Category Archives: Poetry

Many Years Later

Many years ago,

at the water’s edge, I played this game with my son.

Between waves, we built an ancient land.

I showed my boy the people in a town

on their way to schools and shops and ancient temples.

We saw the fields, where they farmed and raised their animals.

We watched them study in libraries and in giant markets where they

shared their crops.

We watched them eat in small homes and celebrate in great halls.

We saw them love and learn.

We saw them laugh.

Often they marveled along the water’s edge.

In their modern city they saw a beautiful sun

rise and set.

We did all of this,

my son and I

in only a few moments.

Our understanding was that seconds represented centuries.

The time between waves, you see,

was compressed into many years.

Once a wave receded, a civilization flourished

but as the next wave approached,

the same civilization was in decline.

Within a few more seconds or so,

frothing water destroyed our creation,

a massive tsunami leveling everything in its path.

An empire was gone.

Society was cleansed,

leaving behind fertile land,

smooth as glass,

for others to start all over again.

Future generations, began anew,

and with their hopes and dreams

they built over the remnants of their ancestors.

We watched these waves together,

my son and I,

and every time we rebuilt the land,

civilizations on top of civilizations,

for as long as my boy was willing to play the game.

My Fool

What is a fool if not a spindle of spool fueled with my tools, gummy, the gristle still green as if the high road, leapt into my sole mate   or whatever might have been good enough to sustain the switch onto the right track that spindle on the plantar surface of my appendage On… Continue Reading

Thoughts Prior to Dreams

I dream in blue I see proteins and flesh and bodies. I see crazy things. People running and shooting and radiating and I’m reminded of my Crayola confessions. Why would someone kill another over a crayon? Primo Levy had his elements. I tried that. I wrote about elements. I write about crayons. I have these… Continue Reading

The Same Barber Chair

  Not to have crossed room means chamber XII means cranial nerve, hypoglossal VI abducens, and I say this from memory my own photo reminds me of a Cloud Atlas the random page from a journal In the days we used phone books and oversized maps, blew the dust off a giant atlas in a… Continue Reading

Seed

I knew him you did too the silly kid with a chipped tooth and gnarly hair   He stood over there A houseplant   sowed from stale air and a wet bed   From streams of sun seeping through the thickened foliage of our cluttered home   It penetrated delicate layers of his pale skin… Continue Reading

Olympic Dots

  Five intersecting rings Five unconnected dots Yellow or is it gold, for the boy who sprinted To the rescue of his infant sister, mangled in a mine field A blue dot for the doctor in rural China He closed the holes in thousands of blue baby hearts—turning them whole again Black is the dot… Continue Reading

Empty Chairs

Two seats for people that should love But are gone Could stare into gray water A gray sky Believed that black and white Never should make gray But should blend to something great Vibrant color Synergized from the heart So much more than the sum of its parts   Continue Reading

Lip Balm

An ointment tastes of things I’ve lost   Caked on at night By morning an arid cracking of my youth   Fissured salt flats and an alien moon Peppered splinter ground in cedar   Hypoglossal hints of eucalyptus carbonated with ozone thrusts   Hiss and steam, cheek to lingual buds The ferric twang of denuded… Continue Reading