Regarding the poems

 The poems don't like you and they especially don't like me.  "What are you doing," they ask, "pretending to hear?"

Poem: Inventor Reflects

 

Inventor Reflects

 

the higher you go, the less you breathe,

and the more beautiful the air.

a why beyond dirt and sweat,

peace mulled by floatation,

reclusive as Lao Tzu’s clouds.

 

nerve endings took eons

to sprout out of bacteria and perceive this.

more quickly we ruined our awe

by inventing flight.

 

we praise no god now,

only mechanical wings.

whether brilliant or damned,

only the angels we replaced could say.

too many tricks

have been played on our ideals.

 too much thimblerigging

between judges and thieves

knotted in warrens

in the switchbacks of the metropolis.

 

we weren’t created

to see where we’ll go,

only to get there lost.

to suffer chains of puzzles

in doglegs of whys.

the gods need us

to unfurl like opium rings,

waft from their fickle rush.

 

if you invent something

it’s just the gods

using you as a mirror.

you’ll be dropped

and then no more insight,

just a brief ritual of shatters:

the giving of yourself

to the glow.

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Icarus theme... 

This poem was originally published in Samizdat in 2013.  I have started re-publishing poems on this blog, as well as adding the new ones.  A big part of it is the end of the USA as I knew it, and my concern that I will be incarcerated.  I am, too, in my 60s, and could die of natural causes, exacerbated by grief and anxiety at the loss of the democracy and freedom I knew all my life. 

Micro-fiction: New Perspective

 

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All I was asking people to do was to consider a new point of view:  what if 5,000 years, the approximate age of human civilization, was not a lot of time?  What if it were a mere blip in the consideration of where and how civilization can go, how it could evolve, given that the universe will continue to unfold for billions of years?

Just by changing their point of view, in that way, even for a second, many people found new hope and purchase in their own identity.  They were an expression in something vast, something that listened and watched their every behavior for clues on what could happen far into an utterly magical future.

What is clear is this:  the mental aspect of the Universe is just starting to Bloom; and each person is a part of that, especially if they have the courage to be aware.

Ayestasya Ulswofe, Petal of the Passionance,
Blue Butterfly Green Spider Coven

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This derives from the characters and philosophy presented in my unpublished novel, A Future of Angels

Quote, "I remember, too, the stories of older women who marched ... "

 

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I remember, too, the stories of older women who marched on August 9, who reminded younger activists that many of them had taken to the streets over the objections of their husbands and fellow male comrades. They explained that at the time they did not have the language to explain how race, class and gender intersected; they just knew how sexism felt in their bodies.

By the time we were marching for a new set of rights, they had gifted us the language and analysis to describe how race, class and gender shaped women’s experiences. Their stories also showed us that sexism did not sit neatly outside the struggle against apartheid: women could stand alongside men in a liberation movement while still having to fight for equality with those same men.

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“Women’s Day in South Africa turns 70 with equality still out of reach”-- Sisonke Msimang

https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2026/8/9/womens-day-in-south-africa-turns-70-with-equality-still-out-of-reach

Poem: Red Squirrel

 

Red Squirrel

 

sputter and chip,

rebuke me with variants

of raucous croon,

 

you perky piccolo of fuss,

high on a spruce,

helming azure.

 

if i could shimmy, bristle,

and cackle like you,

besotted by the spirit of

 

Puck,

 

would i, too, dash

from my own moods,

a child lost to daredevilry,

 

and forget the madness

of the mean world

through the quicksilver roan

 

of my flips?

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This poem was originally published in Bolts of Silk in 2012.  I have started re-publishing poems on this blog.  A big part of it is the end of the USA as I knew it, and my concern that I will be incarcerated.  I am, too, in my 60s, and could die of natural causes, exacerbated by grief and anxiety at the loss of the democracy and freedom I knew all my life.  

Poem: Sims

 

Sims

 

it was easy to feel ankle-chained

to the neighborhood.

its transistor-like fences,

and pomeranian-sized lawns--

 

as if the will

of the residents suffered a hex. 

only fishbowls with their blobs of poi

trending nonlinear.

 

how to find voice

among cathodes and laminates?

no Muse braved this straight-laced

stratified oasis, except

 

once when a coyote

wormed under a construction fence.

