The Bent Lily
.
And so it comes to pass
that on a frosty winter’s
night my love for these
words cease to enlighten
me that I rest my quill in
it’s inkwell forevermore
.
And like the bent lily
knowing it will soon die
remains a thing of beauty
the words my heart utter
no longer have meaning
but will always persevere
awakening anew with the
warming thaw of spring
.
For poetry, like a flower,
meant to revive the spirit,
is only a transient affair
it is there to remind us of
the wonders and fragility
of a life that is at its very
best so little understood
.
In the end, I would rather
be remembered simply as
a mediocre novelist than
as a poet whose failures
and folly were exhumed
in every line he ever wrote.
.
For Samantha Reynolds
si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit
.
Patterns
.
I’m growing increasingly weary of
.
these patterns that are unable to be
of any usefulness to me while they
.
become more and more fixed onto
the surface of my melancholy wall
where the slowly peeling layers of
.
plaster reveal remnants of hate and
detachment from a world where no
love remains and where solitude is
the only dimension where emotion
.
can blossom into a thing of beauty.
.
Runny Noses
.
It must be traumatic
for such a little girl
to one day discover
that her nose is runny
that what has always
been dry and discreet
now oozes an aqueous
discharge of yuck that
was no doubt acquired
from one of the elfin
tykes who shared their
spittle-ridden contagia
in a cute fit of giggles
spraying microscopic
spritz all over my two
year-old and her baby
sister who now spend
restless nights hacking
and snorting and waking
up in puddles of mucous
that they look at in sheer
dismay wondering where
the mess came from and
why their parents look so
utterly worn and woebegone.
.
Compulsions
.
It’s only my desire for a bit
of controlled disorder that can
easily be construed as what many
have considered to be compulsive;
but I don’t see what’s wrong with my
wanting the bed made, the rug straight or
the couch centered perfectly in the window;
and so what if my system of kitchen cupboard
management doesn’t make sense to others, I know
why the food goes here, the cleaning supplies there,
and the reason the cups are where they are is merely
a matter of practicality and what I consider common sense;
okay, so there are the little things, that the garbage bin has a back
and a front that apparently only I can distinguish; that both desk lamps
must be switched on so the bulbs burn out at the same time; that the black
remote control rest in front of the larger grey one for symmetry’s sake; and that
the cloth dinner napkins be folded just as I’ve been folding them since seeing it
done in the first copy of Martha Stewart Living magazine I ever saw back in 1992;
so call me compulsive, I’m not easily deterred by labels or other people’s opinions,
I don’t need anyone’s approval to ball my socks or fold them, to insist that my kitchen
and household appliances are the same brands; and that I throw away that extra bit
of butter I cut off because it doesn’t fit onto the butter dish though I know it’s wasteful;
So maybe I am a bit compulsive, maybe I do place as much importance on how my poems
look as on what they say, and perhaps making sure the mat inside the front door is even
with the one outside is a bit obsessive, but when I find balance and perfection in these
commonplace things, my world seems all the more anchored, bearable and satisfying.
.
Waking Justin
.
I’ve seen the photographs
from that first day smiling
in the E.R. as if you had merely
scraped your knee or eaten too much
cotton candy at an amusement park;
but Mercurochrome or Pepto-Bismol
wouldn’t cure what was ailing you
and the photos kept coming, one
more disconcerting than the last;
the darkness that had fallen over
your room, the endless web of
tubes and wires and the dire and
desperate updates your father
posted on Facebook that while
expressing concern for his ailing
son never yielded to defeat and
remained hopeful and optimistic,
while demonstrating the untiring,
unrelenting and unconditional
love that a father has for his son;
I don’t know either of these men,
but their story has touched me and
given me an opportunity to observe
life at its most fragile and vulnerable
moment, one where lives hang in the
balance and the unknown is all that
exists between today and tomorrow,
life, death, solace and redemption.
.
The Little Emperor
.
We love to label
not caring about
what is beneath
the sticky paper
.
We enjoy naming
things and claiming
exhaustive knowledge
of the human condition
.
