Dwindling

The days unmarked flow by, the nights forgot;
The rhythm only of the world remains.
I do what I have done. It's not a lot.
The season does not call for many brains,
So mine just disengages as we slide
Slowly out of December. Snow piles high.
And we beneath it simply must abide
Waiting for some cessation in the sky.
The clouds roll by uncaring of below
The sun shines down, but does not warm the day
Which oozes itself out, viscously slow
In shades of white, offwhite, and almost-gray.
Each moment blends together, and each year
Why one should end, one start, is still unclear.

Global Warming

The cold wet season comes around again
And I am tired. All of us are tired.
The only thought in all our minds is when
The snow will melt. So ardently desired
Is this far moment, you would think the heat
Of all that longing would have brought it on.
But all our wishes cannot yet unseat
The winter from its place. Yet it will be gone.
And since we hate the snow, we find it hard
To realize how awful it would be
If we up north could tend a green, clear yard
All winter long. That possibility
Seems wonderful, until our minds recall
The horror of hot summer, spring, and fall.

Daily

The sight of her still makes me weak inside
Even though I see her everyday;
She walks right in and I am butterflied
And even more so that she comes to stay.
I love to see her sitting in a chair
Her forehead wrinkled up in concentration
Or watch her lie upon the couch and stare
Into the distance with deep fascination
For when she does I see in her bright face
The same intensity I've always seen
The brilliance no exhaustion can erase
The wisdom that is somehow evergreen.
Our hours together linger in my soul
And by her presence my heart is made whole.

Clarifications

There is a woman somewhere that I love
(Right now I think she's upstairs in the shower);
If I am Noah, she must be the dove
Flying on back to me by her own power
(The olive branch she bears is simply her,
The only thing I've searched for all this while).
Her voice is hardly music, but entrances
(She'd laugh at me if I admitted this);
There's subtle beauty in her angry glances
(At least the kind that stop with just a kiss).
I love to look at her and sometimes stare
(She grumbles at me when she catches me);
I cannot help but wish that she were there
Whenever I'm in different company
(Which is not often, as I much prefer).
In short, there is a woman. I love her.

Therapeutic

There are some feelings that I cannot say,
But in the moment maybe I can write.
They're mostly bad. They hurt. But in a way
That's what makes their writing seem so right.
They're distant on the page, no part of me
Although I know of course I wrote them there;
That makes it possible for me to see
Their truth, but lack the full weight of my care.
A death, a sorrow, a departure seem
More manageable down there on the page;
Not half-forgotten like the morning's dream,
But neither full of all-remembered rage
And tears. So I must set my sorrows here
That I may take them back without my fear.

-een

The darkened evening spreads against the sky
But not enough to make the little lights
Sufficient in defiance of the night's
Clouded and moonless vision. This is why
We fear the twilight, why we always fly
From day to night, abolishing dusk's rights,
Pretending not to see the eerie sights
The half-light shows. But every by-and-by
We have to venture out just as the sun
Slips out of view, before the night is here,
And feel the danger pulsing in the air;
When something neither ended nor begun
Lies heavy on the world. Then we must fear
What would would swear both is and is not there.

Type

The very tinkling of her typing keys
Reminds me of the days we were apart
When I was still uncertain we would start
To love each other; when I still would freeze
With fear that I would somehow her displease
And she would just log off. My aching heart
Could not then have endured that sudden smart
Although it could stand worse pains by degrees.
But though I am reminded of those days
I find that I no longer fear their pain;
I know that I am hers, she mine always
To my heart's solace and my joyful gain.
So as she sets the keyboard all ablaze
I sit and listen while my old fears wane.

The Same, Continued

Had I the power to express your face
In colored lines unto my satisfaction
I would not bate a minute of my pace
To bring that claim into the name of action.
I would with practiced hand lay out each line
To make you see yourself as I perceive;
And in a later age each stroke of mine
Would make those who can never see you grieve.
But I cannot paint pictures to my sight
Or even with my words sufficiently.
It must suffice me to say "if I might"
And then regret my inability.
But know when I see life in art made true
I wish that I could do the same for you.