 

wakes of worry

followed the beast’s deviant slouch,

fawning over every plump

cosseted cat.

 

no one could ever truly leave.

escape was circular.

they always returned, became

their own replaceable part.

 

women took up

the software of the smile again.

men shook hands as if gears had meshed,

a fingerworks of pawls.

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This poem was originally published in Ithaca Lit in 2014.  I am going to start re-publishing poems on this blog.  Why?  A big part of it is the end of the USA as I knew it, and my concern that I will be incarcerated.  I am, too, in my 60s, and could die of natural causes, exacerbated by grief and anxiety at the loss of the democracy and freedom I knew all my life.

Poem: Unseen Tears

Unseen Tears

 

can’t be scrubbed with what’s fresh,

or shed in a church,

 

or unhitched from a loom of memory,

where they shuttle sure

 

as fate.

 

sad dimples swallow them,

tarnishing the eke

 

of on-the-edge irises.

 

they are jaded nutrients,

little packets of pump

 

in neck and fore veins,

 

milligrams of heavy, heavy iron,

mined from brittle cheekbones

 

which tend to turn away,

chasing after the dark side

 

of the moon.

 

 

 

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Poem: Far Gone

 

Far Gone

 

slight tilts of wind

sculpt easy drifts

when my palms are feathers,

so i imagine, perched 

above a boulder, not on it,

and so cannot fall.

 

no death here,

for to soar as i am,

i must have died already.

there is no weight,

peace all around, depthless.

celestials in a pageantry of blue.

 

so high above,

my own antics now minuscule,

i forget about competition.

none of the fussy worries

of ego or money.

 

it becomes all too natural to ask why,

and then not to care.

to dwell, instead, on a gift

which no one in the

valley of asphalt down below 

can see.

 

it isn’t fair.  how my urban life

is so easily destroyed,

doomed now to watch the

criss-cross sluice of shiny cars,

swineherded as they are by the anxious rich,

never again to believe.

 

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7/31 ... mods all day, off and on

Poem: Rain Universe

 

Rain Universe

 

can anyone count the worlds born

in howl and sizzle now falling

among shoves of wind to smash

and be gone, utterly gone?

they were too quick for me.

i sought the spell of hue and ghost within

the spheres.  but the speed, it was

terrible.  it would take a microscope

and a camera that magnified

until oblivion became sane, a camera

that sliced time faster than

the scribbles of a mad god filling

the sky with water.  only then maybe

would there be a song in a raindrop,

a glint that gave back the bard

i sent to find the dreamt artifact,

a gleaming blinding jewel of an eye. 

this eye that would not care about eons.

something in its gaze would last.

the war of horizontal and vertical

would become mere lines.  the faster

that worlds fell and died the stronger

it would get.  as the instant of its

life shrank it would grow to encompass

the storm, leaving it far behind,

as a tide leaves a cowry on the shore.

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This poem was originally published in Blue Unicorn.   I’m not sure of the date due to poor record keeping on my part.  Maybe 2006?  I am going to start re-publishing poems published in the past.  Why?  A big part of it is the potential end of the US as I knew it, and my concern that I will be incarcerated.  I am, too, in my 60s, and could die of natural causes, exacerbated by grief and anxiety at the loss of the country I knew all my life.

 

Expect more poems like this, and so a bit of a different poetic voice--who I was ten or more years ago.  Probably smarter.  And saner.

(I will point out, for every poem I published back then, there were many, many rejected poems.  I still work with those old drafts, trying to wrestle them into shape.  Most of the poems I've posted over the past five or six years on this blog (2021-2026) are of such a nature.)

Poem: Highs and Lows

 

Highs and Lows

 

mercury or zinc, servant or throne,

which races or oozes inside me?

am i cellar or pinnacle?

do sparks, wind-tossed petals,

whirl from pinwheels of torn sunflowers?

will this maze-ful abacus,

squirmy yet sluggish,

incinerate from beads of burning thought?

 

of burned-out death?

 

should i have never

exhumed my krakens?

these short-circuited galaxies,

which ramble in gardens of blossom and rot,

far through marled or astral earth,

only to be pruned--fiercely, hungrily--

left to hang in a breath--

by novas and blackholes?

 

 

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