I wonder how I’d look with the Sun on my face. Not the fast and deep flowing sunlight, who I long ago named Hope. But the actual Sun. Surely the truth and green of my eyes would shine. Surely I’d see my chin lifted ever so slightly higher. Surely I’d feel beautiful. Then, “Hope,” I could say, “move along.”
Tag Archives: Poetry
Long Since Zen
Should any of self-proclaimed gods upon high
Be lying in wait for my feet to trip up
Be prowling as jackals for meat from my bones
Grow old you shall, ‘fore you find my will at play
Dementia and graves will be yours if you dare
Take me on for sport will you?
I cannot care
Dear Father,
Baseball
I don’t want to live this yet, Springtime
For, every time the birds and bees and all manner of creatures and things -good sports and bad- migrate back
There’s the media storm, the tough talk, the hype, the great expectations placed in the wrongest of wrong places
So I will close my eyes and wait, Springtime
While Whispering II
Shame: A Haiku
My blessed teacher
My ego’s sworn enemy
My joy deflated
Half
This is the true face of sin
Eternity on a roundabout
Cut off from your roots
A single, static dimension
Reflections upon dirty glass
An ending most abrupt
The Recounting
Maybe your next step will be your last, but you don’t “get” to know beforehand. And instinct is absent.
The floor under your feet will tell you after the fact whether it was ever, at all, true.
And truth, it has been queried, “What is truth,” but I ask you, what is trust? What is trust?
Trust, kept buoyed by hope, took forever to fall away, and these believing eyes with it.
Expectation is only of the coming eve’ and the promise of exasperated sleep, and I praised it more than once.
One morning revealed the night had stolen the vestiges of trust, breaking free all that hope bound.
The only evidence of either, some sense of un-nameable shock. Something’d been there, but what?
Then life’s replaying of horror: The all that was and the all that’s gone. Each breath, each day, each night.
California, Again
It’s Winter when he does this, so I buy myself time and find flowers somewhere. Color-filled, with thorns that draw my blood which proves I’m alive and not here to stay quiet and blind. These flowers, I cannot help but clutch them in desperate remembrance that it’s Summer somewhere. I was born in the Summer.
Dream Dreamer
Cascading stars
Not falling stars
Nor momentary shooting stars
Night fireflies
Not fly-by-nights
Nor echoes in the dead of night
Not half-attempts at anything
Nor abstract things
Just real things
Artist Credit: Tiger R.; at various ages
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