If it’s written in a book
than it must be true,
truer still if we see
ourselves on the pages
.
There are outbursts
and tantrums and
insolent behavior
unbefitting young men
.
And there is radiance
exploding from the
long, thin fingertips of
an unassuming virtuoso
.
So much passion, confusion
and awkward adolescent angst;
turbulence, reticence and the
boiling malaise of innocent youth
.
You are not a little emperor
you are divine and lucent,
a contumacious soul trapped in
a world of other people’s ignorance.
.
Renewal
While the world is still quiet and dark
My mind feeds on thoughts so placid
And lovely that even my longings and
Innermost sorrow seem to drift beyond
The reach of every disconcerting thing
Leaving me momentarily in a state of
Bliss that allows my senses to become
Renewed and for a fleeting instant I am
Reminded what it feels like to be alive.
.
Playing Catch
.
I know you probably
can’t fathom how I
could possibly be
lonely—with work,
projects and two
small babies in
the house;
but
the truth
is that there is
nothing else that
I’d rather do than
play catch with you
out in the back garden
until nightfall envelops us.
.
Culpability
I assume my share of the blame
for why things haven’t always
gone right in my life, but when
it comes time to make amends
and right the wrongs, it seems
that every force of nature finds
a way to treat me with disdain;
.
Now it’s a matter of waiting for
the winds of change to blow a
bit of good fortune my way and
accept the consequences as fate
deems fair to dole them out and
to search the depths of my soul
for the strength to face the storm.
.
Peril
For someone who
as time goes by
believes less
and less in
love
I
can’t
seem
to keep my
heart from being
broken over and over.
.
Intervention
Part of me wants to leave things alone
let reality take its course, allow nature
the time she needs to disavow herself
of the mess that she’s made, the havoc
that she’s wreaked and the inexcusable
harm she has burned us with by seeing
to it that the life of this young man can
not be lived in harmony or without the
hardships that are so clearly avoidable;
.
I have proposed a plan of intervention,
one that in its most fundamental vision
sees the jaws of the vice loosening just
enough to give everyone in its grip the
space to wriggle out from between the
pressures of a life that is crying out in
need of being lived the way it wants to
rather than the way others want it and,
all the sadder still, expect to see it lived.
.
Sitting Up
.
It was bound to happen
.
sooner or later,
.
they all do that…
.
then they stand,
.
taking the first steps
.
that always seem
.
to be the ones that
.
take them the farthest
.
away from us.
.
Bite Me
I wonder what you were trying to tell me
When you lunged ever so quickly forward
Unleashing your rage and fear into my leg
Leaving me standing there on the stairway
Confused, in shock, wondering if what had
Just occurred had really happened or if the
Pain that was beginning to resonate through
The back of my thigh was imaginary or not;
The tooth marks remain as does the swollen
Redness and the recollections of the pit bull
I wrestled to the ground after it jumped out
Of a first floor window onto a car then in an
Instant ran towards me grabbing my dog by
The neck with the determined intention of
Inducing pain, suffering and ultimately the
Death and demise of my faithful companion;
That dog of mine has since passed on, as did
His companion some four years earlier, which
Leaves me now with a small, homely Shih Tzu
With an underbite who I adopted from a family
Who could no longer care for him and who I
Have only grown to love conditionally and will
Be the last pet to ever share my home, life and
The deep affection I have squandered on dogs.
.
I Understand Your Weeping
.
Now I know why you weep
we have so much more in
common than I could
have ever imagined
.
your branches are
as bare as my
heart
.
lonely
as my
soul
.
swaying
slowly
in the
winter
wind
.
dying
with
each
gust
.
until
the
ice
and
sky
.
fade
into
.
mist.
.
Silence
.
