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Ashes to Ashes
Is thereNothingMore?OnlyThe soft whisperingOf yearsSneaking pastOn slippered feetLeavingMemoriesFloatingBrieflyIn their wakeLike dust?Did I hopeFor moreWhenThe marchBegan?Should I haveGuessed?AndWhen I wasYoungIfI hadGatheredTimeAnd pressed itIn a little bookLike flowers,Would itStillHave crumbledIfI’d kept the pagesClosed?Would itHave lastedLongerHad INeverPeeked?Now,I only seeThe ashesOf a fireExtinguished.What childKnowsTo saveThe air?Where isThe PhoenixNow?
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I am the table
What is it about an organism that makes it a table setting for posterity, a book with no words, a classroom with no teacher? History is one thing; it has events, and usually documentary accounts and descriptions of its occurrence: a monument here, a written mention there. Evidence… But what about culture? How could the…
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I am the bouquet
As the daysFile pastLike old menLimping into church,I hopeMy forgivenessWill not moveAs slowly.I am beginningTo feel the rankI have beenAssigned:I am travellingAloneAnd yetNot by myself.In fact,I am gatheredLike flowers,And coloursI have not seenBeforeCaress my eyesAnd stroke my skin,Softly,Like my motherWhen I was young.I carry her giftOf petalsIn my my mind;I can neverReallyBeAlone.
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The Atlas
Ahh retirement, a time when it is impossible to escape your memories and yet difficult to believe they once had a life of their own… “Daddy, what’s a ‘stralyer’?” My daughter has a habit of coming up with sounds, part-words, and checking them out on me. “You mean trailer, don’t you sweetheart? It’s a thing…
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The Spirit House
There are Spirits In the house. I think I always Knew That- Although Had you asked Me In my youth I Might have said Important ones Only lived Near cliffs With gods And nymphs, Or Held their courts In deep Green Forests; But I did not Think Much else Would deign To live With me…
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Omne ignotum pro magnifico est
There are some bits of wisdom that are hard to forget -especially if they verge on the personal. Take, for example Virginia Woolf’s observation that ‘A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.’ I like that: it gives me permission to change my mind -or perhaps more to the point,…
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The Newborn Day
Is there a differenceBetween the days?There are no labelsOr pointy things;And it can’t just beThe sun,Or weatherHiddenBehind the curtained windowOf my room;Nor evenThe list of thingsI planned to doThe day beforeBut didn’t.Time hangsLike someone else’sLaundryAll around me,So what I seeCould be any day.No,A morningShould beA newborn babe,DeliveredLike a pizzaFresh with life,ToppingsUndetermined,Able somehowTo tempt meFrom my…
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The Amity that Wisdom knits not
The World Health Organization has recently declared the ongoing outbreaks of Mpox in Congo and elsewhere in Africa to be a global emergency, requiring urgent action to curb the virus’ transmission. Will these crises never end? Are we forever destined to experience new untamed diseases ravaging our world? I mean think of Ebola, Zika, SARS, multi-drug…
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The Daily Mail
I do not name The days Anymore; There seems No sense In that. Some Drag their feet Like old men Limping, Others Skitter past Playing tag Together. It is their speed Of passing, Not the names Which chart them. Anyway, I have A phone Now; It tells me When to turn The page.
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Out, Out, Brief Candle
I realize I’m getting old -or is the gerund no longer necessary for me? My thoughts -my questions- are of necessity sliding epilogically toward the last chapter of my as yet unwritten autobiography. So it will come as no surprise that I am empathetically wired of late. I am an unabashed fan of John Donne’s…
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