Category Archives: Poetry

The Moon’s Eclipse

Oh it may pale beside

the Technicolor fantasies

that dance upon our walls,

but this is real.  The moon grows dark–

our shadow cast across

Mare Imbrium and down

Tranquillitatis until it seems

the dark will win, but then…

an orange hue reveals earth’s shine

(not red like blood, but like

a dimming coal or smog-choked sun).

The dark yet seems to win

yet light shall shine most glorious,

like truth, against the night.

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Filed under Astronomy, Poetry

Politics

So began our slide into mediocrity
and we didn’t even notice, too busy
shouting past one another to hear
what was unspoken. Dishonesty
paraded as veracity, grasping for
common wealth over commonweal.

And when the ending comes,
unable to believe our part
in the destruction of our dreams,
we shall find a hundred thousand
scapegoats, assuaging guilt
as dishonestly as we now lie.

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Filed under Poetry, Polotics

The Farm

It is as clear in memory as if

upon eight millimeter film: the farm–

neat lawns about the house and trees for shade,

the outhouse, fifty chilly steps away

upon an autumn’s night, and fields on fields

(or so it seemed when I was still a youth)

of corn and hay–my cousin’s working farm.

 

Right here my aunts and uncles sat that day

among the ruins of the potluck lunch

while cousins roamed about the place.

                                                                       So what

is this–this ragged forest choked by weeds,

this tumbled shack half hid among the trees,

all buried in neglect, and open fields

rearing up development?

                                                   This is,

as written on the edge of ancient maps,

a “Terra incognita.”  Also, “Here

be monsters”–and I shudder at these things.

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Filed under Childhood, farm, Poetry

The Farm

It is as clear in memory as if
upon eight millimeter film: the farm–
neat lawns about the house and trees for shade,
the outhouse, fifty chilly steps away
upon an autumn’s night, and fields on fields
(or so it seemed when I was still a youth)
of corn and hay–my cousin’s working farm.

Right here my aunts and uncles sat that day
among the ruins of the potluck lunch
while cousins roamed about the place.

So what
is this–this ragged forest choked by weeds,
this tumbled shack half hid among the trees,
all buried in neglect, and open fields
rearing up development?

This is,
as written on the edge of ancient maps,
a “Terra incognita.” Also, “Here
be monsters”–and I shudder at these things.

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Filed under Childhood, farm, Poetry

Joy, Like Time

He was the pied-piper of my childhood
tinkling his pop-goes-the-weasel all over town
and we poured forth from our games of street ball
and playing house and riding swings to chase
this magic piper holding forth his wares.

We would have followed him five miles away
had he not always stopped at the end of our court
where we, sweating and parched, crossed
our magic coins into his palm and gratefully
grasped our prize soon devoured, licking residue

from the sticks and our smudged fingers,
elixir of a summer’s day, then back
to games suspended, regretting the drops
that melted on the streets–evidence that joy,
like time, drops from our hands beyond recall.

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Filed under Childhood, Poetry, Summer

First Page of the New Writing Pad

First page lies fresh, so neat and clean,
virgin white not yet disdained
by scratched out words
or stroked through lines.
What dare I scribe upon this page?

This crisp, fresh sheet
demands profundity–
yet that which clouds my mind
is how bugs dance about
the outside light; or how

a madman half a world away
can pose a threat this summer day
when all the world lies languid
in the glorious sun, and brows
are swept by zephyr’s kisses.

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Filed under Poetry

Garden Lesson

Always weeds
no herbicide will kill—
just break my back with gloves
and shovel, hoe and rake.

Rare the seeds,
so softly tucked with rich
invigorating dirt
and compost gently spread,

that quickly speeds
to break the soil, but
to wither in the heat
or feed the hungry bugs,

while the weeds
assassinate the rest.
(And yet I never learn,
I do it all again).

These violent deeds
waged in my garden patch
these sixty years, and still
I plant futility—

nothing intercedes.
the goat’s head and the spurge
the bindweed and the dock
shall bury me at last.

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Filed under gardening, Poetry