You used to be no friend of mine
someone I feared and loathed,
would do anything to avoid;
that trip to Albacete all
those summers ago
my escape to the
seclusion of the
countryside
where I
would
write
the
great
American
novel surrounded
only by lizards, wild
boar and the sound of
the creek rushing below
the old mill house where I
would sleep beneath a wooden
cross enveloped in a deafening silence
that drew me in and towards the brink of
madness; but now, all these years later, I seek
you out amidst the din of crying babes, ticking
clocks and T.V cartoons whose cackles and laugh
tracks leave me desperately searching for the silence
I once found intolerable; today I take little pleasure
in conversation, and the joy that music once gave
me is waning to the point where there are only
two albums on my iPod that I play repeatedly
day in and day out providing me with all the
inspiration I require to be alive, free, and
totally at peace with my inner silence.
.
A Dream Preferred
.
There are some dreams
that wake me up at night
and keep me up lying in my bed
playing the scenes over and over in my mind’s eye
making me wonder if I couldn’t live those dreams for real
and if I could, would I be able to wake up once destiny revealed its face.
.
The Cancer of Abandonment
.
We have all lost a friend or loved one to
this disease we hate, curse and give our
time, money and effort so a cure may be
found, one that will end the suffering,
tears and anguish that these relentless
infirmities have perpetuated upon
humanity for as long as we have
inhabited this planet;
.
But there is another cancer that looms,
touching the lives of many of us, one
that often comes early in life but
lingers on, an affliction producing
no tumors nor can it be cured by
chemotherapy, radiation or other
drugs and treatments because
the cancer of abandonment
kills us over and over
and over again
leaving only
scars that
never
heal.
.
I’ve Built a Home
.
I’ve
built a
home on a
foundation of sand,
it sinks into the earth
buried amongst the unliving;
I’ve built a home with no back
door and when the fires rage there
will be no way to escape their flames;
I’ve built a home where dogs, dreams
and souls and love die; and I’ve built a
home with no windows and with each
stormy gale every scrap of humanity that
has ever existed is thrust from the safety
and comfort of the place from whence it
came and is blown about like sand in an
barren dessert where the searing sun is
unrelenting and where life could never exist.
.
Lies I Tell the Yoga Mat
.
I chose a mat directly beneath the rafters
a single horizontal beam I imagined my spine was as straight as
the wooden slats in the ceiling, rigid and aligned like perfect vertebrae;
I positioned myself and became an undeviating structure of skeletal mass
and for a fleeting moment I felt uncrooked, symmetrical and whole
until my arms could no longer support the weight they were burdened with,
my legs unable to bear even brief levitation, my body quickly reminded of its frailty;
so there I sat enduring stiffness and pain trying to focus on my breathing,
listening to new age music, staring into the glowing tea lights and
wondering what I looked like beneath my skin as I whispered
lies into the spongey cells of my yoga mat.
.
Indelible Recollections
.
There are always the photographs
and the indelible recollections that
remind me of every moment I spent
loving you, caressing you and holding
you as tightly in my arms as I could knowing
that one day the feeling of you there in my arms
would simply fade into an oblivion of sorrow and emptiness.
.
The Dreaded Moment of Parenthood
.
There comes the moment
that every parent dreads:
when their children arrive
at the realization that we
are not superheroes,
magicians or possess
the power to solve
their problems
or answer all
the questions
they have
about
life,
love
and the
infinite
mysteries
of the universe;
and when that
moment arrives,
the pedestal we had been
placed upon and stood so
comfortably and confidently on for
so many years comes crashing down,
and all that is left is the fragile shell of
our waning mortality,
feigned humility
and the snapshot
memories of our
children when
innocence
was their
greatest
virtue.
.
Decay
.
Where even light won’t reach
the depths of solitude there
is a place with chasms cut
so wide and profound that
only shadows dare to lurk
where souls fear death
and every last breath
we take suffocates
our existence;
there is no
love there
or any
glow
of
hope,
only the
stench
and immutable
reality of decay.
.
Painting You
.
If I could paint
the perfect sky
one without a
single cloud
where rays
of sunlight
shining on
your face
would
make
me an
artist of
fetching
desire,
I would
dip my
brush
in the
rainbow
of your
soul and
paint until
my heart
was as
colorful
as you.
.
