Our beautiful fall

We are falling from the moment we are born.
Until forty, we don’t know this.
We think we’re going forward, outward,
Growing; not understanding we are
Shrinking, no, crystalizing into the final
Jewel we are, will be, maybe. So much
Wiggle-room, so many paths, so
Endowed with timelessness!

At forty, we understand, turn,
Brace for the fall—
Realizing we haven’t jumped up—
Realizing we’ve hurtled ourselves toward our doom—
Realizing falling’s inevitability:
We thought we’re responsible!
We acknowledge falling, but abstractly:
“There’s plenty of time!”

Our sixties—a.k.a. When Our Parents Die—we
See the barrier against which we all
Crash. We understand: not only
Didn’t we start anything,
We won’t be able to
End it, either.

These moments of clearer revelation,
Shorn of pretense (hopefully),
Our backs against the wall of our
Inexcusable behavior, our
Youthful ‘revelations’, our
Moments we thought were heart-rending,
Our happiness we thought
Never-ending, our
Aimless or purposeful existence, regardless,
Brought us here,
To this place where
Time is short—
Dreams are ending—
Fruition MUST occur or
Be buried forever while we
Begin to plant ourselves in the ground—
Then…then…we see clearly what can be done,
And what can’t, and
We do it.
Or we don’t.
As it always was!
As it can be!
It’s our best/worst time,
Happiness. Fear. Resignation.

Our diamond-quest involves vast pressure.
Let it come, let it come.
Harden, clarify,
Add color, sparkle, luminescence—
They mean something:
To yourself, to
Those who wait, to
Those who follow, and again,
To yourself.

Dance of Dense

'There’s a problem with poetry,'
He said. 'Today all poets
Want to compress meaning into
Too few words. This squeezing of
Words, accordion-like,
Displays the poet’s desire
To be obscure,
To force the reader
To find the meaning,
Giving away nothing,
Hiding mediocrity by claiming
My meaning is clear to those
Who know.’
Poetry today problems itself:
Compressing fruitful meaning until
Pulp disappears, leaving it
Compressed to star-dense
Proportions, a light-sucking
Mass. Makes me
Reading stuff like that.
Poetry today
Suffering from
Searching for meaning,
This reader finds only
Consider today’s poem—
Dense with meaning—
Makes me sick!

Let’s might…

Public domain photograph (edited); source unknown

Repression–good for the soul?

Admitting the demons

Of ‘What if’ and

‘Why not’ and ‘Let’s might’–‘Sssh,

‘Let us; let us

Just take over.’

Wait. They. Might. Might, might

Actually demand

Equal time, no,

All the time, no, the center stage,

No, spotlit, center of

‘What I want to do!’, of

‘Look at me!’ of ‘No one

Doesn’t need to know.’

Embarrassment in a

Neat package. Better

To shove it down, screw lid

Tight, take it out, peer through

Glass infrequently,


Yes. Better.




In the middle of

Everything: no-thingness.

In the middle of

Everyone: alone-ness.

In the middle of no-where:

Every where.

Lacking morality,

Right action,




(Republished from my old blog, which was killed but resurrected as this blog here)

to me in lieu of everyone

“You say why can’t we

Get along? Compromise? Yet

Uncompromisingly ask all to

Get along with you.”

My coffee tastes better

Sipped far from others.

Does not the day

Dawn everywhere?

Do not birds sing,

Breezes blow, waters

Lap shores, babies cry?

Why is it so easy to

Get along with others

When they do not

Grace us with their presence?

They Built This Marriage

(on the 50th anniversary of my parents)

They built this marriage as one
They sensed a need, they searched,
They found each other. Said,
“We’ll build on solid rock,
Full in the teeth of storms
That Life will hurl at us.
Where winds of public pressure
Howl–demanding that we bend–
We shall stand unbending.”

They placed love-stone on love-stone
With care-full hearts. They built
For strength by leaning in,
Encircling their love with walls
That have no end. They topped
This edifice of love with
One Central Light.
Transparently they prismed out
This Light: two directions,
One purpose, guiding,
Enlightening by being.

They tend this monument
That it may never crumble.
We can’t conceive its non-
Existence; surely it
Has always been there. We
Thank them, though we know
They did not build for us:
Their love’s completeness
Stands before us.

(My parents celebrated their 50th on 26 July, 2002. Ten years later they celebrated the 60th. My father passed away the next year, but well after 61st. I’m not totally satisfied with it, but I don’t think it becomes better after almost 20 years…unless it’s rewritten entirely. I’m having a bit of frustration trying to get WordPress to do what I want. I want the poem to be in the center of the page, but to be left-justified for instance. And one of the lines is supposed to be broken across two physical lines, a la Shakespeare, but WP takes out the spaces I put in to make it so.)