When the last voice
over the airwaves
goes silent —
despite there being
no one to listen —
I’d like to believe
the silence will be felt
in the universe.
POEM: Last Transmission
1
Tag Archives: Vers Libre
POEM: Intolerable Status Quo
They say that every story begins
with an intolerable status quo.
Who it’s intolerable for is an open question.
Maybe it’s the protagonist…
&
Maybe not.
[Some protagonists spend the whole story
trying to get back to that status quo.]
Maybe it’s the antagonist…
&
Maybe not.
Sometimes, the status quo is intolerable to the universe —
(as every status quo must become.)
And every non-blissful moment of living
is an intolerable status quo —
a state in search of [or hope for]
a better state to come.
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POEM: A 100 Word Sentence on the Risks of High Speed Karma
Mikey stole a motorbike, a high-revving rice rocket, weaving through traffic, leaning this way and that, quickly dodging the slow and the still, riding toward an inevitable fate, rapidly surpassing any chance for a destiny other than a beastly crash, a tumbling and fiery maniacal kind of crash, one resulting in screaming vehicles and flashing lights, punching their blunt red noses onto the scene, disgorging fast moving men and women with hoses and bandages, pretending the hoses were for the burning machine and the bandages were for the rider, but knowing that the hoses would be all they’d need on this run.
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POEM: The Ekstasis of a Warm Bed [in a Cold, Snowy Land]
-To watch powder cling to sill and muntin through the frosted panes,
but not be chilled by that crisp whiteness
-To slacken on the back of spastic release – lulled by discordant heartbeats,
while feeling that they — and all — are in perfect accord
-To drift into slumber with no urgency and to awaken noncommittally,
sinking ever deeper into mattress and mind
-To love the snow for its beauty
as much as for its lack of reach
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POEM: Funeral Suit
Worn one more time than the number of funerals you attend,
that black suit hangs forgotten — yet dreaded.
It hangs dusty in a closet,
or musty in a bag;
and you’re most listless when it has
a crisp dry cleaning tag.
In good years, it never crosses your path — or your mind.
In bad years, it’s needed repeatedly.
There will be a year in which someone will pull it out for you —
carefully smoothing its lapels —
the year you move beyond bad years.
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POEM: Cloud Color
The sunset glowed orange in a wrap of clouds,
looking like the interior of a hollowed tree trunk —
fallen, split open, and with fire burning inside.
The vibrant colors fire my child’s mind —
colors as unsubtle in hue
as the clumsy building blocks were in shape
that I played with as a boy.
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POEM: 2020
2020!
You are the time that tried men’s souls…
not to mention those of:
-women
-children
-the non-binary
-the undecided
and the un-huddled masses,
yearning to be close.
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POEM: Like a Hawk
I watch the hawks —
watching me watching them —
and wonder how many of them I don’t see.
They’re better watchers:
-stiller
-more patient
-less swayed by boredom.
They stand, cloaked, as if in judgement —
Chief Justice of this street,
roving eyes in search of
one false move.
They are literal swoopers.
I’ve been accused of “swooping in,”
but I’m — at best — a figurative swooper.
Watch, swoop, catch, repeat…
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POEM: The Trail Beckons
The trail calls to me,
its grass-fringed part curving gently,
climbing upslope toward the trees,
the forest that hides hints of a future,
denying all hope of knowing what comes next.
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POEM: The World According to a Reader
I’ve built cities in my brain,
cities that no one would recognize.
I’ve danced around Dublin with Dedalus and Bloom,
but no Dubliner would recognize his fair city
from my mental projection.
It doesn’t matter how masterful Joyce is in his description.
I’ve only visited the version that I tossed up in my mind
as I tore through his poetry,
and which was torn down in the wake of my reading.
And yet I treasure that false metropolis.
It’ll do — for now.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 