POEM: Creeping Colonization

The tender end of a creeper —
whip thin, light-green, and curling —
cantilevers itself across a chasm,
reaching toward our balustrade.

It pretends to be blown by wind,
but it’s just using the gusts
to lazily set its hook.

It will colonize our balcony,
if it’s given half a chance;
it will weave out our windows —
blocking out the sun
by the time we return from holiday.

It may work slowly,
but it’s more clever than you know.

People are intrigued by those shows &
books about the world “after humans.”
We show amazement at the projections
of how quickly nature will reclaim “our space,”
but shouldn’t we be the last to be surprised?

POEM: An Angelic Take on Time

“We, who move through this world, have varied gifts,” said the angelic figure who saw the world without time.

She could hold infinite temporal cross-sections in her mind at once. Though she usually focused on one time at a time as you and i might focus our vision on a bird sitting on a lamp post — knowing that one can shift one’s visual attention at will.

Her mind snaps from mundane moments to the nearest frenetic second —  be it tragic or festive. Just as your eye would snap from the bird on the lamp post to a furry canine shape, trotting into one’s periphery; her mind snapped to the “good part” of the story.

While you may think yourself either alive or dead, to her you are a Schrödinger’s cat of both alive and dead, but her mind always wants to snap to the second of transformation.

POEM: The Cut Worm

Blake said, “The cut worm forgives the plow.”

This might make me wonder whether the plowman gains the same grace,
but I don’t think one can comprehend forgiveness
if one isn’t already prone to grudge-holding.

The cut worm doesn’t forgive, because no alternative exists.

Before we reach the point at which worms need to learn forgiveness
they will have gone on strike from their soil-churning duties —

crops will wither and fail
we’ll already be wondering whether we can ever forgive
the worms for their impudence.

POEM: Travel by Undertow

Welcome to the undertow!
There’re eight ways to freedom,
but only one that you can go.

It’s down, down — while spinning ’round,
feeling the stretch in the struggle,
though hearing not the slightest sound.

No gasping. No gushing. Just blood rushing
to the fear center of the brain
as water’s weight feels more crushing.

Surely, you’ll surface in due time
though, maybe, miles-and-miles away.
They’ll tag you: “Victim, sans a crime,”
and go on about the live-long day.

POEM: Silent Forest

What’s leached the life from these lands?

Winter snuck in. True enough.

But that doesn’t mean a bird can’t hoot, caw, screech, or titter.

We may be too deep in the season for lizards to dart, or even schlep in tailless bluntness.

But surely squirrels, fluffy-tailed rodents, should be out, shoving aside leaf litter in search of sacred acorns?

I don’t trust my mind in a soundless forest —

it leads me to believe that I tumbled back into the recesses of my mind, and only noticed [too late] that I forgot to load the soundtrack.