Simply ignored…

Ignored.pngIn the beginning I wasn’t there
and neither were you or anyone
who was and cared to write of it

everything that’s been said since
is opinion seeking audience
authority in search of control

to some, what was first is best
and must resist all alternation
against increase or second thoughts

primitives have a way of winning
without dispute by arguing
infidelity in passive-aggressiveness

damned are those who love to live
cursed to be cursed by devotion
in the apocalypse of good news

no church, no pew welcomes
those who need a them to be an us
ignoring page to see the words

forgetting story for broken phrase
finding canon in evocative diction
as long as first proceeds second

in the beginning there was no how
and why was always an echo
in which when was simply ignored.

Advertisements

In praise of boredom…

boredMeanwhile everything’s the same,
fish swim downstream as well as up
so don’t be fooled by cliché’s fame,
because virtue’s virtue will corrupt

itself and all who still pretend
there’s a something beyond it all,
thus refusing to bow they ascend,
proud as Icarus they rise to stall;

meanwhile the rest of us plod along
doing what must be done less airs
allowing a dream of being so strong
but saddled with every day cares.

Harder and easier…

So, poetry is harder than writing
like kissing is harder than biting,
cooking is harder than eating
or learning harder than cheating;
but lying is obviously deceiving
like youth is so fast and fleeting
as winners are won in competing,
failures a mastery of retreating;
and in these harder and easier ways
is bound up all we wish to praise
ignoring the bland, ordinary days
in search of things that amaze.

Confidence in disguise…

I feel famous on days like today,
plucky and serene, unhurried by
a schedule everyone else rushes
to keep, naturally pausing to look
into a mirror, chin raised and
finger tips guiding aside a wisp
of hair that falls back lazily,
attractively; exiting into a calm
day to match just me, stepping
onto the bus without a pause or
breaking stride, smiling in response
as strangers try to get my attention,
nodding and turning toward the
window as the sun itself brightens
while other squint uncomfortably;
my uniform hiding behind my
overcoat and scarf which is so soft
and flimsy it’s simply an accessory.

My little girl’s question…

The Hardest Part

My daughter asked what was the hardest thing
about… and I braced myself for her question, doubting
my ability to answer as I ought, hoping it was answerable
by her mother, that I would reply tactfully, and she
would know my love even when wrapped up in mistakes;
she had to repeat the question for me, about the hardest
thing about…learning to ride a bicycle, and as soon as
she said it I stopped myself, thought carefully, and said
it had to do with steering into the falling sensation – no one
liked that but it was the only way, along with continuous
peddling (you gotta keep peddling) to stay upright; she
had her own answer and blurted out, the hardest part
was the pavement and skipped haplessly out of the room
giggling, leaving me speechless and smiling in relief,
wondering why can’t all her questions be this much fun.

You might not need to go home again…

A Wilderness Called Home

Most just stay put, where they began,
through no choice of their own,
except to stay of course, an accident
of birth and even that seems consolation
enough to sleep each night and rise
each morning without wandering,
calling it home; sometimes it’s war that
makes you move, but not here – our war
is for money, for a living, for a life; those
are the only movers today, no more
nomads, vagabonds or hobo’s riding the
rails, driven by the voice of God
even, to live in tents or tenements,
looking for something. anything better,
which is to say, just a little more than
now; there are those brave souls who
leave just to leave, some out of adventure
but most from desperation, escaping what
hurts too much to stay near because
the world’s a wilderness, unless home is.

I’ve never killed anyone…

Brussels-SproutNo, I’ve Never Killed Anyone

The common consolation
that we’re not that bad
only works if we’re able to find
those despicable creatures who are so vile,
baseless, and unloving that our selfishness
seems virtuous in comparison;

hopefully we only hear of such bad apples
on the news or in gossip—yes, that’s a comfortable
and safe distance, because it’s just too much
to experience such things ourselves
and it’s better to drive-by and gape
than to have our names on the accident report;

distance makes all things nice
when it comes to evil or misfortune or
dumb luck—a ‘there but for the grace of God’
voyeurism, or a prayer of thanksgiving
uttered in relief when we discover it’s just
the neighbor’s house ablaze and not our own;

we don’t steal candy from babies,
rape and pillage like barbarians, and
we’ve never killed anyone
(to the best of our knowledge), and maybe
we’ve been ignorant of the poor and hungry
of the world, as my mother used to say
when protesting my diet and volunteered
she could send starving children elsewhere
what I’d refused to eat since they’d be
so happy to have what I took for granted,
even brussels sprouts but brussels sprouts
never killed anyone either.

When I am old…

The Business of My Business

One of those fascinating oddities
I find so thrilling and my family mocks
blurted out of the radio the other day;
it’s about the paper-products industry
and real life all at once—announcing
its fastest growing and largest segment
is no longer bags or cups or even
plain-old-paper, as anyone would imagine,
but incontinence products, as in,
adult diapers, and much to the enjoyment
of my family, I can’t contain my excitement
over this development; it’s because
we’re getting older, not younger, I say,
and they laugh at me, again,
so I remind them (because I still remember
enough to remind them of certain things)
that when they were children we played
a game I called ‘When I’m old will you…’
as I pushed them on the swing, asking
in a serious voice, ‘When I’m old will you
bake me cookies?’ and they’d giggle
and promise, ‘Yes,’ and I’d ask, ‘The ones
will little chocolate chips and nuts?’ and
they’d agree, ‘They’re the best!’
and I’d go on, ‘When I’m old, will you
cut up my meat into tiny little pieces
so I can chew it when I’ve lost all my teeth?’
and they’d laugh harder and promise,
‘Of course I will,’ and then would come
the best one yet, ‘When I’m old, will you
change my diaper?’ and they’d belly-laugh
and gasp for air just to swear, ‘I will,
I promise!’ and I remind them today
that I knew what I was talking about
when they were just little kids.

 

When I look into the mirror…

A Beautiful Crow

Every day – every single day,
a crow appears outside the mirrored
corporate windows of my office,
cawing and craning its neck
to catch a glimpse of itself,
darting and dashing and thumping
its beak that cruelly glances off
the impenetrable glass, rain or shine,
undaunted as it is angered by
its own reflection; and inside,
every day – every single day,
people appear inside the mirrored
corporate windows of my office,
gawking and straining to see
the stupid, stubborn crow,
complaining of its devotedness
to destroy what it sees in the mirror;
and it appears there is no real
difference – only the separation
of what is really transparent.

Meanwhile…

Meanwhile

Meanwhile everything’s the same,
fish swim downstream as well as up
so don’t be fooled by cliché’s fame,
because virtue’s virtue will corrupt

itself and all who still pretend
there’s a something beyond it all,
thus refusing to bow they ascend,
proud as Icarus they rise to stall;

meanwhile the rest of us plod along
doing what must be done less airs
allowing a dream of being so strong
but saddled with every day cares.