Poetry

The Garden of Ramanatom

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

I tell them about entropy—March buds ignore me— Boltzmann’s equation nobody believed, It killed him. Lawn’s growing verdant new hair— New strands shall wave at admiring chicks; the bald spot will vanish by June. (That’s not how it worked with me.) Each crocus emanating from old roots; morning glories shall hang from the trellis like a bunch of resurrecting kids— Rip van Winkle is a katydid, an old bug renewed by spring’s copy machine; even if a meadowlark devours him, his kin will look exactly like his parents, no rose would notice the difference. Like Dorian Gray, I’ve...

Read More

The Blurring of Edges

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

Much younger, first acquainted With certainty, it tasted as crisp And tart as a green apple, But its edges became precise, Interlocking gears, a vast machine. I governed impeccable itineraries, I tallied every petty minutia, Mortgages, insurance, taxes, Attempting to grasp water, Exceedingly specific molecules. Now, I have this urge To blur all edges, Debussy rather than Mozart, Monet rather than Ingres, The haze, the ubiquitous haze: A simmering August morning, Heat steaming off the dew, When the rasping din Of cicadas muddles the head In mesmerizing rhythm; When the fog is dense, Oceans...

Read More

Recognized

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

He stood there, staring back at me, odd expression upon his face, smiling after I did from the other side of a huge pane window on the newly renovated office building, appearing a bit more disheveled than I remembered. More wrinkles supported his grimace and receding hairline, acknowledging me when I nodded hello. I used to know him well, athletic, sculpted, artistic, a well defined physique, but his apparent paunch negated any recent activity. This window man I thought I knew, musician, writer, runner, dreamer, now feasted off the stale menu of advancing age, aches, excuses,...

Read More

Getting Back on My Feet

By on Jan 20, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

In our walker strolls, me with an orange safety belt wrapped around my waist, Paul clutching it tight, we stop so I can exercise on a staircase, between the parallel bars, or just to rest in an alcove across from the elevator lobby, check my vitals, and talk. About the book he’s reading — his excitement when Arthur first meets Merlin. About the way writing my poetry helps me confront my trauma. About his love of the woods — the beauty of the moon skimming through winter branches — or taking his three daughters on a camping trip. About the time he and his wife drove...

Read More

Migraine

By on Jan 20, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

She tells me it’s like the halos of saints preceding the onset, then a nightlight too bright to endure.                                             Rolled up in old sheets the color of fever and a blanket as blue as cobalt, she shades her eyes from as much of the world as she is willing to acknowledge.                         Her words are pained, careful as feet near the deteriorating half-way crumble on the Kalalau...

Read More

Scars

By on Jan 20, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

“Felix had sideswiped something blue, and he was as curious about what it might have been as we were.” - from Dead-Eye Dick, by Kurt Vonnegut and that’s it, isn’t it? you get set down and don’t ever get told by anyone what got you there. memory like a deck of cards; you trip and never can tell what will land face up. and the head a burning building — walk in after and something will be saved but you can’t say what beforehand. could be an unkind busdriver — could be a broken lace. birds land and don’t get up again. tides roll in and stay...

Read More