sorry, no autumn this year —
earth didn’t pay the subscription fee
after the free trial of summer ended
Creeping
shorter days seem a little ominous
shadows are becoming autumn’ish
Weighed down
the scale now shows me
one hundred sixty-eight
but in those simple digits
I see rejection and pain
sugar, laziness, exhaustion
hormones splayed out of whack
menopause ready to rumble
plaque buildup and repressions
anxiety, regret, some depression
the past, the future, sheer panic
tension, disoriented expectations
ice cream, sweet junk addictions
griefs, hurts, disappointments
bad habits, cliffs, fear, falling
the eating of all my emotions
gluttony and gorging ghosts
turbulent raging blood glucose
sleepless nights, too-busy days
nerves, toxins, worry, age
unwelcome rapid-fire change
lack of trying, trying too hard
loss of control, culinary excesses
no longer fitting into my dresses
Vital correspondences
“Now this may sound nonsense, but that is merely because we are fools. There is an eternal vital correspondence between our blood and the sun: there is an eternal vital correspondence between our nerves and
—D. H. Lawrence (1885–1930), Apocalypse, 1931
Over & again
“…we are human beings who can never be born enough…”
—Ken Sekaquaptewa and Candy St. Jacques, Sahuaro, yearbook of the Associated Students of Arizona State University, 1970
Night haze
The moon shines
into the dirty desert air
with a rusty opal halo —
Scorpius has lost his way
behind the thin clouds,
city glare, smoke, dust —
His heart shines in some far
better place — but not here
in this smoggy summer.
I accept you
Okay — I give in — I accept you — Middle Age
I am tired — I want to sit down — unrushed —
to read — and drink hot tea — and — Breathe
the number of years behind me — and ahead of me —
no longer concern me — mathematically or emotionally
I have come to rest in the sturdy arms of the Present —
where Time has been waiting for me — my whole Life
Burning
for love’s rewards we stick our necks out
vulnerability a’pulse, blissful anticipation —
and love kisses our risk and nuzzles our napes
but after a time — short or long or in between —
we lose our heads to his swift sharp guillotine
our foolish blind hearts beat on nonetheless
and carry a torch right up to the inquest
They healed my heart
“I have a request to make of those who read Empty Shells. If any friend surmises he has discovered the author he will be courteous enough to keep my secret. I have left out a great many poems that would have betrayed my identity, and put in none that I have cause to fear. Why then publish? I have no right to count on a long life and I am not willing to be ‘edited, revised, and corrected.’ On the other hand, I feel towards my poems as many women do towards their weak children; and treasure them because if they were conceived in grief they healed my heart. After the first smart of a new loss was softened, next to writing my greatest comfort was reading; and I did not then seek great authors. Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe were naught to me: I sought minor Poets — of whom I dare hope to be one. Could I but be a like comfort to some simple, sorrowing hearts I should feel my life-griefs had not been in vain.”
Free spirit
i don’t want to be
just a strand of dna
passing through time
or an echo of a face
repeated down the line
just another leaf falling
from the family tree
a bloodline that someday
ends with the end of me —
i want to be the sky
or an eternal poem
wildflowers growing
wherever seeds roam
i want to be the wind
or wandering clouds
or the rain that drifts
or a free soaring bird
or starshine at night —
eternity’s glowing
ethereal light
Ecos
leaves — lovers
of the gentle breeze
trees — brothers
of roots that weave
soil — giver
of life through earth
sun — mother
of golden light’s birth
Strive & struggle
I am a poet, — though
I’ve yet to write a poem —
when my soul blossoms
and my mind goes free
when I finally let go of
the suffocating shroud
o’er the wildness of me
my beauty will spill out
the ink will overflow and
finally I’ll be able to see
through a sapphire lens
into the heart of infinity
I know I am a poet —
someday — I will be
but the earth hasn’t yet
shattered inside me
I have still only yet got
the seeds of the words
within me; I am learning
and yearning and earning
and living my way toward
being born into harvest
There’s a meteor shower
inside my brain —
stars shooting down
every bright idea
words burning out
before inking the page —
broken-hearted dementia
sleepless engulfing fog —
search and rescue crews
report every line gone
Edwin Markham with book
a thinking eye
but jolly cheek
a furrowed brow
but kindly stance;
the hair of a hippie
and student & master—
the burden of life
and love of wife—but
something perpetually
unsettled within him;
button-up coat over
raw, naked soul—
a book in his hand
and ten in his pen
unedited freewriting experiment, inspired by the “barbaric yawp” scene from Dead Poets Society