Truth Games

How are you?
How have you been?
I often wonder what
would happen if
we started just
telling the truth--
just a little bit.
Oh, a little mad around the edges,
how about you?
Me? Frantic and desperate
by turns. But did you
catch the game
the other day?
Game? I am fighting for my life—
do you really think
I have time
for any
games?

Measure of Hope

What is the unit of measure for hope?

A nanogasp? 

A nanogasp of hope to fuel one day.

A milliblink for one life.

If such a thing could be quantified,

no doubt a single centisigh of hope would power cities. 

A megadream of hope to make a planet.

A terafaith of it to expand the universe. 

No wonder 96% of the universe is missing.

It is not the matter that is dark*;

only that we are all trying 

to find that quantifiable atom—

we are all trying to hope in darkness. 

*Footnote: According to cosmologists as explained in Thirteen Things That Don’t Make Sense by Michael Brooks, “Almost all of the universe is missing; 96% to put a number on it. The stars we see at the edges of distant galaxies seem to be moving under the guidance of invisible hands that hold the stars in place and stop them from flying off into empty space. According to our best calculations, the substance of those invisible, guiding hands, known as dark matter, is nearly a quarter of the total quantity of mass in the cosmos.”

Observation of a Racist in the Wild

Eight kids—maybe 12 or 13–

Have claimed the top of the tallest jungle gym tower. 

No malice—just kids stacking up on a slide 

Wrestling gravity and conforming like sardines.

Just kids.

Until a voice twangs out—

“Ef you hurt mah son, ah weell cawll the po-lice!”—

What police? The fun police?

The non-Caucasian kids police?

The tween police? The grown up gestapo?

Whose only purpose is to smother spontaneous joy? 

molecules never touch

 The driver of the bus to hell—

her words, not mine—
said everyone in the place was going
except me.
She said i was too pure of heart

which left me reeling. 
What was she seeing? 
Some heart-on-sleeve long-suffering 
i haven’t been hiding? 
Some dogged class-clowning?
My willowy spine swaying in the winds
of our general discontent?
Is that really idealism
or am i just too damned exhausted 
with long grief and the longer-dawning revelation
of the impossibility of compassion—
the way molecules never truly touch
but we still feel friction—
just what i, in my secret arrogance,
think of as my cursed wisdom?

Activism

Why are the American youth all stressed?
Someone, somewhere said they're oppressed
so every one of them now think it best

all day, every day, to get that off their chest...

There is no silence like the silence

There is no silence like the silence
    of books in the early morning 

      when no one else is around:

It's a yearning silence

    like that of slowly opening doors.

        What is on the other side?

Sometimes it is the vast silence

    of alien worlds and sometimes

        the gentle silence of sleeping children.

At times, it is a jagged silence

    caught on the indrawn breath

        before a scream.

The silence of some books

    is made of the pauses

       in rhythm.

The silence of love, of loss,

    of hate, of consequence, of justice,

        of numbers, of philosophy, of planets...

There is no silence like the yearning

    of books in the early morning

        before anyone has opened them

looking for light.

Kyiv at Night

Through the window, I watch the lights.

Flares of brilliance--the skyline changes

under the footsteps of approaching giants.

No enlightenment, this, no celebration,

and certainly no brawling gods. This

is the hubris of men who barter peace

for power and make speeches

as warbirds scream above the lifted cries

of children.

Sons

 I remember the day I realized my love
no longer comforted you--

inside that day was a hundred yesterdays--

when I held you, both of us crying,

in the hospital as they fit your newborn arm with an IV,

and your tiny face with a cannula--

when I lay beside you in your bed, 

rubbing your eight-year-old feet, fevered and blistered,

so you could sleep through until morning--

when I stood, with electricity in my spine

demanding of bullies in the park what gave them two faces;

one to smile at your baby brother in his stroller

and one to mock you by the ball field,

thinking you alone and unprotected--

I remember those hundred yesterdays and wonder:

did my love ever comfort you?

Or only me?

Young woman, grow

Young woman, grow powerful.
I do not mean become bombastic

bitter or blindly impassioned.

Rather, grow reasoned and persuasive.

Become dauntless, with your head 

unbowed, resourceful.

Raise children, or gardens,

or bridges, or monuments to knowledge.

Raze impediments or the very hills

if they do not echo 

with the voices of those who cherish

grace and speak

love. Young woman, grow

old and straight-backed as a lighthouse,

wise as time, and impervious 

as mountains.

Where Need Meets Love

 I love things I don't need:

colorful umbrellas and countless pairs of socks
too many cardigans, too many cups of coffee
ice cream, salty potato chips
small glass jars and tiny seed beads
shiny copper wire, wind up toys
red microfiber flats that pinch my feet 
and balls of super-soft yarn I don't even know how to knit
I love so many things that I don't really need.

I need things I don't love:
blood pressure medicine and beets
plastic, so many things packaged in plastic
car insurance and fossil fuels
computers, social media
the job that requires social media and what passes for "news" on the internet
money from the job that needs social media and the internet
to pay for all the plastic and fossil fuels and insurance
I need many things I really don't love.

Where love and need meet is where truth happens:
lively flame and its living heat
wise trees, serene shade
cleansing rain and clean flowing water
wild wind and calm breath
innocent children, cynical adults
families made up of twos and threes and communities
different and alike, teeming with thoughts and emotions
making truth where need meets love.

