Saturday, September 11, 2021

Eternity is Jealous of the Present

Eternity must be jealous of the present, 
its immediacy, its relevance.
Yes, eternity must be jealous 
when a lover smiles and sighs, 
when she removes the clip 
which had held back her hair, 
freeing it and allowing me 
to slip my hand between the strands 
as if it were a bolt of priceless silk 
which she offers to me 
as a queen might offer 
alms to a beggar.
My fingers luxuriate gratefully. 
This gratitude and luxury 
exist only in the present, 
and so, eternity is jealous.

Eternity is full of 
inconsequentialities 
and coincidences.
Full of happenstances 
and miscellaneous occurrences.
But only the present contains life.
Only the present contains love.
Only the present contains potentiality and value.
Only the present contains her sweet kiss.
And so, eternity is jealous.

Sunday, September 5, 2021

Potion

I know not all the magic
she possesses, what
miracles she can perform.
 
When I crawl to her
and present my wounds
(as a Penitent,
seeking absolution,
presents his sins
to his Divinity),
from some hidden cabinet
or secret drawer she draws
a homemade potion
(which doubles as an
analgesic lotion).
She applies it liberally
to all my pains and sorrows,
and I am healed. She
pours it down my parched throat,
and all my thirsts are quenched.
I need no further evidence
of her holiness,
nor could anyone dissuade me
with any arguments or proofs.

Sunday, August 1, 2021

Still Wet As A Newborn

 
still wet as a newborn,
but old and worn
as a battle-scarred,
sun-faded flag.
just enough life-wisdom to know
how little can ever be known.
 
you, my love,
are my moonlight guide
and the gravity that pulls my tides.
I, love, am just your satellite,
revolving, basking in your glow.
that much I know.

Saturday, July 24, 2021

What Color Are Your Eyes Today

 

“What color are your eyes today?”
I asked you in my dream last night.
“Do they change to match your mood,
or to match your dress?”
                                          You sighed,
“They change at your command, my love,
as does the rhythm of my heart.
You’ve seen them true and clearly,
you’ve known me from the start.”

Saturday, July 17, 2021

Now that it’s too late

Now that it’s too late,
I thank you every day.
Now that it’s too late,
I listen to your gentle
wisdom with gratitude.
Now that it’s too late,
I would pay more to hear
the sound of your voice
than for almost any other
thing I can imagine.
Now that it’s too late,
I wish I had never let
a single day go by
without telling you,
or somehow showing you,
that I love you.
Now that it’s too late,
I would gladly give up
what little hair I have left
to return to the days
when I could sit in your lap
in your fake-leather recliner
and run my fingers through
your thinning and oily hair,
which I can still smell today.
I am grateful for the final years,
as roommates and friends.
And I am grateful for the early years
of riding on your shoulders.
And I am grateful for all the years between,
even if I didn’t recognize
their value at the time.
Now that it’s too late,
I wanted you to know.

Saturday, July 10, 2021

Grief

when my mother died,
i did not grieve,
for reasons still unclear.
i mean not to displace the blame;
the fault, if such it can be called,
was/is only mine.
there is/was no one else.
 
grief, though, is a form of energy,
and its potentiality
remained long hidden
(but ever real)
in my dark corners.
 
when my father died,
my grief (now doubled)
manifested itself physically,
with fever and chills
and aching and trembling.
i hid beneath blankets
for days until
it burned itself out.
a fire, not of cleansing
or redemption,
but of pain for its own sake.
 
what remains has yet to be determined
or is not worth examination.

Saturday, June 19, 2021

More Time Dying Than Living

there is nothing we desire more than to be loved.
so why do we spend so much time dying
when we could be living?
 
we wish to laugh with joy and humor,
but don’t take ourselves seriously enough to be funny.
 
in memories we find, or hope to,
the treasures of a life.
but memory is a mirror cracked,
ever on the cusp of shattering
into a thousand sword-sharp shards.
 
we proceed through life guided only by
a damaged map of an enshrouded world:
an incomplete set of information
about an ever-changing cosmos.
but it’s from not knowing that meaning comes.
the mystery is the point.
 
so, battle the monster if you must,
but remember:
the monster is only yourself,
and all wars are useless and foolish
and fought over delusions.
 
we each differ in our natures, it seems,
or perhaps only in our degrees of illness…
an illness for which there is no treatment but love,
and no cure short of death.
 
auto-bio-fictional,
we each re-write our stories as we go.
my pages are dog-eared and worn;
too many times re-read, perhaps,
and re-written just as many.