Poetry has been a way of self-expression, and to some extent therapy, for me for almost my entire life. In 2014 I put together a chapbook, entitled Branch across all space and time. It’s currently only available for purchase if you catch me in person, or I suppose theoretically if you email me to inquire. Online ordering for an ebook version is forthcoming.
Besides that, I do have a handful of poems here. The first four are from that chapbook, and the rest are just some of my favorites written since then. Hope you enjoy.
First, a haiku:
Autumn cherry leaves
hang where springtime blossoms hang.
The years make rainbows.
“It’s hard to keep me eyes on you”
The winds are blowing stronger air,
like the winds that blew a year
ago or so, one stormy day
in spring to complement the fair
days that we’ve seen.
The white light in the darkened gray
above was beckoning somehow,
shining luminance and ala-
baster—argent—veins of pink
and silver—streaks of sheen.
It’s hard to keep my eyes on you:
the trees are waving in the wind.
All the leaves and fronds and blades
are whipping like my hair, the green
and brown and flowers flying, mixing
in the air and flowing on the
concrete slabs, filling every
gutter, every trough.
With the stormy weather I blew
in, on a day like this, so it
is only fitting that a day
like this should see me blow away.
It’s also somehow fitting you,
of all the people here, should be
the one to see me off.
If a little while never
culminates in my return—and
really it most likely never
maybe we will see
each other in another storm,
somewhere else, away from here,
on another stormy day.
“Let there be spaces”
The grass is dry, the blue sky chill and spare,
And you and I now say goodbye. Your hair
Like fire flashes in the Sun that shines
And Wind that blows across the surface of
The Earth and on this plain, and in the air
I see that Sun reflected and the Stars—
Those in the skies and in your eyes—and there
Between us, too, the sparks of our designs
For life, repelling. Being light, it mars
No aspect of the day nor robs us of
What’s true and good, and everything is as
It should be. I don’t know what Purpose has
In store for everyone, but just to know
That people like you live helps me to go.
Take comfort knowing that the world ends
every day. The Earth is spinning and the Sun
goes down—the next day nothing is the same.
But everything is extant. No, it’s not what
it was yesterday, but every piece is there.
It won’t be any different when the difference
matters to humanity more than the ever-ending
every day. I do have worries. The world will not
end in some apocalypse although
the lives I care about most surely end
in one way or another.
Every day I pray their lives proceed
by way of all the very best for them.
Each of us is just a momentary ray
of light among the flashing bright phenomena
across the universe. It is a fragile, perfect web.
Every day holds everything and
every light is lit at once.
Take comfort knowing that the world ends
every day like everything.
That was heavy. How about another haiku?
Starlings twitter and
darken the noisy poplar.
Please don’t poop on me.
For us the living
“It is for us the living … to be dedicated here to the unfinished work.” -Abraham Lincoln
Thank the ones who came before you
As you take a few steps more to
Walk where they did not imagine.
Past lives knew no more than present
know what future lives will hold, so
let us thank them, as they told the
truth they heard, and let us prove that
we, too, say our word and listen
honestly and humbly, like the
past—and, hopeful, like the future.
Thank the imperfection, thank the
beauty—thank the ground you stand on.
Listen to the ground, and, thoughtful,
speak new ground into existence
for the ones who stand on you.
Hold your loved ones lightly.
Let them bend and sway with ease
like grasses, flowers, branches, leaves, and trees
within the autumn wind or summer breeze.
Whisper to them nightly
gentle words that hold a space
for them to sketch conceptions out and trace
themselves and then, in safety, show their face.
You can be a mirror,
but you cannot be a box.
Your words restrict the air, if they are locks—
or gently you can breathe and, free of blocks,
see each other clearer,
breathing in and out the air
that flows between you and within you there,
and holds you up upon the ground you share.
“Let there be in your heart a song for each cup.” -Khalil Gibran
“And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” -Robert Burns
I collected many glasses in our time together,
and as life flowed through me and poured over
into them, they filled, and emptied, and refilled
with many memories they always hold for me.
As the flow of life continues and as usage wears
a vessel, every vessel breaks, its contents, spilled
and flowing outward from the newly unbound space,
returning to the shining, deep, pacific sea.
With the pace of nature, as the use of all the days
collects in them, the glasses, filled and cherished,
used quite well, each break, and then my loving
and my grieving tears, my memories collected in them,
all flow out and onward with a sunset’s fluid grace.
May all of our lives flow, and overflow, with love,
and like the glasses may we be well-used.
And finally, one more haiku:
Trees grow on the ground.
Trunks fall and they fertilize
ground for more branches.