How A Poem Works

A poet uses adjectives

like pearl dewdrops

describing the green grass

in the early morning light.

He captures the radiant green of the trees

with the kind of simile

only a madman sees
in the most fitful dreams,

Burns the forest of words with rhyme
that only the friction of his tongue

against the truest of passions can ignite.

Every phrase must be welded together

by a concentrated flame

that burns from the core

of the fullest heart.

Like blood flowing through the veins,

each line carries the DNA of a higher truth

toward the cells of the body of the poem.

Like gravity in reverse, the poem

reshapes our place in the universe

for a moment, gives us perspective

on the place from which we rise

and sets us down, a little lighter,

a little fuller, than we were before.

Ode to Time

Here’s to the tick and the tock of the clock

And to that most weighty space between.

Here’s to those who wait for a moment to come—

“Patiently,” as they say.

Certainly somewhere someone has not yet arrived,
Some bell has yet to be rung,

Some great choice has yet to be made,

Some song has yet to be sung.

Here’s to the roll of thunder or the roll of laughter

That makes fools of us all.

Here’s to the grave that beckons us.

Here’s to the dead who await our arrival—

Perhaps. Or perhaps they’ve given up waiting

And have taken to dancing and skipping about

With streamers and sparklers

Like children on the crystal blue floor of Heaven,

Forever amused, removed from time—
No clocks allowed at all.

Death Proverbs

And whosoever shall seek glory in life
Will find it, and also in death.
And whosoever shall seek glory in death
Will also find it in life.
What is death but the link between life and eternity,
A moment that only exists in time?
Do not try to reawaken those who have passed.
The louder you scream, the deeper their sleep.
A fool's breath is a countdown.
A wise man's, a renewal.
Both are correct, and both are foolish.
A breath is a breath.
Nothing more.
Death, too, is just death.
Neither constructive nor destructive.
Don't believe me?
Wait.
But why take my advice?
I am just the cricket who went out of tune
And wandered off to sing my song to the moon,
Or whoever else might pass by.
That must be you!
If there be wisdom in these words,
I trust you'll find it.
If not, they at least keep me amused.

An Easy Poem

Ah, but the poem came with such ease!

Trickled down like water

dripping from the eves

Poured out from the storehouse

of my memory

like children at play on a summer’s day

Stirred, sweetened with delight

like milk spiraling signals in a coffee cup 

Being shaped and shaping me

slipping from my tongue

a feather’s caress

on the eardrum

of the world

Echoing a blue sky

and a bright sun

like morning—

a clear day after night’s rain

Sounding like a river surging

in the mountains in early spring

Sounding like the cardinal—

that ever-urging signal

towards awakening

The back and forth

of a search and a finding,

always keeping safe

that love for every word
written across the page.

Ready to Meet my Maker

As a child I was diagnosed with OCD
Because I couldn't stop myself from trying obsessively
To straighten my bedsheets and make the couch sit perfectly straight in front of the TV screen.

No one could understand that this
Ritual of seeking perfection in seamless sheets and a straight couch
Was actually a desperate crying out
For unity in the form of two loving parents at peace.

You see because my mother and my father did not understand each other
And they fought each other like two tectonic plates
And I was the mountain growing up to be a volcano...ready to blow.
And I did...blow.

My freshman year in college I had my first psychotic break.
They said I was bipolar. They told me about all the great artists
Who had shared my blessings and my curse.
Men and women who had chosen death
Over compromising their own deluded conception of their earthly worth,
Men and women like me who wanted to be free,
And so blinded themselves to the chains of their slavery.
Men and women who had left a legacy.

I bought in.
I went from being "Dan"--cool guy and good friend--
To being " Daniel Senser"--elusive genius and poetic master.
I discarded the world and all the people in it
In exchange for a memorable death and a long afterlife.
I vowed to make my wife my muse or else let my muse be my wife.
I thought I was a god, when really I was like a ship in the middle of a storm with my anchor down,
Stubbornly set on either learning the key to immortality or breaking to pieces in the process.

This is me lifting the anchor.
This is me sailing off 'neath sunny skies
Ready to meet you my friend
And ready to meet my maker.

For Chayim, On the Birth of His Daughter

If time is an illusion
As they say,
Then I am with you now
And will be
Until your dying day.

She Dances

I did not want to bring you into this song

But alas, here you are,

Dancing at every turn of my tongue.

Well dance then, my love.

Dance till I am breathless,

Then fill me with the breath of your kiss

So that I might sing again.

Each slow surrender of your curve

To the shadow

Is an appeal for more,

And the undulation of your hips

As you twirl

Is the deliverance my soul has been asking for.

Between the depths of me

From which the music springs

And your immaculate skin,

There is no distance.

In this ineluctable fire

That we call life,

We burn together—

My song and your dance

The smoke that rises
Into God’s dominion.