Tree

How the seasons

are eclipsed

and memories

linger.

The sadness

that I feel

when I think

of how

it might have been

had I only

been braver

had I only known 

my own strength

instead of pretending 

to be strong.

The love I stored up

drove me mad.

When I think of that madness

and how you

might have been subject to it

in all the best ways

it doesn’t seem fair.

I grew away from myself

such that

the seed

from which I sprung

got lost.

The curves—

the gnarled curves—

of my trajectory

led to such 

rotten fruit

that no one wanted to eat.

Now, 

it is on the ground

and 

not much is left.

I’ll return to dust

without 

having had your lips

taste the better part of me

and you

have forgotten

what once was sweet

and could have been tasted

if only 

I had grown straight

and true.

Song of the Moment

What wonders this world reveals 

to those who wait long enough to behold them,

but not to sleepy eyes who search 

for meaning in the labyrinth of the past,

where regrets block every turn

like minotaurs posing riddles in a language

that can never be understood.

You enter that maze of your own accord,

and die there filled with envy,

pain, and discordant thoughts.

You must turn your back on that strange world

that you tell yourself is familiar and safe,

and wander out into the garden

where lovers walk hand in hand

and children play. 

Satisfaction is the hand you take

when you are at your weakest.

Let it pull you through the garden path

where roses grow perpetually.

Above, the sky, too, grows into infinite depths.

Let your eyes search them

till the light of the most distant star reaches you,

and a song of the moment dances from your lips

and springs headlong into the future

where it waits to meet you 

with a kiss.

An Incident at a Bar

         She stood at the bar waiting to order a drink. Surrounding her were many older men, all salivating over her, and she knew it. One could see that she knew it by the look of peevishness and wariness that she wore on her face. A bitterness that spoke of knowledge—knowledge of men and their shamelessness. She carried a book that she had been reading. I tried to engage her from my place at the bar, and asked her what she was reading. She ignored me. Finally, disgruntled, I said: “She’s reading poetry!”   

        “She is not,” she said.

“What are you reading?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Maybe a reasonable question to ask her,” she said. “If you knew her name.”

With that, she walked over to a table, put on her headphones, and opened her book. She became at that moment impenetrable. All I could do was sit aghast in wonder.

Reading

An old man lies on a couch

reading from an old book

and he turns the page

and the sound of the paper

being agitated

is so dramatic

it seems to fill 

the entire room

penetrating the very walls

and out into the night

and the old man’s eyes

widen and focus

filling with so much

electricity

and anticipation

to discover

that which he wants so badly to discover

as if it were crucial

to every facet of his life

and the sound of the paper

being contorted

its fibers

rubbing against each other

creating a sound

of such singular dramatic power

unlike anything else

in the entire world

so crisp

so electric

for each fiber is tiny

and there are probably

millions of them on a single page

and the man’s eyes

filled with so many variegated cells

that to number them

would be close to impossible

each seemingly electrified

all at that same instant

when the page is turned

and it settles down

those eyes rest upon a single word

to understand

as if for the very first time

the entire universe

and all that it means

and to have crossed that span of time

when the page was turning

which was only an instant

but could have been a thousand lifetimes

and then

to pause on that word

to understand

and to go on to the next word

and understand.

Songster

Thunder made promises

That couldn’t be kept.

Misuse of diamonds and gold

Led to my coming here

Where the only currency

Is blood and coal.

A fire burns in my blood.

For all the derisive laughter,

The mockery that chilled me

To the living

And made me dig a hole

Toward the dead,

I still remain a breathless breather,

A staunch representative

Of the human race.

Love left its child’s face

Imprinted on my mind

And the moon laughed at my phony disbelief

As I wandered around,

Projecting my nerves into the world

Like the black sheep of songsters.

The road back has been destroyed

By the remnants of my footsteps,

And I now enjoy the garden

As it was meant to be enjoyed.