PIP
I like you, and I think
you are a nice person
because of the bubbles.
Perhaps there are other reasons,
too, I don't want to kill you.
The way excitement
sometimes wiggles out
of you on its way
to becoming a worm.
By the way, have I ever
remembered to remind you
what a pip I think you are?
I should have, and I could
have yesterday of all days.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
JOURNEYS
My mother was an excessively devout Catholic, my father a devoutly stubborn agnostic. I was raised Catholic, but, being a male, gradually journeyed back into the footsteps of my father.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
ALSO
When it waxes, we weep.
When it wanes,we cry.
The difference is a disciple
of trying, an uninvited
guest of why we dream.
The heat's unbearable,
of course, because heaven's
always just around some
corner. The wind,
forgotten in its branches,
gets lost again looking
for us. Cold
stars describe what
won't be true about us long.
When it waxes, we weep.
When it wanes,we cry.
The difference is a disciple
of trying, an uninvited
guest of why we dream.
The heat's unbearable,
of course, because heaven's
always just around some
corner. The wind,
forgotten in its branches,
gets lost again looking
for us. Cold
stars describe what
won't be true about us long.
RETURN
Light comes from me
in the correct way when
my head is on fire
and my feet are rooted
in darkness. I am more
myself at such moments,
which occur only as often
as accuracy allows.
When nothing is the case
(which is only the case
when you say so), I let
myself become you again.
Perhaps you notice me
inside you like a baby.
Light comes from me
in the correct way when
my head is on fire
and my feet are rooted
in darkness. I am more
myself at such moments,
which occur only as often
as accuracy allows.
When nothing is the case
(which is only the case
when you say so), I let
myself become you again.
Perhaps you notice me
inside you like a baby.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
RESCUED
I remember how they found
you, in a dream, wrapped
in that old coat Agnes
let you look younger in.
You were the ex-president
of every event you attended,
though still longing for
more or less of the same.
Because your location
was a well-guarded secret,
we had to look for you
in all the wrong places.
Now we can't remember
who you were.
I remember how they found
you, in a dream, wrapped
in that old coat Agnes
let you look younger in.
You were the ex-president
of every event you attended,
though still longing for
more or less of the same.
Because your location
was a well-guarded secret,
we had to look for you
in all the wrong places.
Now we can't remember
who you were.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
One Man's Opinion
A poem shouldn't be harder for me to read than it was for the poet to write. Just a thought. It seems to me that many of us are trying either too hard or not hard enough or both.
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