux domain
). my last glass is always alone
after everyone is done with
laughter & farewells wiping off
mascara in houses across town
. she is already asleep in fits;
we are both alone; upstairs & down
. did i build this cage to keep
me safe or another way around?
all others come and go;
i won't make a single sound, only
silently after they are gone
i'll wish i'd given them
flowers for the road.

July 2019