Reality

The Taj Mahal
shows best at dawn
From a distance
With the camera
just so and
the millipede of
human existence
forbidden to go

Held back

Away

Up close
reality is a
weathered canvas
A study in decay

Decreasing

I’ve tried reading Tolstoy’s
towering achievement only to
find I tire too easily
I am decreasing
Becoming smaller
Selling off belongings
I once burned to acquire
Inclining towards brevity
Say it powerfully
Succinctly
Move on
A form of wisdom
or senility

The Muse Speaks

The muse has gathered my bones
in a wicker picnic basket
which she shakes violently
whenever I ask
what I should write
“This! This!”
she yells
as she rattles
my bone basket madly
around her head
“This is what a poem
sounds like!
Are you deaf?
Write it!”

Who?

Who will those who claim
to trod the narrow vein of
righteousness choose to blame
once they get what they want
and nothing changes
except the size of the
debt the rest of us
can’t pay

Who?
Who?

Maybe me
Maybe you

Sunday Doesn’t Care

Sunday doesn’t care

It carries on
callous and indifferent
to the boundless expanse
of sadness eroding the beach
of my soul’s winter abode
Perfectly fine with my
lack of participation
it moves on

Sunny and smiling

As if I don’t even matter

Excavating

There’s decades of dirt neath my nails
from decades of digging neath my feet
to discern the color and shape of bloom
the little seed intended me to be
The mirror’s no help
I created that stranger
from sand and old movie quotes
Eventually another will dig
a hole and drop me in
still no closer to knowing

If You See Me

If you should see me there
Undefined and bent
in Van Gogh’s
Red Vineyard
do not trouble me
I will not turn to speak
or abandon the task
painted for me
Leave me be
Blissfully busy
A swirl of color
midst mottled
imagined grapes
along the river

January Friday

Such a day
So damnably January
dressed in its mourning
cloak of tattered grey
Shuffling along towards
the approaching death of
day as a grieving father
behind a son’s
horse-drawn
hearse
Not even a bird
to be heard over
the slow
steady
turning
of the wheels

Bright Harvest

What better light for
half drunk poets and
madmen
(they are equally alike)
than a full bright moon
A harvest moon
excited and beaming
to loose the reaper
on ripe human sheaves
To relieve delirious
creative souls from
their bodies on
imagination’s
threshing floor