John L. Severance Fund 1971.136

She stares at me across two thousand years
Asking perhaps if I remember her
If all the rites: the funerary tears,
The preservation, pickling in myrrh,
The artful wrapping up of what remained,
The portrait placed with care upon the sheet,
Had stopped forgetfulness. Her eyes are strained,
As if each visitor she heard repeat
The same refrain--young woman, Antonine,
Unknown--had drained a little more
Of that which made an artist now unseen
Paint her so true. Two thousand years she wore
And yet if I but spoke her name, I'd swear
She'd raise her eyes and life would still be there.

Back

When I remember all the time I spent
Trying to catch your eye or make you smile;
When I recall the distances I went
To see your face--I don't regret a mile,
Or wish to have a single second back.
For every moment that I spent on you--
Each step I took--returned tenfold to me:
In every smile there is something new
To dote on, and I could eternally.
If I had all of that to do again
I'd happily retrace my every stride
And live in hope to see you say once more
The lovely words you said to me back then
Hesitating, lovelily wide-eyed
Asking me out, proposing as before.

Draft Folder

So many drafts have hidden through the years
Deep in dark folders where I do not look.
They tell of certain insubstantial fears
That once obsessed me, but which I forsook
Or that, in some sense, may yet haunt me still;
They tell of love continued and maintained
Or of its first beginnings in my will,
Of places where I once was entertained
Or that once caught my fancy on the sly.
And when I find them, they remind me of
The person that I have been by and by,
The happiness, the longing, and the love
That made me me--and so as I revise
I look to them to finally make me wise.

Growth of Memory

Half-remembered words flit through my mind
Requiring me to think back through my past.
I let them come, and as I do I find
I wish that they would linger here, and last.
The day I saw you first I can't recall
The day that I first noticed you I do;
The day you kissed me is not gone at all
Although by now I have forgot a few.
I most of all remember wishing so
That my imagination did not lie;
That we were two who into one could grow
And spread like baobabs into the sky.
I have forgotten much, but never all
And I remember that we now stand tall.

Autofanfic

I always was a sucker for the stories
That went the way I hoped that they would go;
That opened up like shining morninglories
So perfect in their alabaster glow.
I liked to read of true loves reunited
Or recognized in those known for so long;
They always made me feel the most delighted
When I could harmonize the unheard song.
The stories that I liked sometimes meandered
Turning aside for twists, or turns, or bends
But (though some might accuse them that they pandered)
They always found their way to happy ends.
I always liked those tales. And now, with you,
I like them better, since they feel more true.

1865-

The statues once seemed reasonable: a sop
To those embittered, maybe even balm
To our hurt nation. But they didn't stop
The hatred. No, the papered-over calm
Was just convenient. We allowed their flag,
Pretended it was heritage and pride;
We named a fucking base for Braxton Bragg
Like it was no big deal--his was an equal side,
Valiant in defeat, but not a shame.
But it was always lies. We always knew.
It was just easier to play the game
For some of us. And now the debt is due
That others of us have been paying double.
Tear them all down. It is the lesser trouble.

After All

The stars are out. I thought I saw them once
On Earth: they almost twinkled through the smog.
I told my father; he called me a dunce.
The lights were Ships, the stars were dark. Agog
I stared then double-hard, and caught the gleam
Of sudden engines bursting into fire
And knew from then to now a desperate dream
Of Shipping Out. It was my heart's desire.
Our engines caught; we spun; I was amazed
Feeling the pull of gravity recede.
I thought it was a wonder all my days
Would never equal, and I had no greed
For more. But then I looked. The stars are there.
And I am struck beyond all past compare.

Work

I do not pretend I cannot err.
As I am human, as I breathe, I fail.
But I will claim that though I fail, I care
And do not let my failure set and stale.
I am, as we are all, at times the fool,
The idiot who knows not what he does.
But when I am, I try to, as a rule,
Notice and change. I am not who I was
Although my face may be as it has been
The mind behind it is, or tries to be,
A better person, not by lies or spin,
But by improvement and humility,
Saying I know that in me there is bad
But there is also better to be had.