This poem was written and published in September, 2020 and a certain search engine monopoly which shall not be named deemed it "dangerous," slapped a glaring red warning page on it asking anyone clicking the link whether they wanted to proceed to such a clearly volatile website, and informed me that "phishing was involved," which it in no way was. To skirt this issue, I have unpublished and republished it here. I am unsure whether I should be furious with the absurd torpedoing of a poetry blog that certainly qualifies as obscure or if I should be flattered to have been deemed dangerous by the powers that be. 

With the petals of summer my companion

I put flowers on the table--

pink and lilac, fuchsia, orange

with the wine-colored mats

and the lemon sugar cookie candle.

With the petals of summer my companion

and the scent of sugar in the air

early in the morning nestling warm, creamy coffee,

surely the anxiousness cannot creep in.

Surely the anxiousness cannot creep in...

Old Light of Morning

In the old light of morning
which to me seems new
but has been on its way for years,
all the field spiders become
sculptors of dew and light
whose creations outshine the wildflowers
to entrance passing butterflies.
For a fleeting time
lit by old light
through new eyes
that which had been reviled
is revealed
beautiful.

My heart's a little clockwork mouse.

 My heart's a little clockwork mouse.
I wind and chase it round the house.

The clever little thing can climb

and hide itself to pass the time. 

Sometimes I'm at a loss for words

to find it envying the birds.

Then through the dark and down the stair

it often leads me to despair.

It knows there's no one I will call.

It paces up and down the hall

and just to feed my anxious doubt

it lets its gearworks flutter out.

I wind, and wind, and wind again

and ask my heart where it has been--

but it runs off into the house,

my frantic little clockwork mouse.

love held back

i throw my love like a net

or pin it like a talisman.

i want to grow it around you

like a hedge or build it

like a wall. but what does love

like that do? smother flames

and stifle any spark of genius?

hold back storms, maybe,

but stop the winds of progress.

love like that is cryogenic--

it may halt decay but

freezes all movement.

so, i hold my love

in my throat, choking

on the powerlessness of it.

i swallow my love

because of how i love you.

No Use for Poets

This world has no use for me--
it prizes poets not at all
unless they voice the maddening crowd
and sing some clarion call.

This world abhors a quiet voice

of fields and trees, of darting birds--

a pen that whispers on the page

with gentle, hopeful, heartsore words.

Spend no worry

Spend no worry on your chores.
Time is short, but it is yours.

Fill it in the best of ways.
Read some books and go to plays,

Laugh with children, skate in halls,
Never skip your family’s calls.

Bake with grannies if they bake.
Save room for a piece of cake.

Chess with grandpas if they play.
Debate and chat, listen, pray.

Worship where the Spirit leads.
Marvel at the life in seeds.

Weep when life leads you to weep.
Let them see you feel things deep.

On mundane things, waste no thought.
Time is short. It’s all you’ve got.

havoc

 the world is a riot of terrible things
every bird is a monster that sings
someone is dying every minute
because the world has people in it
what dream is joy, what use is hope
a pendulum only needs enough rope
toppling, toppling everything
as the ball of havoc swings and swings

Too Heavy for Birds

 There are birds outside 
in the blue sky. There are birds
on the ground.

Juncos, warblers, sparrows, 
finches, nuthatches, chickadees.
The solemn birds of winter,
the wings of beauty to the sky.

Shouldn't my thoughts go with them?
Let them carry away my heart?
But my heart is with strangers--

a nineteen-year-old organ donor,
twin toddlers looking up through water,
an eleven-year-old slipping quietly
into cold, eternal sleep.

My heart has cause for joy
but chooses grief--
not virtuous, only confused--
and much too heavy for birds.

Sorrow is the only thing

Sorrow is the only thing
that does not thin when spread.
It doesn't disperse in coffee.
It doesn't dilute in drink.

Sorrow is the only thing
that has gravity but
no sure footing,
truth but no freedom,
solemnity without dignity.

Sorrow holds space
but no breathing room.

It is blinding dark,
a keening silence,
a mute wail.

Sorrow is the only thing
it's better to receive than give.

The only burden not lightened
by sharing.

Sorrow is the only thing
in which even together,
we are the only one.

The Questions

How many times in a life 
do we think, 
I never wanted to live through this...

Mother faces the mourning
of the living.
My Angel, she says
my Angel's flame has turned to inferno.
It has not been this bad in years.
How can I go through this again?

I never 
wanted to live through this...

The Angel, himself caught 

on the cusp of rage
and despair, How can I walk
this world of wrongs and worthless
words? The only choices doomed 
creation or damned 
destruction, forced to walk 
either alone or encumbered...

I never wanted to live 
through this...

The tableau grows. 
Many mothers
in abject silence, a school
surrounded, asking,
Our angels, our demons, who
will survive this day? Flames
to light the world or

to incinerate,
our children we love the same.

I never wanted to live through
this...

Time and place expand. Towers burn. 

Mothers mourn. Lights go out. 

Mothers burn. Infernos tower.

Angels are blackened,

demons enflamed. 

Who will survive this day? 
How can we go through this again?

I
never wanted to live through this.

The world burns. 
Sparks singe our lungs. 
Flames ignite our hearts. 
What has kindled in this world?

It has not been this bad in decades.
What separates angels from demons?

How can we go through this again and again?
Who will survive our love?

I never wanted to
live through this.

Somehow, we find ourselves angels.

Somehow we shine 

to light the way through this.