Brain Storm

Pretend by igniting that fire –

The imagination you left behind in childhood

Wide open and wonderful and unskeptical

(Except concerning rules)

The mind that built kingdoms and crushed them underfoot,

Punished the bad and rewarded the good,

Cleanly separate without the gray of experience

To muddy the waters of justice.

Swing from the rope and pause precariously

Over the green water

To watch the fish swim below you

Until you crash through their ceiling

And invade their world

With a hundred thirty pounds of flesh.

Nothing but a loud splash and

Ripples that bounce off the shore

To signal your invasion.



Maybe Not

It is not easy to feel defeated

While the breeze moves the trees to nod their heads

Like a ripple along the hills in the evening sunset light.

There is a challenge in lowering your head

When the smells of mown grass and charcoal

Mix to fill your nostrils with the warmth of childhood.

It is difficult to remain solitary in grief

When the fullness of the river languorously slips by

And lays up against your toes in cool gentle waves.

It is hopeless to lose hope

While the sun kaleidoscopes its colors

Across a sky softened with ever shifting whites and purples and grays.

You are left breath-filled at the top of the hill

Not daring to look back

Not willing to look forward

But inspired to look around you.

The dark corner in my heart is still there

Gasping within the desert of beauty surrounding it

A rugged survivalist who refuses to see the folly

Of its situation.


Not every story ends-

Happily or not.

Sacrifice has to be made, tragedy has to occur, a moral awaits or doesn’t.

This is the open-ended short story narrative that confounds and leaves

The ultimate denouement up to the imagination.

After the end of this one

What comes next?

Another one, written better, cleaner, more succinct and understandable-

Or maybe one more convoluted, byzantine, dense and impenetrable.

It will probably be the same story told differently, like Rashomon,

Full of rain and perspective.

The characters will react in similar ways with similar results.

The sacrifice is immaterial. The tragedy has no meaning. The moral is empty.

And the page turner refuses to go back and sort it all out.

Only the characters matter.  But they don’t see it.

Trapped in their little snowglobe reality

Where things never quite change the way they should

But just get shaken up and settle back to rest.

The story drives the situation, their choices have no effect,

But sometimes someone sees outside the glass

And makes you put the book down so they can cling for a moment

To the significance of the bookmark.

Opening The Same Doors

I’m thinking of you when I should not be

Allowing my mind to wander the museum of memory

And wrap myself in the sensations of you.

You lying down, your strong shoulders, knotted muscles

A rolling landscape that my hands traverse.

Your muscular arms wrapping around me and pulling me against you

As if we were merging into one entity

Or gently twining into my own arm as we walk

Such smooth grace in something so powerful

But it is that laugh, unfettered and spontaneous

That beguiles me  above all but one thing…

The pools of your eyes that open your soul

And place it against my heart

**this one is not very good, I know… but I just needed to write, to place these thoughts somewhere, somehow.  There are a couple ideas (bolded) I like in this one and may expand on in the future.**

Highway 35

Verdant arms embrace the shoulders of asphalt

The lush brow of the bluffs contemplates the river

As it drifts timelessly under turquoise skies.

Steel and glass hurtles along and through and under

And when you stop and listen

You can hear the world breathe.

I Sing the Body Apathetic (Requiem)

In sadness for a nation that has never realized that its greatness relies upon how it treats its weakest…

When a nation rails so virulent

-As if attacking a virus which is not a virus-

And clasps its hands hard together

Cursing the other, the different, the unclean,

In direct opposition to the lady of the torch,

My heart drips tar and pumps crude

Black as the unlit night

For the future of what we have so carelessly cobbled,

Not together, but sadly separately.

Here we hang, lonely, apart, disjointed,

Dancing selfishly among the groves of self-righteousness,

Counting ourselves blithely as persecuted

When we have never smelled the bottom of a boot.

A man, god, told us in the long ago

To inherit with humbleness and thanks and squander not

and compassion toward all.

How short have we fallen now (and repeatedly)

Of this simple teaching, command, direction.

Freedom?  Hardly.  When the meek are trampled and the

Feast is hoarded – by gorging, bug-eyed masters of nothing -,

And the dogs lick the wounds,

And the small increase in number while becoming smaller,

We have shackled ourselves within ourselves.

Who could say this is the way?

What voice could sing so sour a note?

Who could call us worthy when we turn and refuse

To meet eyes so full of want and stay unmoved?

It will be that this place will fade away…

But weren’t we to make the best of it

Rather than worsen it?