False Equivalence

I do not tell you turn the other cheek
But I will note whose cheek it was was struck;
And who among you terrorized the weak--
Who was slimed, and who supplied the muck.
My eyes can see the difference between
A lynching and a protest and a war
And while no hands are ever fully clean
Some bear a greater load of guilt and gore.
Do not pretend that those who protest you
Are doing violence in disagreeing
Or that the claim that they are human too
Is prejudice against your very being.
We all possess a joint right to existence
And, that denied, to vehement resistance.

On Many Sides

Art alone can never be enough
But sometimes art is how we process life;
The road ahead (the road behind) is rough
And I can hear the shrilling of the fife
That whistles to the ears of those who think
That somehow they and only they are real;
Who judge all others by how deep they sink
And claim an injury when others heal.
Our country is a heritage we share
And only in that sharing is it free;
Those who imagine otherwise, or dare
To claim it for themselves exclusively
Disprove their own assertion in the deed
Impoverished by their own ugly greed.

Moonlight

However beautiful the moon may be
Shining eternal silver in the sky
I know it must appear more beautifully
Wherever you are watching it. And why?
Because the moon, astronomers declare,
Does not originate the light it shines,
But sparkles through the cold and empty air
Reflected sunlight that it realigns.
If this is so--as I have learned, and trust--
Then I am sure, wherever you may sit,
The moonlight that they see there surely must
Be brighter by the gleam you give to it
For when I see you in the night, you glow
More beautiful than any moon I know.

Dishwasher

When I listen to an empty room
And hear the music of technology
It seems--at least it always seems to me--
That what I would imagine lonely gloom
Is vibrant; as a long-forgotten tomb
Serves as the ground for new fertility
When seedlings root on its immensity
Bursting at last in gorgeous verdant bloom
So sound erupts out of the silent air
Reminding me I cannot be alone
Unless I choose it, as I sometimes do.
But there is lively music everywhere
If we but listen to the undertone
And hear the world we made for us anew.

Afternoon

The city glistens in the half-set sun
The towers catch the highest of the light
Shining their beacons on the streets below
Blinding those scurrying among parked cars
Towards home and rest. The day's long course is run
But summer will not yield unto the night
Clinging instead onto the partial glow
That turns the upper windows into stars.
This blessed time is easily let by
Lazed into nothing by humidity
Spent thinking only of the next day's race
But I believe between us you and I
Can find a use for its divinity
Seizing the pleasures of its offered grace.

Do

Never doubt that I believe in you.
Do not imagine, even for a day,
An hour, a minute, that I'd ever say
Or even think that you could fail to do
What you attempt. If you can't do it, who?
Who else do you imagine, in what way,
Is better? It is you who, come what may,
Will do what you have set your efforts to.
That does not mean I have a senseless trust
Ignoring every obstacle or bar;
I am aware, as all of us should be,
That there are roadblocks, as there always must,
But I believe from proof they will not mar
Your progress, and your possibility.

Office Hours

I am convinced that none of them will come;
Nor did I so, when I was as they are.
The thought of timely help is distant from
The minds of youth, as is the nearest star.
Tonight perhaps, or in the morning they
Spurred by a sudden need, will venture out
Sending the common email, starting "hey"
Announcing then their scintilla of doubt
Which had been eased, had they but come by now.
But it is rude, and quite unfair to ask
That they, who never learned or noticed how
Should use this time to elevate their task;
We did not lead them, so they did not drink.
We only teach them, but never to think.

Mimir

The egotism of my certain soul
Assures me I in some way am remembered
Perhaps in but the part and not the whole
My year of self audaciously Novembered
But some of me--enough to be quite sure
That if I tap a shoulder and say hi
The object of my greeting won't demur
Objecting to my claimed acquaintance. Why?
Because I blithely claim a certain place
Within the world, and this in memory
Naively certain time will not erase
The record of my presence. Yet, surely
I am no more than any other who
Might be forgotten. So must I be too.

Delta

In flying cross the country I
Did not achieve what I set out
To do; instead I wandered by
And back and forth. I do not doubt
That those who did this to me did
Not mean to do it, or intend
To harm my soul or flip my lid
And still they did so by the end.
In flying back where I began
Though not where I began at all
I saw a melancholy man
In one half-glimpse across the hall
Only to know, upon reflection
It merely mirrored my dejection.

Leavening Agency

There is a certain irony
In how Pesach is often done
That makes a brittle mockery
Of when our people had to run.
They seized the moment, so it's said,
To flee with what they had at hand:
A yet unrisen load of bread
Whose yeast had not had time to stand.
To celebrate this blessed flight
We now refrain from yeast and flour
But to replace, and make doughs light,
Sit beating eggs for hour on hour
Which, had they had the time to do,
I think the bread had risen too.

Delay

Airport time is not real time at all
Suspended as we are, clocks do not strike
The sands float in the glass and do not fall.
As in the moment between hut and hike
We start but falsely, circling our hands
In futile hope of someday moving on
But til the plane that we all wait for lands
Reality around us is all gone.
We while the hours away secure and bored
Pretending an excitement no one feels
To fly, as if the very airport soared.
But here instead we sit, cooling our heels
Waiting for who knows, unmoved and drear,
Unaging, uneventful, and yet here.

Stella

I watch the snow float down upon the world
Inexorable, unstoppable--but slow--
And joy that I at least am firmly curled
About a mug of tea to watch it so.
Not for me the struggle through the drifts
The eerie skid of tires on the ice
Instead the silent snowfall brightly lifts
My spirits, and I think the vista... nice.
My privilege provides me with that choice
(To glance upon the snow but not go out)
And I must own that it has been abused.
For my appreciation gives no voice
To those by whom it cannot be refused
Who drown in white, and cannot go without.

On Me

My heart cannot achieve my mind's desires
Because it counsels (oh pernicious mind)
A calming patience that would bank the fires
Of love's frustration. If I could but find
A way to make my heart at last resigned
To know she will return, perhaps I could
In humble patience sit here unrepined.
But no; though I assure myself it would
Be good for nothing but my own self-good
I cannot sit here without fidgeting
In my annoyance that my lover should
Be anywhere but here. Soon she will wing
Her swift way back; but never swift enough
To stop my heart from grumping in a huff.

Schroedinger

What am I when she is not here? Who knows?
Like cats tortured by scientists I lie
Defined by what an observation shows
But unobserved. And thus I live and die
At once, forever tangled in myself.
The time may move, the clock may tick along
But it is hidden on the cluttered shelf
And I can only guess the hour wrong
Until she's come again. I cannot tell
The chimes of midnight from the luncheon bell
The Geiger counter from the microwave
The muted TV from the silent grave
Until she can return, and see, and make
The quantum sleeper in my soul awake.

Iron

Western New York is pretty nowadays
If you should happen to be fortunate.
Last week's snow is but a shining glaze
On which the sunbeams in their glory sit.
The snow that falls is not a heavy load
The people here are not at all put out
It barely lies at all upon the road
The day's commute is not in any doubt
But walk a mile away and look again
Gaze at the distant treetops if you can
For they are hidden from the sight of men
By lake effect, that in an hour began
And by the hour it leaves us will put down
Several feet of snow. Also the town.

1/28

There were some things I thought we all believed
Like "send those homeless, tempest-tost, to me"
Or just "America, land of the free."
But now I find that I have been deceived.
The wanderer, the lost, the refugee
Cannot rely on us; are not reprieved
But made to suffer once again. Are we
Afraid of those we already received?
If so, then let us all depart once more;
For who among us, though ourselves born here
Descends from those who never immigrated?
We all passed through the open golden door.
Where would we be if we had then been hated--
Blocked by an unthought and illegal fear?